Gentleman's Trade (19 page)

“I think it is your pride that is smarting, not your heart,” her sister bluntly observed. Vanessa look at her disgustedly, causing Adeline to chuckle. “So, tell me, what do you think you might do to spike Mr. Wilmot’s guns?”

“Have Charles draw up some documents as part of the bridal settlement. I don’t know how, but I’ll see to it Mr. Wilmot pays a pretty penny for me,” Vanessa vowed. “And I, in my innocence of business affairs, shall act as if I don’t understand the matter at all.”

Adeline shook her head. “That still has you married to Mr. Wilmot.”

“I know, but truly, would that be so horrible?” her sister asked lightly.

“To marry where you heart is not involved? Definitely.”

“From my study of it, I don’t believe I’m capable of such fervid emotion.”

Adeline snorted in disgust. “You, my dear sister, are a brass-faced liar.”

The sky was dark blue woven with threads of purple and red along the western horizon as Trevor Danielson and Hugh Talverton set out for the Mannion residence. The streets possessed an eerie stillness in that twilight time after the business and shops closed for the day, and the bustling throng of people repaired to their homes to rest, eat, and prepare for their evening’s entertainment. City workers were beginning the task of lighting the street lanterns, though they had not reached the street Trevor and Hugh traversed, heavy with black shadows. Their boots made a hollow echoing sound on the wood planks, punctuated by the tap of their elegant walking sticks.

They did not speak, each man alone with his thoughts. Trevor’s mind dwelt on Adeline and the twenty-four hours since they’d parted company. He knew a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, expanding throughout his body as he thought about her. He had been ecstatic to discover his children loved her as he did, and he hoped to be blessed for many years with her companionship and love.

Hugh’s thoughts remained tangled in a maze of uncertainty. He was no longer in the military where safety came with battle’s end until the next day’s engagement. What else did a man call safety? Love, home, and hearth? Those were terms he wasn’t sure he could relate to after years in service. He felt rootless, uneasy with his lot in life, but uncertain what, if anything, should be done about it.

And what of Vanessa? Just the thought of her sent a ripple of feeling through his body, jangling his senses. The emotions Vanessa aroused were far different from the courtly love he had for Julia. Curious that he should finally label it that, courtly love, as in the ballads sung by wandering minstrels of long ago. It was no more real than the love Titania bore for the ass-costumed Bottom, inspired by Oberon’s love-in-idleness juice, the lowly pansy.

Vanessa made his body sing, as it did in the heat of battle, his stomach churning as if he’d swallowed whole a thousand butterflies, and his head light, disconnected from his body. He could not rationalize his feelings, find precise little reasons why each occurred; it was the sum of her existence that played upon his sense like a fine-tuned harp. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to cope with her rejection. He fought the urge to use helping her father as leverage for another chance with her. He was
not
in the market for a wife! Or so the lying litany sang in his head.

“There he is, the dark-haired one!”

The whispered ghostly voice, barely sighing on the wind, alerted Hugh. He grabbed Trevor’s arm, jerking him away from a particularly noisome and dark patch of shadows. Tossing his walking stick straight up, he caught it in the middle as four burly keelboat men dressed in buckskins and dirty linens, sprang out of the shadows. Held tight in their hands were massive cudgels and wicked knives catching what little light the coming night offered on their silver surfaces.

Hugh’s stick caught the first one squarely underneath the chin, sending him staggering backward, clutching his jaw. Without sparing the man a glance, Hugh lengthened his grip on the stick, wielding it like a sword as the other three ruffians charged.

Regaining his balance and wits, Trevor entered the fray, his walking stick sweeping out to tangle the legs of his closest attacker and sending him sprawling to the ground. With the flick of a hidden button, he released the wooden covering of his walking stick, sending it clattering to the ground, revealing a wicked rapier.

Hugh grunted in pleased surprise at his friend’s weapon as he fended off the glancing blow of a cudgel. His effort was rewarded with the sharp splintering snap of his walking stick. He stared for a bare moment, disconcerted at the broken walking stick, then held out its jagged end before him as the biggest and brawniest of the attackers came barreling toward him. Hugh stood his ground until it seemed the man would mow him down. Then he threw the stick into the man’s face, dropped to the ground, and rolled into his assailant’s legs. He grunted in pain as the man’s heavy boots connected with his ribs, his foe tripping and falling heavily. Hugh staggered to his feet and knocked the man down again as he started to rise. Clutching his injured ribs, Hugh looked up to find Trevor.

Trevor’s rapier was making little headway with his two assailants, who were dancing just out of reach of its wicked end, circling, looking for an opportunity to rush him. Whipping around, Hugh saw they were distancing themselves for an attack from either side of Trevor. They were both muscular, strong men. His friend would likely fall before one or the other. Bending his head low, Hugh charged into the small of the back of the man closest him. Surprised, the man crumbled, twisting as he did so, his heavy, raised cudgel falling. Hugh dodged, but not quickly enough to avoid a sharp blow to his head. He staggered, his head exploding with pain. Trevor quickly lunged forward, sending his needlelike rapier through the upper chest of the remaining attacker.

From down the street, they dimly heard voices shouting assistance and running in their direction. The three injured attackers scuttled back into the shadows at the sound. The brawny fellow, bellowing his rage, was up and rushing Hugh. Blood ran down Hugh’s face, blinding him as he lurched sideways. The giant man was not fooled twice and came toward him, pushing his defending arms sideways as if they were feathers, and wrapping him in a bear hug. He picked Hugh up, squeezing.

A flash of steel swam before Hugh’s eyes, the point resting on the bulging neck vein of his attacker.

“Let him go, or you’ll feel my steel in your throat and you’ll gurgle blood until you die,” Trevor threatened, his arm back to ram the blade home.

The man’s eyes rolled as he looked about him for his compatriots. Trevor let the sword pink the skin.

“If you are looking for your fellows, they have slunk back into the hell from whence they were spawned.” Trevor increased the pressure. The man released his grasp, and Hugh fell to the ground. Two young men, clerks judging by their attire, came running up. Trevor slowly lowered his sword.

“Yo! What’s going on here?”

“Heard the scuffling, came running as fast as we could.”

“Are you all right, Hugh?” Trevor asked.

Hugh rose painfully to his feet, clutching his left side. “Handy toy you have there,” he wheezed hoarsely, each breath sending pain shooting through his side. He winced.

Trevor grinned. “It’s de rigueur here in New Orleans.”

“Now you tell me,” Hugh managed.

“Oh, you’re a visitor, thought you must be, unarmed as you were,” said the youngest of the newcomers. “I never go anywhere without my sword stick, or a pair of poppers.”

Hugh blinked, struggling to stay upright and focus on the men who helped scare off the attack by their approach, while his head screamed in silent agony. The younger one was a short, round fellow; his partner was tall and angular. Both were holding slender sword-stick rapiers in their hands. Hugh looked back at his attacker who almost seemed to cower into himself. “What are we going to do with him?” he asked.

Trevor frowned. “I suppose we’d best let him go. He’s only the hired help.”

“You think this was intentional?” asked one of the strangers, whistling through his teeth in wonder.

The other young man nodded sagely. “Stands to reason. His type don’t come out in this area unless he’s in a pack and drunker than a monkey. Then they come roaring down the streets.”

“How do you know?” Hugh demanded of Trevor, not paying attention to the two men.

“The fellow with the red turkey feather in his cap, he’d be the leader. It’s a sign of status for the toughest member of a keelboat crew, or all crews.’

Hugh shook his head foggily. “I don’t remember a turkey feather.” His breathing was becoming shallow, and his body was drenched in a cold sweat.

“It was worn by the fellow you charged and pounded with a kidney blow. But we’d best get you home. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and I’d say those ribs need binding.”

His words drew all attention to Hugh’s condition. The big man, seeing his opportunity, turned and fled.

“Hey!” yelled one of the men, primed to give chase.

“Don’t bother,” said Trevor. He looked aghast at Hugh’s white complexion and dilated eyes. “Hugh, put your arm around my shoulder. Can you make it as far as the Mannions’? It’s just around the corner.”

“Oh, well, we’ll accompany you, sort of a rear guard,” the taller angular young man then offered, excitement evident in his eyes. He wanted the blackguards to return. Hugh vowed he would have laughed at the lad’s enthusiasm if his head and side didn’t hurt so much.

“Trevor,” he said suddenly, “I’d rather go elsewhere than the Mannions—” The thought was surprisingly clear in his muzzy mind.

“You’re in no condition to make choices or give orders. Besides, the Mannion women acted as nurses after the Battle of New Orleans to American and British alike. You’ll be well tended until we can get a sawbones to look at those ribs and that head wound.”

“The Mannion women?” piped in the short young man. “One of them did a bang-up job of bandaging my burned hand after that battle.”

“Yeah, burned without even firing a shot at them damned British ’cause your gun exploded. You never did know how to keep a gun properly cleaned,” his friend accused.

“That ain’t so!” flared the first one.

“Gentlemen, please,” snapped Trevor, “let’s not fight among ourselves.” As spoiling for a fight as they were, he wondered what would be their reactions if they realized Hugh was British?

The two young men glared at each other but remained silent.

“Here, this is the Mannion house,” Trevor said, stopping to bang the heavy knocker. He turned his head to address their allies. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your help.”

“Tweren’t nothing, we just scared them off. Next time, carry your own sword stick,” one of the men seriously advised Hugh.

“Or a popper,” put in the other.

Hugh nodded groggily, willing his thoughts to make it through the sand that seemed to be filling his mind. “I will take your advice with good heart,” he said dryly, then coughed.

“Well, we’ll be off then.”

Trevor and Hugh watched them head off arm in arm down the street, strutting as if they’d vanquished the devil himself. Hugh’s head began to loll sideways, and he could feel a churning sea of blackness threatening to drown him. Determinedly, he held it at bay, fighting his body.

Jonas opened the door and the bright light of the hall spilled out over their dirty, blood-streaked figures. “Mr. Talverton! Mr. Danielson! Come in, come in! I’ll get the Missus immediately.”

Vanessa stood on the last step, about to join her family in the parlor when she heard Jonas’s exclamation. On first hearing Mr. Talverton’s name, a simmering anger surged through her, and it was on her lips to tell Jonas to refuse him admittance. In the next moment, Jonas backed away from the door and she saw him.

“Oh, my God! Hugh!” she cried.

Hugh looked up, blood and sweat blurring his vision, her image only a white-clothed figure glowing with an angel’s golden aura. His lips twisted into a travesty of a smile. “Hello, Vanessa,” he managed, before the churning blackness finally engulfed him.

“The ribs will give him discomfort for quite some time, but I venture to say it’s his head that’ll ache the most when he wakes. Nasty bump and cut. Concussion most likely. You know what to look for.”

The words came filtering through a great fog to Hugh’s mind. He lay there trying to make sense of them. Memories of a pallet in Spain swirled in his mind, but surely they were only memories. Yes, memories, for then it had been his shoulder on fire. He realized he heard water pouring, the rustling of fabric. He wanted to open his eyes, but they were still so heavy, recalcitrant to his desires.

“Lucky fellow he didn’t take a direct hit. I’ve seen my share beyond hope. There’s a man
I
tended ain’t much better than an idiot now after taking a bad blow,”
the voice went on conversationally.

There was the gentle murmur of a softer voice, but the words were indistinct.

“
He’ll come around soon, and when he does, give him that sedative draught I’ve prepared. Eh? Yes, a cool compress would probably help. Keep him quiet for a few days, though by the looks of him, I’ll grant you that might be difficult,”
the voice said, chuckling.

Concentrating, Hugh heard the snap of a lock and footsteps walking away. Somewhere a door opened and closed. Hugh sighed deeply, then grimaced at the painful pull to his side. A rustle of fabric followed his action, and he felt something cool touch his brow. He also smelled lavender water. There had never been any lavender water in Spain. His thoughts were fuzzy, impeded by the incessant pounding in his head. This was absurd. There were no soft pillows and mattresses in Spain. Dreaming.

“Devilish business. Had two horses shot out from under me,” he said seriously, struggling to sit up despite a wave of giddiness sweeping over him. His eyelids fluttered weakly, but resolutely he ordered them to open.

Gentle hands on his shoulders pressed him back down among the pillows. “Rest now, it’s all right.”

The soft, warm words came from a blurred image. Hugh blinked, willing his eyes to focus despite the increasing pain pounding his temples at the effort. His vision refused to clear, but he knew the form to be female.

“Nonsensical,” he stated flatly.

“To be sure,” said the pleasing voice. “Here now, take this.” A supporting arm lifted his head and helped him drink an evil-smelling concoction.

He made a face at the taste of the medicine, drawing a watery chuckle from his ministering angel. Angel. There was something about an angel, but the thought eluded him and tracing the thought increased the pressure in his head. He reluctantly gave it up. It didn’t seem to matter now anyway; he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Blissfully he slid into sleep.

Tears clung to Vanessa’s lashes though a smile gently curled her lips. She leaned forward, brushing her lips across his brow in a whisper of a kiss, then sat back in the Windsor chair she’d drawn up beside the bed, her eyes never leaving Hugh’s still form.

Vanessa woke abruptly. The blackness of night had deserted her room for the gray gloom of dawn. She lifted her head, peering at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was but a few minutes after six. Hurriedly she rose. Pulling her crisp, white, lawn nightdress over her head, she let it fall carelessly to the floor as she rummaged in her armoire for a dress she could don without assistance. She settled on a blue printed cambric with creamy lace trim. Dressed, she sat in front of her vanity and frowned helplessly. At midnight, when Leila had come to relieve her at Hugh’s bedside, she’d fairly stumbled to her bed; the perturbation she’d felt at seeing Hugh bloody and battered inordinately fatigued her.

She had not possessed the energy to lay a hand to her hair, and this morning it showed to no good effect. Ruthlessly she pulled pins from her hair until it tumbled down her shoulders. She brushed it vigorously, finally twisting it into a knot on top. The hair that was cut shorter in front of her ears, which she dressed in curling papers every evening, looked smashed and limp. Deftly she coaxed and teased each curl into a semblance of its normal shape, pinning a few recalcitrant ones in place.

When she was finished, she glanced again at the clock, pleased to see how swiftly she’d dressed. Rising, she left her room, moving quickly down the hall. She stopped in front of Hugh’s door and knocked softly.

Leila opened it and frowned at her. “What are you doing about so early, Miss Vanessa?”

“I came to relieve you.”

The older woman snorted. “I bet you ain’t even had yore breakfast.”

“No, but I’m not hungry. How has he been?”

“He was a mite restless earlier, but now he’s sleep’n restful like, and not likely to wake real soon. So, chile, you just take yoreself off and git some food in that belly lest you git too weak to do anybody any good.” Her arms akimbo, her features set fiercely, the woman spoke with the authority of a longtime family retainer.

Despite her concern for Hugh, Vanessa was forced to smile. “All right, Leila. I’ll be back shortly. But if he should wake . . . .”

“Yes, Miss Vanessa, I know. I’ll come a bustl’n after you just as I said I would last night.”

Vanessa had to be content with that and agreed. Leila watched her go down the hall, then slowly closed the door. She turned to look at the man sleeping on the bed and clucked her tongue.

“Young man, you best appreciate my girl or may the spirits plague your soul,” Leila said decisively, then crossed herself and returned to her seat at his bedside.

More than an hour passed before Vanessa could return to the sickroom. Trevor Danielson came by early with the expressed intention of remaining until Hugh awoke. He ate a hearty breakfast with the family and regaled Vanessa with the details of the assault for she’d not heard them the night before, busy as she was with Hugh’s welfare.

Vanessa’s face turned white when she heard how he’d tackled the man about to attack Trevor, earning him the sharp blow to the head. She remembered the doctor’s words on the effects of such blows and shivered. The entire affair created a feeling of unresolved terror within her breast. Incidents as befell Mr. Danielson and Mr. Talverton occurred at the dark of night in alleys and in rough sectors, not at dusk along normally well-traveled roads. Something wasn’t right, but she despaired of figuring out what that elusive something was.

Shaking her head in confusion, she poured herself a cup of strong coffee and carried it upstairs.

This time when Leila opened the door to her knock, the older woman met her with a good heart. “Come in, chile,” she said, smiling broadly. “You come in good time. I think he’s nigh near wak’n.” She took Vanessa’s cup and saucer from her and set them on a table. “See, his color’s much better, he don’t look like no advertisement for an undertaker no more.”

“Leila!”

“I calls it as I sees it,” the woman warned her.

Vanessa laughed. “That’s all right. I suppose he was a pretty sorry case last night. Dr. Kirby said he doesn’t know how he made it this far before collapsing, yet Mr. Danielson says he chatted with their would-be rescuers quite naturally.”

Leila nodded sagely. “His type be hard to fell. They keep fight’n until the danger’s gone or they’re dead. Then sometimes they fight on, Miss Vanessa, like the undead,” she finished in hushed voice. Rocking back on her heels, she clasped her hands primly over her starched white apron.

Vanessa’s merry laugh dispelled Leila’s words of doom. She squeezed the woman’s shoulder, silently thanking her for her vigilant care of their patient, then firmly escorted her from the room. Alone with Hugh, she shyly crossed the room to stand by the head of the bed. With a light touch she lifted a guinea-gold lock of hair off his forehead and pushed it back among the deep waves of his hair. He stirred slightly at her touch. She froze, uncertain what to do. Hesitantly she removed her hand until it lay by his head on the pillow.

He stirred again restlessly, his head turning to rest on her hand. A soft sigh of peace escaped his lips; for a moment his struggles to pull himself out of the deep well of sleep subsided.

Slowly she pulled her hand out from underneath his face, biting her soft inner lip in anxiety as she did so. Her reckless urges had nearly pitched her into trouble. She pulled her chair up closer to the bed and retrieved her coffee, sitting down next to her patient while she drank. Her mind wandered for a moment as she considered her feelings for Hugh Talverton. What she told Russell Wilmot was distressingly true. She was in love. Unfortunately it wasn’t likely that her love would be returned. Her eyes teared slightly. Now she was learning about some of the negative aspects of love, the aspects that twisted one’s insides into Gordian knots.

She looked up to find Hugh’s clear, tawny eyes on her. She flushed slightly. “You’re awake. Good,” she said smiling down at him.

It was the same voice, the same blurred angelic image from his chaotic dreams. He blinked his eyes, willing his sight to clear. Slowly, the flesh-tone image took shape.

“Vanessa,” he murmured.

She smiled down at him. He might have been mistaken, for his sight was still none too clear, but he could have sworn her eyes were misted with unshed tears.

She placed the cup she held on the bedside table. “Well,” she said crisply, rising and pushing the Windsor chair away from the bed, “how do you feel?” With brisk efficiency she laid her fingers on his wrist.

Her light touch was cool, but a faint trembling of her hand revealed a tumult of feeling at odds with her efficient, reserved manner.

“For a while I thought I was back in the field hospital in Spain.”

“Oh, is that how you received that scar on your shoulder?”

“Yes,” he answered, grinning.

She blushed bright red, remembering how she’d had difficulty attending the doctor’s words while her eyes roved hungrily over Hugh’s broad chest with its fine mat of golden hair. It had taken all her fortitude to wind the cloth around his chest in the manner the doctor prescribed, while he held him upright. She’d tried to ignore how low the sheet rested on his hips, for she knew Jonas and Mr. Danielson had stripped the soiled, bloody clothes from his body and Leila, with Jonas’s help, had sponged the sweat and blood away. The colored woman had come out of the room clucking her tongue and declaring what a fine figure of a man he was. It was then Vanessa decided she would assist the doctor and assume the role of nurse, for she was suddenly possessed by the snake of jealousy winding itself around her heart!

“I assisted Dr. Kirby in the binding of your chest—” she said primly, casting a glance in his direction. His smile was broader. “I could not help but notice . . . .” she foundered, her blushes increasing though Hugh made no response other than to continue to smile. “After all, I did do service as a nurse during the war. Dr. Kirby took advantage of that fact,” she finally declared with more force than her words warranted.

“Naturally,” he responded neutrally.

Vanessa looked at him suspiciously.

“But you asked me how I felt. In truth my ribs feel as if they’ve been run over by an ordinance wagon, and my head feels like a cannonade is going off inside.”

Vanessa nodded brusquely. “Dr. Kirby feared as much. He left some medicine for you. Let me prepare it.”

He grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave the bedside. “Wait, please. The medicine will put me to sleep again.”

She did not refute his statement. She stared down at the spot where his hand clasped hers. “Sleep is what you need right now,” she managed huskily, all her nerve endings tingling at his touch.

“I know,
Nurse,”
he said. He squeezed her hand, delighting in how her cheeks pinked. He dropped her hand. “What time is it?’

“About eight-thirty I believe. Why?”

He looked up at the covered windows, discerning slivers of sunlight through the shutters. He frowned, his expression one of serious contemplation. “It is just the day after our melee, is it not? I mean, I haven’t slept for thirty-six hours, have I?”

She smiled at his concern. “No, you have not slept the day around.”

He nodded, some of the furrows in his brow easing. She watched him, fascinated by the evidence of some inner turmoil and concentration.

“Is Trevor here?” he asked suddenly.

She jumped at the unexpectedness of his question. “Yes.”

“Send him in, please.”

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to—”

“Please, just for a few moments, and afterward I’d love a light breakfast, then I promise to take my medicine like a good boy.”

“I don’t believe you were ever a good boy,” she returned archly.

He grinned. “That’s probably because I never had you nearby to make sure I was. I’m sure you could have taught my old nurse a thing or two.”

“Mr. Talverton,” she said repressively.

“Miss Mannion,” he returned equally serious, then his face took on a meek look. “Please?”

Vanessa sighed. “It’s against my better judgment, but I suppose if a man is beginning to think of food, he’s well enough for company. Nonetheless, he may visit for five minutes only!”

He nodded slightly and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said simply.