Trevor straightened and looked smug, for he knew Mannion was the type of business contact his friend was anxious to make. “Yes,” he drawled, “he, too, will be at the ball. Listen, Hugh, if you wish to deal successfully in this country, you will have to learn a new set of rules. Those people ridiculed as the bourgeoisie in London are the leaders of society here, while aristocrats and aristocratic arrogance suffer ridicule.”
An arrested expression settled on Talverton’s surprisingly rugged aquiline features. He drained his glass, placing it next to the port decanter on a small table at his elbow.
“Do you consider me arrogant?” he asked neutrally.
“I? No, no more than most men of your standing. You English have the habit of looking down on the rest of the world. I’d venture to say that is what lost you the original colonies,” he answered humorously.
Hugh Talverton frowned. “That is a nonsensical statement coming from you. You were practically raised in England.”
Trevor considered Hugh carefully a moment. “And I was never allowed to forget I wasn’t English. Even though you’re my friend, you can be damned daunting at times.”
An expression of irritation hardened his friend’s features into a cold mask.
“If you desire lucrative cotton contracts for that mill you’ve invested in, then I strongly suggest you don’t dismiss my words out of hand,” Trevor hastened to continue. “Remember, to the people here who lived through the Battle of New Orleans, you lost the war; a little humility would not be unwarranted.”
His friend’s brow cleared, and he spread his arms penitently. “You see before you a properly chastised citizen of England.” He hung his head with mock shame. “I shall endeavor a humbler aspect.”
Trevor laughed and shook his head wryly. One of the characteristics Hugh possessed which had drawn Trevor to him when he was a shy young man in a strange land had been Hugh’s ability to laugh at himself. “Enough of this. Come. It’s getting late, and we should be off,” he said, setting his glass beside Hugh’s.
Talverton rose to his feet with leonine grace and unconsciously twitched the set of his jacket across his broad shoulders to a more accommodating fit.
“Why is it,” he asked languidly, as he followed Trevor out of his room, “that I get the feeling I’m about to be thrown to the wolves?”
Trevor laughed heartily and turned to clap Hugh good-naturedly on the back. “That’s because I suppose, in a way, you are. But when have you been known to shirk from danger, eh?”
“Never,” he admitted. “I have learned, however,” he murmured as he accepted his hat and cane from Trevor’s man, “that sometimes caution is the better part of valor.”
* * *
Vanessa slowly descended the stairs, a slight frown marring the image of an elegant young woman about to embark on an evening of dancing and good company. She knew Paulette and the rest of her family were gathered in the parlor for the typically New Orleans leave-taking ceremony of admiring each other’s gowns and toilette. It was not a practice she anticipated with pleasure. To get wholly dressed for a ball, stand and twirl around before the rest of one’s company, only to remove one’s shoes and stockings to don sturdy boots for the short trek across muddy New Orleans streets seemed ridiculous.
She crossed the tiled hall, pausing a moment by the parlor door to compose her features.
“Vanessa! Finally, you come,” cried Paulette, running forward to grasp her hand and pull her into the room. “We have been waiting and waiting. Stand here, please.” She prodded her into position under the parlor’s ornate chandelier.
Richard Mannion, seated by the fire, lowered the newspaper he was perusing to look at Vanessa. “Very pretty, my dear,” he said perfunctorily and resumed his reading.
Vanessa shared an amused look with her mother, for it was her father’s stock answer. He considered it his dutiful response. Sometimes Vanessa thought he’d make the same comment if she were wearing sackcloth and ashes.
Amanda Mannion motioned her to turn in a circle. “That is an exquisite gown, and you wear it beautifully.”
Vanessa spread her arms to pirouette gracefully, but when she stopped, her shoulders drooped slightly. “I know it is a lovely gown, but somehow I don’t feel I show to advantage in it. I think it’s the color,” she said, looking down at the ivory zephyr skirt edged with a reseda-colored rouleau and surmounted by similarly colored rows of Spanish puffs. The same light gray-green color accented the bodice and sleeves.
Her mother looked doubtful. “I am not persuaded there is a problem with the gown. But perhaps it does lack something."
"What problem?” Paulette demanded.
“This color,” Vanessa explained, fingering a slash of green satin material on her sleeve.
“But the color is, what do you call it? The high kick of fashion, no? And the dress, it ismagnifique!"
“But on me, it is just a dress.”
"Pour quoi?”
Vanessa shrugged impatiently.
Paulette frowned, one of her quick storms of temper brewing in her eyes. Adeline laid a gentle hand on her arm. “As Vanessa said, it is not a color in which she thinks she shows to advantage.” She turned to study the gown objectively. “Still, you will be readily admired, for it is obvious that this dress is one of the newest Paris styles.”
