The Casanova Code (10 page)

Ashton watched the carriage roll away. “It appears we shall be able to continue our conversation tomorrow evening.”

“I don’t think she truly intends for me to appear,” Edwina said. “She couldn’t even remember my name.” She shook her head. “She was only trying to be polite.”

He looked at her. “An invitation is an invitation. Unless her memory has improved substantially during my absence, Lady Sutton most likely mangles everyone’s name, except those of her dogs.”

She suspected he was just trying to make her feel better. She appreciated the effort but she didn’t take him at his word. He had always been accepted by the social strata, had he not? What did he know of the discomfort of appearing in the wrong outfit, or with the wrong companion, or even being born to the wrong family?

“I would have thought that someone brave enough to trespass my father’s town house would not let a silly soiree intimidate them,” he teased.

“I’m not intimidated,” she snapped, though she knew it to be another lie. She was curious about the soirees of the fashionable set. Sarah had told stories of such events, but reading an account in the
Mayfair Messenger
was not the same as attending. Still, she had no wish to be a laughingstock. “I don’t wish to impose where I’m not wanted, that’s all.”

“Then that is easily resolved. I want you there. I find these affairs boring and wearisome.” His lips quirked. “I will say this for you, Edwina. You are most definitely not boring.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond, but the heat in her cheeks might have done that for her. He looked at her as if he expected some response, though. The distant Westminster chimes tolled the hour, reminding her she needed to hurry if she was to arrive before her father and avoid awkward explanations.

“It’s getting late,” she said. “I must go.”

He held her bicycle immobile. “Give me your address.”

“My address?” she asked, shocked.

“My stepmother and I will serve as escort. I’ll bring the carriage about eight? Just tell me where you live.”

She wanted so much to accept, if only because it would give her an excuse to see him again. Pride, however, brought the necessary response to her lips. “That will not be necessary. Good-bye, Mr. Trewelyn. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance.”

She tugged the bicycle free and pedaled off before she yielded to temptation.

• • •

A
SHTON
WATCHED
HER
RIDE
DOWN
THE
STREET
. B
LASTED
contraptions, those bicycles. They enabled one to arrive and depart much too fast and, for all that, lacked the fine personality of a horse. He wished he was sitting atop one now so he could follow her. Her refusal to give him her address had him flummoxed. He could not recall a time when a young woman refused such essential information. However, if she truly had no wish to see him, knowing her address would be of little value.

He spotted a hansom idling at a nearby stand and made his way toward it. While his leg seemed to have appreciated the exercise, he was loathe to overdo it. As he reached in his pocket to procure some coins for the coachman, his knuckles brushed paper—the coded message. He was no closer to deciphering it now than he was last night. Worse off, he supposed, as he had managed to scare off the only person who could have been of assistance. He had to admit, she was most impressive in her knowledge of deciphering coded material. Now that she had shown him the basics, perhaps deciphering the message was something he could attempt on his own. How difficult could it be if an otherwise ordinary girl could accomplish such a feat?

He gave the driver the fare and climbed into the well-used leather bench seat while thoughts of his recent conversation plagued him. There was something about Edwina that was not ordinary. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but no ordinary girl would have responded with such calm to his father’s gallery—that much was certain. She even quizzed him about netsuke, something he didn’t even think she’d noticed in the chamber. She was most perceptive, this Edwina. To complicate matters, he had never encountered someone so immune to his normally highly effective charm. His teasing fell on deaf ears, forcing him to reveal more of his private circumstances than he was normally wont to do, just to get back into her good graces. Was that what made him jittery in her presence? Was it because she saw past the role everyone had assigned to him? An unexplored territory, that. He half-snorted, alone in the hack. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t committed to helping him.

Well he wasn’t going to think about her anymore. Not if she was determined not to aid him in this project. He would just put her out of his mind and decipher the message himself, and if that proved impossible, he’d call upon some of his old friends for assistance.

Of course, he’d been surprised to discover that some of his friends from his wild Casanova days no longer roamed the streets of London. Their pursuit of pleasure had brought them to an untimely end. Others had taken a wife, or a mistress, or both, and withdrawn from the wild parties of their youth. The human landscape had changed in his years of self-imposed exile. One name, one old friend, bubbled up through his sad nostalgia. A powerful name. In fact, the name of one of his school chums, who had decided to pursue political aspirations. He might have the sorts of contacts that could shed some light on this mysterious letter.

Ashton used his stick to rap on the roof of the hack. He shouted out a new address to the driver, then settled back for the quick jaunt to one of the more prestigious clubs in London.

E
DWINA
TURNED
HER
BICYCLE
,
NOT
TOWARD
HER
home, but toward the offices of the
Mayfair Messenger
. Sarah would still be there. Sarah could help her decide what to do.

“You were invited to one of Lady Sutton’s soirees?” Sarah’s eyes gleamed with delight. “That’s wonderful. I’ve been hoping she’d send the
Messenger
an invitation. Not everyone does, you know.”

“Then you think I should go, even though she couldn’t even remember my name for five minutes?”

“She invited you, that’s the important thing,” Sarah said, inadvertently echoing Ashton’s words. “I’m sure she’ll remember your smile.”

Edwina couldn’t remember if she’d actually smiled at the woman. She was too besotted, in awe that someone of an elite social standing was actually speaking with her. “If I had such difficulty in the park, how will I be able to converse with her at a soiree?”

“You won’t have to,” Sarah assured her. “Be sure to thank her for the invitation when you arrive and thank her again for the pleasant evening when you depart. The rest of the time you can converse with other people.”

Edwina inwardly sighed. As if that wasn’t intimidating as well.

Sarah studied her a moment. “How was it exactly that you were introduced to Lady Sutton?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did it have something to do with your activities of last evening?”

That was a heart-stopper. News had apparently traveled quickly. “You know about last evening?”

“Faith told me that the three of you stationed yourselves outside of the Trewelyn household, hoping to discourage some women who never materialized. She mentioned that sometime in the course of the evening you disappeared.” Sarah peered down at her through her spectacles. “Really, Edwina. You must be more cautious. Respectable women cannot go traipsing about at all hours of the night without proper escort. Faith and Claire naturally assumed the worst. As would I. I’m not certain of the connection between that disappearance and today’s invitation, but I suspect one exists.”

“I managed to speak briefly with Mr. Trewelyn last night,” Edwina admitted quietly. “I was walking with him in the park when Lady Sutton saw us.”

Sarah’s lips tightened. “How could you? You know what kind of man he is.” Her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped. “Did he try anything? Have you been compromised?”

Tempted to roll her eyes, Edwina just shook her head. “Nothing happened of that sort. We just talked, that’s all. He explained that the ad he placed was for the benefit of another, not himself.” She caught Sarah’s gaze. “So the Rake Patrol has no reason to discourage respondents.”

“And you believed him?” Sarah asked incredulously.

“Yes. I do.” And she truly did, she realized. He certainly had the opportunity to take advantage of her in that secret gallery, but he didn’t. She didn’t wish to admit it to Sarah, but she felt disappointed that he didn’t even try. Perhaps Faith’s parasol discouraged him . . . although she suspected that Casanova would not let a mere parasol keep him from what he wanted. Which left only one conclusion; he didn’t want her.

“Be careful, Edwina,” Sarah cautioned. “Many women have been lured to ruination because they believed what a man told them.”

“It was not like that.” Edwina’s lips quirked. “He’s not interested in me in that fashion.”

Sarah’s eyebrow raised in disbelief, bless her heart. At least her friends believed she had allure, even if Ashton did not.

“We talked about breaking codes,” Edwina explained in a huff.

“Codes?”

“So you see, nothing happened. He’s not interested in anything beyond a mere curiosity about my ability to read codes.” The admission hurt. When they were trapped in the secret chamber, she thought she detected a sort of physical attraction, but their afternoon together proved how foolish her imagination had been. “I’m certain Lady Sutton invited me because she didn’t wish to appear rude in front of Mr. Trewelyn.” She looked away. “After the way I left him in the park, there’s a good chance he won’t talk to me either.”

Sarah just stared at her for a few minutes and shook her head. “Nonsense. Pure nonsense.” She fished about behind the counter, then produced a small writing pad, the sort that would fit easily in a reticule. “If no one talks to you, then just take notes. Write down what food is served, how many people attend, what they’re wearing, all the little interesting things that can be turned into a story for the column.”

“A newspaper story? Won’t that make Lady Sutton angry? It seems so . . . imposing.”

“No one is angry when an event is reported in the
Messenger
. It adds a certain swagger to the occasion.” She waved her hand in the air to indicate the event was frivolous. “Now, tell me, what do you plan to wear?”

• • •

T
HE
HANSOM
STOPPED
ON
P
ALL
M
ALL
IN
FRONT
OF
THE
Reform Club, one of the largest political clubs in London. Ashton went inside, produced a card, and inquired after Lord Rothwell. He didn’t wait long before his old friend appeared.

“Trewelyn! I can’t believe it’s you. I’d heard you’d gone off with the King’s Royal Rifles, and quite frankly, I thought I’d never see you again.” He pumped Ashton’s hand, then stepped back. “Let me look at you!”

Ashton smiled thinly. “I almost didn’t return. If it hadn’t been for the heroic action of a man in my squadron, I might not be standing here now.” He glanced at his walking stick that helped bear the weight of his left side. “Or rather, leaning here right now.”

The comment drew laughter from Rothwell, which was the point. Ashton really preferred not to talk about those days in Burma. Some things were best kept to oneself, or only discussed with men who had survived similar events.

Rothwell waved him forward. “Come in, come in, have a drink. There’re others here you might remember.”

“Thank you for seeing me. I wasn’t certain of my reception,” Ashton said hesitantly.

Rothwell laughed. “You can’t be serious, man. Everyone remembers Casanova with great fondness.” He leaned close to Ashton’s ear. “Or envy.” He smacked Ashton’s shoulder. “Oh, the parties we had!”

Ashton grimaced, preferring people forgot about those lost years of wild abandonment. In the end, they were causing him more pain than any lasting delight. He stopped his forward progress, causing Rothwell to turn back with surprise. “Perhaps I can meet the others another time,” Ashton said, deflating some of Rothwell’s buoyancy. “Is there someplace we can speak privately?”

“Yes, of course,” Rothwell said with a more serious demeanor. He ordered two glasses of brandy to be placed in the small library, a favored private meeting room. Once the drinks were delivered and the door closed, Rothwell turned to Ashton. “So what is it you wish to talk about?”

“Are you familiar with a group called the Guardians?”

Rothwell’s brandy snifter paused midair. His lips thinned. “Why do you ask?”

Ashton found a comfortable chair so as to rest his leg. “Answering a question with a question is never a good sign.” He sipped his drink. “Let us say that the details of my discovery of the group’s existence aren’t important. I need to know of their workings.”

Rothwell tipped his head as if considering the consequences of sharing information. The scale must have weighed in Ashton’s favor. “Have you ever noticed how all the riches and treasures from the world over find their way to London? Statues from ancient Rome, jewels from Egypt, portions of temples from Greece?”

“England has far-reaching explorations and political concerns. I supposed someone collected those objects, like you at one time with your butterflies and plants.”

Rothwell smiled. “You remember that? Those days were long ago. However, the comparison is a good one. The Guardians are collectors, but they are a secretive bunch.”

“Then there’s nothing illegal or wrong about their activities,” Ashton said, relieved.

“I didn’t say that,” Rothwell corrected. “Not all collections are harmless. Every garden has a poisonous species.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“That there are rumors that more than artifacts travel the established trade routes to the Guardians. It’s said that an abundance of information travels as well.”

“I would imagine that some information naturally would—”

“Not this kind of information,” Rothwell interrupted. “I really can’t say more. But in light of our history, I will warn you of this. The Crown has an interest in the Guardians’ activities, a very close interest. If you suspect you are talking to a member, be careful of what you say.” Rothwell swirled the liquid in his glass, a half smile lifting his lips. “Even you couldn’t charm your way out of prison.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Ashton replied, though he felt as if a stone’s weight of concern settled on his chest. Could the message Edwina discovered be a communication between spies? Was his father involved in some treasonous action?

Rothwell studied him a moment. “I must say, Ash, you seem a changed man since your military service. Far more serious than before, I believe.”

“Bullets have a way of making one reassess their priorities.” Ashton’s lips tightened. “If not for the act of another, I would not be standing here today.”

Rothwell seemed to consider this before he placed his snifter on the fireplace mantel. “I suppose I could say the same of you.”

Ashton frowned, confused.

“If you hadn’t taken the blame for that incident at Eton, my life would have taken a decidedly different turn,” Rothwell said. “You wouldn’t have been tossed out on your bum had you told the truth about who took the pound notes from Professor Melachor’s desk.”

“Perhaps,” Ashton agreed. “They certainly had no difficulty believing it was me.”

Rothwell frowned. “Why did you do it?”

“What?” Ashton scoffed. “Allow a boyhood prank to destroy the record of our future prime minister?”

Rothwell laughed. “My ambitions were never that high.”

“Well, they could have been. Even then everyone suspected you had a grand and glorious future in the parliament. No one had grand allusions for me.” Not even his father, who accepted the news of another school ousting with little more than a dismissive wave. “I correctly assumed there would be no repercussions for me.” One would have had to care for there to be repercussions.

“Perhaps they knew you would land on your feet like the proverbial cat.” He chuckled low. “I’ve never forgotten your generosity that day, so consider this advice a small repayment on that debt. Stay away from the Guardians.”

Ashton nodded, but he knew, under the circumstances, that piece of advice would be impossible to follow.

• • •

T
HE
MOMENT
SHE
RETURNED
HOME
, E
DWINA
STOWED
her bicycle in the back of their house—modest in comparison to the Trewelyn town house—then slipped quietly inside so as to change for dinner before her absence was noted. She hadn’t counted on her father’s keen hearing.

“Edwina, my dear, would you step inside my study for a moment?”

This did not bode well. For the most part, her father ignored her except as it related to a possible match with his highly prized clerk. She removed her hat and hung it on a peg, then smoothed her skirt and hoped that his summons was not to report of the progress of marital arrangements.

Her father sat behind his desk flanked by walls of law texts and history books. Not an adventure novel or explorer biography to be had, not in that library. While her father maintained an interest in medieval artifacts, his books on the period focused on wars and weapons and nothing as fanciful as the Arthurian legends. “I want to show you my latest acquisition.”

She saw a paper with a design of a circular labyrinth on his desk. “Are we putting a maze in the garden?” she asked, quickly ascertaining that only two of the four entrances would lead to the center.

“Not that.” He hastily removed the paper to a drawer, then held up a brass circular disk with an assortment of letters and numbers etched into the outer ring. As she looked closer, she noted a second ring with letters and numbers.

“Do you know what this is?” her father asked. “It’s nearly four hundred years old.” She could feel his intent study, but she wasn’t certain why she would generate his interest.

“I don’t know what one would call it, but I know how it would be used,” she said. “The letters would make it a transcribing device. May I?” She took the disk from his fingers, feeling the heavy weight of it. The rings did not turn as easily as she imagined they once had. Some sort of lubricant might return the artifact to a working order.

“What do you suppose it was used for?” he asked.

“Sending secret messages,” she replied instantly. “One letter on each ring would be the key. Once they were aligned, a coded message could be deciphered.”
Christopher!
She hadn’t considered that Ashton’s coded message might require the use of such an instrument. “Of course, both the person sending the message and the person receiving it would have to have the same device, and both would need to know the key letters.” The key. It always came down to the key.