Gentleman's Trade: A Regency Gentleman Abroad

Book : Flowers & Thorns

by Holly Newman

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

Rain fell in sheets that day and, to lovely Vanessa Mannion's dismay, had turned New Orleans' main street into one big mud puddle...

Even with skirts held high, she could not prevent mud from spattering her gown and legs. But that wasn't half as alarming as being caught with muddy ankles by that arrogant Britisher, Hugh Talverton. Thereafter, Vanessa tried to ignore Hugh at a party. But when Creole and plantation beauties swarmed around him, she simmered in irritation and, in a fit of pique, pursued another would-be suitor. 

How could she have known that her feminine ploy would lead to a tangle of heartstrings, romance awry, and a lesson in love?

Release date: July 28, 2013

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 258

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

“And what are your expectations for the year, Mr. Danielson? Shall we ladies once again be able to find exquisite French laces and Chinese silks in our local shops?” Vanessa Mannion asked with teasing lightness before guiding a silver spoon full of fresh strawberries to her lips.

“Oh, oui! And what of those merveilleux plumes de I'autruche?” Paulette Chaumonde added excitedly, her spoon clattering into her fragile bone china dessert dish.

“Only English, please, Paulette,” Amanda Mannion, Vanessa’s mother, gently chided their young guest. Mrs. Mannion was beginning to believe they’d never turn Paulette into the American young lady her father wished her to be, for she clung tenaciously to her Creole roots.

“Pardon, Madame,” she returned meekly, bobbing her sleek dark head in her hostess’s direction before turning shining eyes back toward Mr. Danielson.

Mrs. Mannion shook her head, amusement pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Vanessa laughed. “Paulette’s enthusiasm runs away with her, but I too confess a certain weakness for hats adorned with those magnificent feathers,” she said, tracing an ostrich feather curving around her face from an imaginary hat on her head.

“And may I say how charmingly those plumes would frame your visage, Miss Mannion.” Mr. Danielson made an elegant show of bowing while seated.

“Why, thank you, sir.” An irrepressible twinkle danced in her eyes as she acknowledged his gallantry with a little tilt of her head.

Russell Wilmot, seated on the other side of the elegantly appointed dining table, grunted. From the corner of her eye, Vanessa saw him glare at Trevor Danielson from under lowered black brows. His reaction pleased her, though she continued to ignore him while smiling engagingly at Mr. Danielson. Mr. Wilmot was a determined suitor for her hand. Though she was flattered by his attention and in­trigued by his person, she did chafe at his possessiveness. Vanessa feared he had the mistaken notion, from her father, no doubt, that she was a pliant, mindless female. This was an idea she wished to suppress before their courtship progressed any further.

A faint inquiring lift to her brow served as a gentle reminder to Mr. Danielson of her original question. She took a small sip of lemonade, her gaze sliding from him to her father seated at the head of the dinner table. Her smile slipped when she caught his condemning eye and viewed the slight downturn of his lips. He was annoyed at her pre­sumption to ask any question that might be construed to be of a business nature. Her father possessed lamentably out­moded notions on subjects suitable for discussion before ladies, and talk of commerce was not of their number. Fashion, the arts, home management, and social engage­ments were the only subjects he considered fitting for his genteelly reared daughters to discuss. It was no wonder Mr. Wilmot had mistaken perceptions of her.

Belatedly she realized Mr. Danielson was answering her question. Her smile brightened, and she cocked her head in an attitude of intense concentration and interest.

“To return to your original question, without digressing into the mechanics of trade,” Mr. Danielson said easily, admitting his awareness of his host’s strictures with a brief nod and smile in Richard Mannion’s direction.

“I should trust not.” Richard Mannion’s baleful glare directed at his daughter bespoke a wealth of meaning.

To her chagrin, Vanessa felt a faint blush warm her cheeks.

Her father, a prominent cotton factor and commission merchant was a proponent of mixing business habits with eating habits, claiming volumes could be learned about a man at the table, from the cut of his manners to the cut of his meat. Nonetheless, at the business dinners he hosted in his home, he expected his daughters to display elegant manners and a gift for social repartee, not business acumen or political interest. For Vanessa, his select dinner parties were an opportunity to feed her voracious appetite for information. However, knowing her father’s sentiments, she tried to couch her questions with feminine interests and thereby mitigate any accusation of trespassing on male preserves. Judging by his expression, this time her ruse had failed; soon he would be passing to her mother that little secret signal they shared which said he deemed it time the ladies withdrew from the dining room and left the men to their port, cigars and business discussions.

She glanced again at her father, a small, rueful sigh escaping her lips. She chafed at his restrictions for she held a lively curiosity and interest in trade and politics, and for goodness sake, this was 1816! Had not the women of the city aided their countrymen in the Battle of New Orleans by sewing warm clothes for the Kentucky militiamen who came to fight the British with scarcely more than rags on their backs? And afterward, of course, there were the long hours spent greeting the returning soldiers, bandaging wounds and bathing fevered brows.

Some of these same thoughts must have occurred to Trevor Danielson, for he paused before continuing, an amused smile twisting his lips. “As you say, Richard,” he murmured, nodding. He turned back to Vanessa, appearing to choose his words carefully. “I believe New Orleans shops will soon be overflowing with the latest feminine fripperies from all over the world.”

“Without recourse to smuggled goods from that pirate, Jean Laffite, and his band?” Vanessa asked with wide-eyed innocence. She did not have to look at her father to feel him glowering.

“I must protest, Miss Mannion,” Russell Wilmot interjected, his heavy, raspy voice commanding her attention. A slow smile claimed his broadly-planed face, pulling at a long, thin white scar running up his neck and alongside his face that lent him a rakish appearance. Vanessa heard tell it was the reason for his unusual voice.

“Laffite proved himself a loyal citizen in the Battle of New Orleans and was commended for his efforts by Jackson himself.” His harsh voice managed to convey a silky warning.

“Temper your praise, Mr. Wilmot,” growled Richard Mannion, tossing his napkin on the table and slamming his chair backward several inches. “That pirate was always one to go for the main chance. The man has no conception of loyalty unless it is to himself.”

Russell Wilmot’s eyebrows twitched and his color darkened. He leaned toward his host.

“Truthfully,” Mr. Danielson interceded quickly, “with all trade doors open once again, I doubt in the long run his kind can compete with legitimate commerce.”

“Why is that?” Russell Wilmot demanded aggressively, glaring at him.

“Volume, sir,” Trevor Danielson assured him. “The sheer volume of goods entering our city will bring prices down to a level where it will not be economical for pirates to operate off our coast.”

“Indeed?” Vanessa murmured, faintly encouraging him to continue, her smoky blue eyes carefully hooded to disguise their sparkle of excitement.

“Now that the war is over, I expect our profits to easily double this year.” He raised his napkin to dab at the ends of his mustache, glancing around to the rest of the company at the table. “And not just for the Danielson and Hailey Company. This will be a record year for all business in New Orleans.”

“Perhaps I should consider acquiring more warehouses.” Wilmot’s sarcastic, heavy humor intrigued Vanessa. He was a curious man, this suitor of hers, and even after three years in New Orleans, his antecedents remained a mystery. He operated the largest warehousing operation on the Mis­sissippi. It was located in the city’s worst area, and he employed men others deemed undesirable. Yet, he’d man­aged to acquire money and position in society, an unusual feat in so short a time, especially for an American within the Creole-dominated social hierarchy.

Richard Mannion harrumphed and scratched the side of his nose. “Acquiring more warehouses may not be an idea to dismiss out of hand, Wilmot.”

Trevor Danielson paused, a faintly quizzical expression on his face as he glanced at his host. Then he leaned back in his chair and nodded. “This is the beginning of a new era for New Orleans,” he said slowly. “The city has always been a major trade center, but I think its importance is just beginning to be realized.”

“On what do you base your comments?” Vanessa asked, ignoring how her father’s grizzled gray brows had descended to form a thick iron bar above his eyes. Mr. Danielson was in an expansive mood, and she was going to reap what she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted her father was signaling to her mother, and her heart plummeted; nevertheless, she kept her attention centered on Mr. Danielson.

That gentleman failed to note his host’s increasing dissat­isfaction with the tenor of the conversation and responded heartily to Vanessa’s question. “Why, on the number of Englishmen present in our city, Miss Mannion! There are also scores more on their way, I understand.”

Adeline Mannion gasped and clutched a napkin to her chest, her clear gray eyes staring wide out of her delicate heart-shaped face. “What? But I thought you said . . . Surely you don’t mean . . . .” she babbled in confusion.

“No, he don’t,” tossed out her father impatiently.

Amanda Mannion leaned toward her youngest daughter and patted her hand reassuringly. “Finish your dessert, Adeline,” she instructed calmly.

Vanessa closed her eyes briefly at her sister’s naiveté. Hers was such a quiet nature; she was often thrown into confusion.

Mr. Danielson, however, smiled gently at Adeline and responded in kind: “Have no fear, Miss Mannion. As I stated, the war is truly over, and I doubt we shall see another for the English are here to trade with us. They badly need our goods, particularly our cotton for their mills.”

Russell Wilmot laughed shortly. “And they’ll pay a pretty price, too,” he rasped, his dark voice like gravel grating against itself, sending an odd ripple of feeling through Vanessa.

“Oo-o-o,” Paulette Chaumonde breathed as she also reacted instinctively to the dangerous menace in his tone. She cocked her head to one side and directed her attention to Mr. Danielson, suppressed excite­ment evident in her eyes. “These Englishmen, are they aristocrats? I would adore meeting a real English duke or earl!”

“I’m afraid I don’t know of any dukes or earls in New Orleans, Miss Chaumonde,” he said kindly.

Her pretty bow-shaped lips formed a little pout of dissatisfaction.

“But, Miss Chaumonde, surely you don’t expect the aristocracy to dirty their hands in trade?” Mr. Wilmot mocked lightly.

Paulette tilted her chin up at him, her brown eyes flash­ing. “And why not? There are many here in New Orleans who still bear the titles of their families in France and Spain, and they are among the most successful in the city. They made this city long before you Americains arrived!"

"Paulette!” warned Richard Mannion.

“Pardon, Monsieur Mannion, mais il fait un affront."

"English, please, Paulette!”

“He insults the English aristocrats only!” Adeline put in quickly, her voice breathy and anxious, for she hated altercations.

“Actually,” Trevor Danielson drawled, drawing attention back to himself, “Mr. Wilmot’s comment no longer holds steadfast among the ranks of the younger peers. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine recently arrived in the city on business, and he’s the son of a viscount.”

Paulette shrugged philosophically. “I suppose a viscount is better than a mister.”

Vanessa shook her head wryly at her friend. “You are incorrigible, Paulette!”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Chaumonde, but Hugh Talverton is only a mister.”

“But the heir to a title—”

“That goes to his brother and his brother’s sons."

"Phtt!” Paulette muttered dismissively. “Accidents may happen.”

Russell Wilmot gave a shout of laughter. “I hadn’t realized what a bloodthirsty wench you are.”

She shrugged and addressed Mr. Danielson again: “Nev­ertheless, this Mister Talverton,” she said, rolling the word “mister” around in her mouth as if it were a distasteful bite of food, “he was to the manor born, no?"

“Well, yes.”

“Bon. Is he married?”

A slight smile appeared, despite Mr. Danielson’s efforts to contain his humor. “No, Miss Chaumonde,” he replied gravely, “he is not.”

Paulette nodded. “Ah-h-h.” Her eyes were contemplative as she reached for her lemonade.

Vanessa delicately hid a smile behind her hand while her esteem for Mr. Danielson rose at his handling of Paulette’s enthusiasm without snubbing her for an obvious infatuation with aristocrats.  Vanessa did not share her young friend’s awe of aristocrats. She had no respect for what she considered a parasitic society claiming veneration for an empty title versus a man’s deeds.   She did admit Paulette probably came by her attitude fairly, for it was true that remnants of French and Spanish aristo­cratic families still lived in New Orleans, hanging on to their tattered emblems of glory.

Vanessa had long considered the Creole population of New Orleans to be frivolous and had often found herself condemning those she did not understand. With her older sister Louisa’s marriage to Charles Chaumonde, however, and now with Charles’s sister Paulette’s stay with them, while her father was away in Washington, she had been forced to revise her thinking. She had begun to develop a more sympathetic attitude toward Creole ways. Still, their preoccupation with social position and frivolity was daunting.

Amanda Mannion moved to rise from her seat at the table. “I think, ladies . . .”

Paulette interrupted her. “You will, of course, bring this Mr. Talverton to the Langley ball tomorrow evening.”

“Miss Chaumonde, he is in town to do business. I hardly think . . .”

“Mr. Danielson, if a gentleman wishes to do business in New Orleans, he must socialize in New Orleans,” Paulette chided gently, with a calm assurance and regal manner far beyond her eighteen years that drew reluctant smiles from the rest of the company.

Richard Mannion cleared his throat. “As much as it goes against the grain, I admit the child’s right, Trevor. Damn nuisance, but true. But let’s allow these ladies to withdraw. We’ve pounded their poor pretty heads with enough busi­ness for one evening.”

Vanessa raised her eyebrows in supercilious disbelief when her father glanced over in her direction but took his cue with good grace, rising smoothly to her feet.

“Over a glass you can tell us about this Talverton fellow’s business,” he went on, turning his head briefly to smile benignly at her.

She smiled sweetly in return and followed her mother, sister, and Paulette Chaumonde to the parlor.

“You were clever this evening, Vanessa.” Amanda Mannion straightened her russet silk skirts and settled herself next to Adeline at their quilting frame. “But I’m afraid your father is now so sensitive to your machinations that nothing gets by him.”

“Why does he wish to keep us wrapped in lamb’s wool? It is not as if I wish to enter his business. I just want to know.” Vanessa paced in front of the quilting frame, her hands gesturing emphatically. “He never used to be this way when we were younger, but in the last three or four years he’s positively become a bear at the idea of our possessing any thoughts of our own.”

Her mother sighed. “I know, dear. I believe his attitude comes from growing up on a plantation.” She looked over at Paulette seated on a cream-colored jacquard sofa, painstakingly embroidering an initial on a small lace-edged handkerchief. “Do you have enough light, Paulette?”

"Oui, Madame.”

Amanda closed her eyes for a moment to deal with her exasperation. “English, speak in English.”

A mutinous expression passed briefly over Paulette’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Vanessa halted her pacing, her head tilted as she contemplated her mother’s last comment to her. “Mama, that doesn’t make any sense. He hated the plantation and couldn’t wait to leave.”

“Your stitches are a little large, Adeline. Look at mine.” She watched Adeline for a moment, nodded approval at her new efforts, then turned back to Vanessa. “I know that, but it was how he was raised that he disliked, not how his sisters were raised.”

“Can’t you talk to him, Mama, convince him his attitude just doesn’t make sense?”

Amanda smiled ruefully. “I can try, but I don’t foresee success. Something drastic would have to occur before your father would allow his thinking to be modified.”

“Me, I think you are complaining unnecessarily,” proposed Paulette. “Here, I have much more freedom than other Creole girls. Most all are convent bred, and oh-so-strictly chaperoned.”

Vanessa crossed the room and sat down next to her. “Strictly chaperoned until they are at a ball, play, or some other social event,” she said ironically.

Paulette’s shrug was typically French. “One must still find a husband.”

The Mannion women laughed.

“Is that why you are so interested in Mr. Talverton? Is he a possible husband?” Vanessa absently picked up a tangled strand of embroidery silk, working it free of its knots.

“Certainement. One may not discount his eligibility. He has birth, we know from Mr. Danielson.”

“But no title,” reminded Vanessa.

“Ah, this is true; however, he has been raised to the manor born.”

“And that's enough?”

“No. Of a certainty, he must also possess wealth.”

“Consider: if he was raised so, and possesses wealth, he is also probably possessed of a high degree of arrogance,” Vanessa said dryly, laying the untangled silk next to Paulette.

“Merci. I mean, thank you,” Paulette corrected herself, casting a smile in Mrs. Mannion's direction.

“Oh, surely he cannot be so arrogant if he is a friend of Mr. Danielson, the most considerate gentleman of our acquaintance,” Adeline gently protested.

Paulette handed Vanessa more tangled strands. Vanessa raised her eyebrows in wry acknowledgment of the way Paulette was putting her to use; nonetheless, her slender fingers began sorting the strands as she turned to answer her sister.

“Remember, Mr. Danielson lived in England for several years and only returned to the United States eight years ago, after he married Julia. I doubt he has seen his friend since then, and memories have a way of changing with time. Witness our father,” Vanessa finished dryly.

“That is beneath you, Vanessa,” her mother said.

She bit her lip in consternation and tried to look contritely at her mother. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she murmured.

Mrs. Mannion's lips quirked, but she kept her gaze sober as she accepted the apology with a little nod before she turned her attention to Paulette. “My dear, if you are looking for birth and wealth, I am surprised you have not cast out lures to Mr. Danielson. After all, his mother was part of the English aristocracy, and after his parents’ death he went to live with his mother’s people. Wouldn’t that make him to the manor born?" Her needle flicked swiftly in and out of the fabric of the quilt as she spoke.

“Oh, Mrs. Mannion, me, I am not stupide. He has, I think, a-a-tendre for Vanessa. No, if he is suitable, I shall, how do you say it, set my cap for Mr. Talverton. Vanessa!” she said, excitedly turning in her seat and shaking her finger rapidly back and forth between the two of them. “We two are friends, n’est ce pas? It would be tres convenable for us to marry friends, oui?"

“Paulette!” Mrs. Mannion’s tone was a cross between exasperation and good humor.

“I know, I know, Mrs. Mannion, English only. I am sorry. When I am excited, I forget. And it would be truly wonderful, wouldn’t it, Vanessa?”

Vanessa roused herself from the stunned state she’d fallen into at Paulette’s breezy assurance that Mr. Danielson was a suitor for her hand. She had known him the past five years; her family had even taken his two small children into their household when his wife, Julia, was ill with yellow fever. For a long while after Julia died, their invita­tions to dinner were the only social invitations he would accept. She had come to think of him as a friend of the family, someone with whom she could talk easily, without artifice. Had their relationship been changing, becoming something deeper? She did not think it had for her, but what of him? How could she talk to him now with the easy friendship they’d shared in the past? No. Paulette had to be wrong-- or did she? Suddenly, Vanessa felt a variety of confusing feelings, and she had no idea if she wanted Trevor Danielson as a suitor or just a friend.

“I don’t know, Paulette,” she said slowly, gathering her scattered thoughts. “I have never thought of Mr. Danielson as a possible husband.”

A tinkling little laugh escaped from Adeline. “Oh, Vanessa, why do you think Papa invites him here so often?"

"Business, I assumed.”

“And you, with your professed interest in business, have not wondered just how much business a cotton factor might have with a trading merchant? Particularly a trading merchant who deals primarily in finished goods and luxu­ries, such as the ones you asked about at dinner?” Adeline teased, shaking her head woefully at her older sister.

Amanda Mannion studied Adeline a moment, then smiled, her lips faintly twitching. When she turned to look at Vanessa, her expression was carefully neutral.

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open slightly while her eyes glazed over in thought. Then she blinked and snapped her jaw shut. A blush rose to stain her cheeks, though her lips curved upward to a wide grin. “You’re right; I have been ludicrously blind. I knew Mr. Wilmot considered himself a suitor, but I had no idea Mr. Danielson did as well.”

“Be careful, my dear, that you do not play one off the other,” her mother warned.

“And do not think to add Mr. Talverton to your list,” warned Paulette, “for he is mine!”

“But you don’t even know what he looks like, or if he possesses wealth,” protested Adeline good-naturedly.

Paulette shrugged. “The looks, n’important pas. If he fails to possess wealth, however, then I say Vanessa, you may have him, too.”

At that, the three Mannion ladies fell to inelegant whoops of laughter, followed reluctantly by Paulette.

Finally, Mrs. Mannion wiped her streaming eyes with a handkerchief, swallowing another chuckle. “Hush, girls, hush. I think I hear the gentlemen approaching,” she managed in a choked voice. She tucked her handkerchief away and sat straighter before her quilting frame.

Quickly, Vanessa, Adeline, and Paulette composed their features and resumed their tasks, not daring to look at one another lest they resume their laughter as well.

“Ring for tea, please, Vanessa,” Mrs. Mannion serenely requested as the double doors to the parlor opened, and the gentlemen entered.

*    *          *

In the mirror above her vanity table, Vanessa absently watched Leila’s long dark fingers wind some of her hair in curling paper and secure it in place. The tedium of the procedure vexed Vanessa, though she was glad it was only done to the strands in front of her ears. The rest of her glossy light brown hair was long and plaited in a thick braid for the night.

Leila was so slow. Vanessa inwardly moaned, but she suffered her efforts with forbearance, for indeed the woman was a wizard with hair. Her mind wandered as Leila picked up another lock of hair, combing it out. Vanessa thought of Trevor Danielson. She liked the man. He was pleasant company, and his two children were darlings. Unfortunately, though she searched her mind and heart, she could find no hint of deeper stirring within her. She did not love him, or at least not as she intellectually understood love. It seemed to be a state characterized by intense feelings, feelings that were alien to her in all ways, save for her temper.

Still, Mr. Danielson did possess other attributes she felt important in a marriage. He was a friendly, likable person, and her father approved of him. Unfortunately, she had yet to find anything beyond those attributes that would augur well for wedlock. She was looking for a certain zing, or exhilaration, that her elder sister Louisa mysteriously mentioned but refused to describe.

When the gentlemen rejoined them in the parlor, she made a push to cultivate Mr. Danielson’s company, search­ing for those feelings. He remained as charming as always. Ultimately, all she felt was the extent of Mr. Wilmot’s jealousy, for he glowered darkly, almost menacingly, and seemed to be forever interrupting their discussion. The emotions Mr. Wilmot managed to arouse this evening were far more potent than any engendered by Mr. Danielson; lamentably, the only warmth they received was the warmth of her ire.

Vanessa considered Mr. Wilmot a handsome man in a large and swarthy manner, his dark eyes and brows lending him a saturnine appearance. His everyday clothes were sober to the point of plainness, his single affectation a large diamond stickpin in the folds of his snowy white cravat. His austerity of dress, swarthy com­plexion, and raspy voice, along with the mysterious white scar, gave him an aura of power, danger and, an excitement that set many a New Orleans maiden’s heart fluttering.

Were those fluttery feelings akin to love? Did some men inspire love more easily than others? Vanessa acknowledged she was no more immune to Mr. Wilmot’s dark charm than other women, and she accounted herself fortunate to have drawn his attentions. During the evening, though, she saw his social elegance slip, revealing a rough-hewn core. It made her wonder about his background. Now she was not as confident as she had been earlier that she was flattered by his attentions. In all fairness, however, he’d never previously witnessed her devoting such considerable attention to Mr. Danielson, so perhaps she shouldn’t judge his actions too hastily or harshly. The same forbearance in judgment should also be extended toward Mr. Danielson. She would give both gentlemen another chance; after all, it was nearly past time she was married, and she had no other suitors waiting in the wings. Since at the age of twenty, she chafed terribly at her father’s restrictions, remaining in her parents’ home all her life did not bear imagining.

Leila carefully positioned her nightcap on her head, rousing Vanessa to the exigencies of her nightly toilet. She thanked the older woman for her help and tied the ribbon under her chin. She leaned toward the mirror, searching for the telltale evidence of her encroaching years. She knew herself to have a pleasant enough countenance, though lacking in true beauty such as her younger sister Adeline possessed-- not that Adeline saw any benefit from her ap­pearance, as shy as she was. Any gentleman attracted to Adeline for her looks soon wandered away for her silence.

“What are you looking for there, Miss Vanessa?” Leila asked, her wide grin revealing large white teeth.

Vanessa pulled back, laughing ruefully at herself. “My youth, Leila.”

The woman snorted, shaking her bandanna-covered head at Vanessa’s folly.