The Casanova Code (8 page)

Edwina smiled. “She can be an acquired taste.”

“Good night, Miss Hargrove.” He took her hand in his. Edwina’s heart jumped a little at the contact. “Though it was accomplished through unconventional means, I must say I enjoyed making your acquaintance.” He smiled down at her. “I can understand why your Mr. Thomas is so protective of you. I think he might have his hands full with that endeavor.”

“He’s not
my
Mr. Thomas,” she insisted.

“Good night, Miss Hargrove.” He hesitated a moment then kissed her hand. She thought her knees would melt on the spot. He turned to walk back the way they had come.

“Mr. Trewelyn?” she called.

He stopped and turned.

“Should you need my assistance, I’ll be at the Crescent Palace about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

He chuckled. “That sounds a bit presumptuous, Miss Hargrove. Why do you believe I shall have need of your assistance?”

“Because the note that fell from the pillow book, the one you placed in your pocket. . . . it’s in code.” She smiled sweetly. “Good night, Mr. Trewelyn.”

S
HE
COULDN
’
T
VERY
WELL
TELL
HER
FRIENDS
THAT
she’d been sequestered in a secret chamber of lewd Japanese prints with the most lascivious man in all of London. Claire would most likely storm the Trewelyn residence again with loud protests of the secret gallery. No, Edwina would have to keep that information to herself. But then how to explain her absence? She didn’t wish to lie to her friends, but she saw no other recourse.

“I miscounted,” she said as she climbed into the carriage. “I waited a long time, but when no carriages came down the lane, I decided to sneak into his house.”

“Edwina!” Faith admonished her. “That’s dangerous! You shouldn’t have done that!”

“But I entered the wrong house,” Edwina explained, unaffected by Faith’s outburst. “I had to remain hidden a long time before I could sneak back undetected. Did I miss anything?”

“Only my near arrest for trespassing.” Claire glared. “I thought you were being held hostage. I thought you were being compromised.”

“Fortunately, none of that was true,” Faith said quietly. “So you didn’t see anyone? You didn’t see the Guardians?” While her voice held no accusations, Faith’s steady gaze did, as if she could see through Edwina’s lie.

Edwina shook her head. At least that part was true. She’d heard the voices in the hallway and then that book appeared on the library table. Someone had come to the Trewelyn residence as a result of that ad. She was sure of it.

“Not even Casanova himself?” Faith quietly persisted.

Edwina glanced up. Faith knew something. She could see it in the set of Faith’s shoulders. Edwina just held her gaze.

“Perhaps you misread the coded message,” Claire said with a determined air. “It was probably just another agony lamenting over a failed tryst or improper attraction.”

Edwina clenched her teeth. Claire had never accepted Edwina’s abilities in that regard. Under the sting of incompetence, Edwina mustered a false smile, then shifted her gaze to Claire. “I should thank you,” she said. “Had I truly been in danger, it’s good to know that my friends would rush to my defense.” Claire’s lips tightened in acknowledgment, then she nodded and resettled in her seat.

“We should consult with Sarah,” Faith interjected, “but now that I’ve had a chance to speak directly to him, I’m not certain the younger Mr. Trewelyn is as intent on debauchery as we supposed. In light of this evening’s events, maybe we should turn our talents to other ads. Do you agree?”

“He seemed kind enough at the Crescent,” Edwina said to justify her response. After all, she couldn’t very well admit to having spent an inordinate amount of time locked in a gallery with him. Still, she was grateful Faith had come to the same conclusion as she had. Casanova just wasn’t the Casanova of his earlier reputation. “Yes, I think we can assume Mr. Trewelyn is not as evil as we had imagined.”

“Good.” Faith settled more comfortably in her seat. “I’m certain Mr. Thomas will be pleased that we are no longer pursuing the charismatic Mr. Trewelyn. He seemed to take offense at Mr. Trewelyn’s interest in you.”

“Interest? It was a misunderstanding,” Edwina said, recalling the incident outside of the Crescent. “That was all.”

But was it? She couldn’t deny the way her spine tingled whenever Mr. Trewelyn’s brown eyes, with that interesting pattern of green flecks, turned her way. Her pulse still raced from his close proximity in the chamber. She was, after all, female. Still, she’d no reason to suspect he had any interest in her.

Edwina let the resulting conversation flow around her. She certainly hoped she hadn’t seen the last of Mr. Trewelyn. There was the matter of the coded message in the pillow book, which piqued her curiosity, and the matter of the man himself, which certainly piqued . . . other areas. She shifted uncomfortably on the leather cushion.

She smoothed her hand over Faith’s parasol, intending to return it, but her fingers encountered a hard lump beneath the fabric. A lump that shouldn’t be there. Given her recent activities, she didn’t wish to alert her friends to the item’s existence. Her finger drew a tiny inconspicuous circle on the surface of the parasol fabric, but her senses noted a distinctively curved surface and a cavity such as one might find in a bead. The shelves! She couldn’t recall exactly what the items were on the shelves, but they were small and had toppled when she bumped into them in the dark. One must have fallen into the parasol. “Would you mind if I borrowed this just a little bit longer?” she asked Faith, raising the parasol slightly in her lap. “I wish to show the fabric to my mother. The color suits me, don’t you think?”

“Of course, keep it as long as you like.” Faith looked at her curiously. “I don’t recall your interest in colors before.”

“Colors.” Claire snorted. “Women should wear either black or white. Colors are so impractical. If one considers the unhealthy dyes utilized to produce . . .”

But Edwina had ceased to listen, concerned instead about this accidental souvenir of that secret chamber. At least, she was assured of one thing. Whether Mr. Trewelyn was interested in her abilities or not, she’d be obligated to call upon him once more to return whatever had fallen into her possession.

• • •

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
,
AFTER
THOUGHTS
OF
M
R
. T
REWELYN
HAD
caused a sleepless night of tossing and turning, she almost hoped he wouldn’t seek her assistance at the Crescent. As much as she longed to take a crack at deciphering that note, the fear of discovery by her friends had left her a jittery mess. No one of her acquaintance was currently in the Crescent at this hour, but that could change in a moment. Faith tended to meet with fellow women poets at Hastings House most Thursday afternoons, and Claire only visited the Crescent for the weekly Women for a Sober Society meetings and for the Rake Patrol gatherings. Sarah would still be at the
Messenger
at this time of day, and Walter wouldn’t expect her to be here at all. The choice of time she’d given Trewelyn wasn’t without justification, but one never knew who would forfeit the norm and drop in unexpectedly for a cup of tea. She checked her locket watch once again. Yes, perhaps it would be better for all concerned if he didn’t come.

But then what would she do with that strange wooden object she discovered in Faith’s parasol? After she’d arrived home last evening, she’d gathered a lit candle to guide her upstairs and then opened the parasol in the safety of her room. A carved wooden bead the size of a large walnut fell to the floor. Upon close inspection, the bead resembled a naked woman sitting in a small wooden barrel. She turned the bead to discover the artist had carved the view from the underside of the water, which depicted the woman exploring herself in a similar manner as the prints. A hole tunneled through the sides of the figure, which explained the cavity she’d felt earlier while in the carriage. Why on earth would someone carve such a thing and in such intimate detail?

A knock at her door had startled her, causing the bead to slip from her fingers and fall to the floor. While she heard it roll, she hadn’t a chance to look for it when her mother opened the door.

“Edwina? I just wanted to see how you enjoyed your evening.” Her mother, with her neatly plaited hair down the front of her white nightgown, stood with a candle in hand. Edwina’s black kitten, Isabella, named for the famous woman explorer Isabella Bird, took advantage of the open door to stroll into the room. She chirped a welcome before leaping on the bed. Edwina prayed the pool of light from her mother’s candle didn’t illuminate her souvenir. Before she could respond, her mother’s eyes widened. “What a lovely parasol. Where ever did it come from?”

“Faith allowed me to borrow it. Walter invited me to the theater next week and I thought perhaps this might accompany one of my gowns.” Dear heaven, she could weave a thick carpet with all of her recent lies. Now she’d have to convince Walter to take her to the theater, an entertainment he generally despised. She worried her lip. Her soul must be becoming as black as Claire’s wardrobe.

Her mother had seemed impervious to her daughter’s distress. If anything she was elated at the news. “The theater? How lovely!” She winked at her daughter. “I imagine Walter wishes to show you off to society. I’m certain we can find something tomorrow that will nicely accompany Faith’s parasol. Meanwhile you need your sleep. I’ll send Kathleen in to help you ready for bed.”

She disappeared before Edwina could protest, then Kathleen arrived before she’d discovered the bead’s hiding place. After Kathleen left, Edwina was too exhausted to look further and fell asleep with a thought to search in the morning. But then she’d slept too late and after reviewing every item of her wardrobe with her mother, no longer had time to look for the bead. Her plan to return the object to Trewelyn would have to wait until she found where the blasted nuisance had rolled.

A tingling at the base of her neck roused Edwina from her thoughts. She looked up to see Trewelyn by the door, sweeping the room with that accessing glance of his. When it rested on her, she smiled, and all her earlier concerns dissolved like a sugar cube in a cup of hot tea.

“I wasn’t certain you’d be here,” he said, once he had negotiated the labyrinth of tables and chairs to where she sat. Raised heads and interested glances followed in his wake. She wasn’t the only one affected by his smile, she thought, perversely pleased that he came to
her
table. For the first time in her life, she imagined she was the envy of other women, even though they might have the advantage of society position, appearance, or intellectual pursuit. He came to
her
. Her rib cage fluttered.

He lowered himself to the chair opposite. “I was afraid that once you’d reflected on my father’s passionate pursuits, you’d have nothing further to do with me.” His eyes crinkled almost in question, and her lips lifted immediately in response. “Or this mysterious message.”

He pulled the paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. Her fantasies about being desired for her feminine attributes crashed about her. He was here for her abilities to decipher code. Nothing else. Her hopes—dreams really—that something else had passed between them last night were obviously a product of the late hour and unusual circumstances. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.

“May I?” She reached for the paper, just as he pushed it across the table. Their fingers briefly touched. As if to verify her suspicions, there was no sudden arcing of heat at the contact, no passionate flare of awareness, just his fingers encased in a butter-soft glove briefly touching hers. She was disappointed, of course, but also immediately aware of her unrealistic expectations. He was here for a translation. Nothing more.

As before, the waitress appeared immediately after Trewelyn arrived. He ordered a beverage, and the waitress suggested he supplement his order with a selection from their pastries. He raised a brow. “What do you suggest?”

The girl flushed. “The éclairs are very popular. Custard tarts, almond brioche . . .”

Trewelyn turned back to Edwina, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “What tempts you, Miss Hargrove?”

“I shouldn’t,” she replied. They all sounded wonderful, much more so than the dry tea cakes she’d sampled a few days ago, but her mother’s lectures about eating too much in the company of men held her back.

“Please, Miss Hargrove? I owe you something for last night’s ordeal.”

The waitress’s head swerved her way with a bit of a smirk twisting her lips. Just her luck to have one of the former barmaids as a server. Edwina pressed her lips shut.

“One éclair then, but with two forks,” Trewelyn told the waitress. Once they were alone again, he leaned across the table toward her. “Oscar Wilde once said, ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.’”

Edwina scoffed. “That sounds like an excuse for misbehavior, sir.”

He smiled. “And isn’t misbehavior the largest temptation of all.” His face sobered. “At least it was when I was younger. Now it hasn’t the allure that it once did, so you see, Mr. Wilde was right in this.”

The luscious cream-filled pastry arrived. Edwina tried to resist sampling, but the spread of rapture across Trewelyn’s face when he tasted the chocolate convinced her otherwise. Soon they were both licking chocolate and sweet cream from their lips, the dessert devoured. Trewelyn smiled at her indulgently. “Watching you enjoy yourself is as much a pleasure as the sweet itself.”

Flustered, Edwina quickly picked up the folded note to hide her heating cheeks from his view.

“It appears to be gibberish,” he said. “Random letters in no perceivable order.” He paused a moment. “Do you really think this has some meaning?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “You can tell by the break and repetition of certain letters that this is a code.”