The Casanova Code (7 page)

“I suppose my father taught me at an early age, or perhaps it was . . .” His brow wrinkled. “Or perhaps it was . . .” He hesitated. “It was my father,” he said emphatically. “Yes. My father taught me.”

She had apparently broached an uncomfortable subject and so followed him as he moved quickly to the next print. This time the man’s outrageous jade stalk was partially embedded in a woman’s magnified heavenly gate. The woman was not terrified or disgusted. The few lines used to denote her expression showed she was a complicit partner, if not anxious for the act.
Strange.
The grotesque exaggerated depictions no longer shocked her as had the first print. Somehow that made her feel worldly.

“They’re still dressed,” she said, though why this seemed unusual was beyond her. The rich patterns of the garments flowed with almost sensuous curves around the exaggerated portions of the copulating couples. The patterns were lovely and caught her eye more than the activity depicted. She moved on to the next print on her own and the one after that. Both showed a couple involved in some form of sexual congress. The first showed the couple observed by another woman who explored her own heavenly gate while spying. The second depicted a beautifully dressed woman with a lute who sat on a man who appeared to be her music teacher. Their robes had parted to show his stalk engaged in her gate. She had no idea there were so many ways to accomplish that basic function. After viewing such a multitude of prints depicting similar scenes, their graphic sexual nature proved less shocking. Still, she concentrated on the beautiful patterns and avoided the baser components of the print.

“The fabrics are lovely,” she said, refusing to comment on the illicit activities. “How interesting that the parties are fully clothed.” She turned toward Trewelyn. “Is there a meaning in the patterns?”

He seemed surprised at her question.
Good.
She liked surprising him for a change. He considered her a moment. “The patterns indicate the social class of the man or woman. The more intricate the pattern, the higher one’s station.” His mouth quirked. “I suppose it’s not dissimilar to an English ballroom in that regard.”

She smiled. “Actually, I wondered if a message could be embedded into the pattern of the cloth.” Using her hands as a guide, she indicated the curve of the cloth as it broke over raised knees and exposed limbs. “The message would be interpreted by the folds and sways.”

“I hadn’t considered that possibility,” Trewelyn said in a contemplative tone. “There are several symbols that convey meaning in the print, and some say the sensuous parting of the fabric is to suggest the feminine—”

“Symbols?” she interrupted, her interest piqued. “What symbols?”

He pointed to various images in the prints. “Note the upright branches in the vase, the ones without leaves. Those represent an erect male. The fans, cherry blossoms, scraps of paper on the floor, knot holes in the wood, umbrellas, they all have specific meanings.”

She brightened. “You mean like Holman Hunt’s narrative paintings. A discarded glove on the floor or a cat playing with a bird are all clues to the moral message of the painting. Meanings within meanings. The symbols are like that?” Or just like the “every other word” code in the personal ads, but she kept that to herself.

She didn’t look at his face, but she heard a sort of astonishment in his voice. “Yes. Something similar to that.”

“I’ve noticed many of the prints have cherry blossoms,” she asked. “You said they have a special meaning?”

His voice returned to normal, his astonishment short-lived. “Cherry blossoms denote the ephemeral nature of existence. They suggest we should experience life to its fullest today, as only death and decay await tomorrow. Thus the couples are encouraged to find pleasure while they can.” Trewelyn tilted his head, scrutinizing her carefully. “Do these prints not bother you at all, Miss Hargrove?”

“While rather rudimentary, they are still items of art, Mr. Trewelyn.” She tapped the point of her parasol on the floor, not wishing him to see exactly how the prints had affected her. Granted they were shocking at first, but they also spurred her curiosity and inexplicably set certain body parts to hum. She smiled tentatively. After all, even she recognized her reactions wouldn’t be considered appropriate by most of society. “These are not the sort of images I’d hang in the family gallery, but they have a certain quality . . .”

She attempted her best modern woman expression of open-mindedness, hoping to fool him into believing she was worldly and sophisticated, and not the naive miss she truly was. With her head held high, she took the lead in moving to the next print and gasped.

A woman, devoid of clothing, lay on her back with an octopus at the juncture of her legs. The beast’s tentacles wrapped around one of the woman’s breasts and even slipped between her lips. The beast’s mouth sucked at the woman’s nether parts, while the woman’s head was tossed back in an expression of ecstasy.

“This cannot be considered educational,” she said, shocked at the image. Yet even as she protested the print’s depiction, her entire body pulsed with awareness. “Surely, the Japanese do not employ creatures in such a fashion.”

“No. This represents the dream of a fisherman’s wife,” he said slowly. “By her expression I’d say that this is a pleasurable dream.” He hesitated, then his voice lowered in a sort of teasing intimacy. “Wouldn’t you enjoy being caressed in such a fashion?”

He must be joking, though her cheeks heated with his baiting comment. “That is not a suitable question, sir.” Yet her body tingled in a manner she hoped was not evident.

“This entire viewing would hardly be considered suitable,” he muttered beneath his breath.

She glanced toward the door, anxious to escape this awkward situation. “How will we know when it’s safe to leave?”

He followed her gaze. “If my father is still conducting a meeting in the library, I should be able to hear their voices in the passageway. Even if they’ve left, I’ll need to find a way to smuggle you outside without notice. It may take some time for my return.”

“You’re going to leave me alone?” Panicked, she glanced nervously about the confined space. “In here?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that a problem?”

She didn’t want to admit her fear. She was a modern woman, after all. Modern women weren’t afraid of small windowless rooms filled with illicit paintings. She tried to keep the panic from her voice as she spoke a lie. “As long as the jets remain lit, I should be fine.”

• • •

A
SHTON
STUDIED
E
DWINA
FOR
A
MOMENT
. S
HE
WAS
A
strange one. Unlike any other woman he’d met before. While he had fully expected his father’s shunga collection would shock and perhaps frighten her, she’d been strangely fascinated. She was full of surprises, including her admission that she could decipher seemingly indecipherable messages. How would a young lady develop such a trait? Based on her curiosity, he thought she might prefer being alone in the chamber so she could study the prints without his presence. Yet now she appeared nervous and frightened, the very traits he’d expected her to exhibit earlier. There was more to Miss Hargrove than the simple innocent he had imagined.

“Are you quite certain there are no windows?” she asked, a nervous smile attempting to form on her lips. “Maybe if you turned a knob or pulled a lever, a window would appear . . . just like the door?”

“No secret windows, I’m afraid.” He crossed the room, then opened the inner door and slipped into the tiny passageway. She followed close on his heels. Pressing his ear to the outer door, he listened. “All’s quiet,” he whispered. “Stay out of sight until we know everyone has left.”

He opened the outer door slowly. There was no response. He peeked around the edge. No one was in the room. A new shunga book, however, lay upon the table. That must have been the reason for the meeting of the so-called secret society. He smiled. A secret society of old men who enjoyed Japanese erotica. The gathering sounded fairly harmless.

No sooner had he cleared the passageway door when Miss Hargrove eagerly emerged. Once she stood fully in the library, she took a deep breath. Even in the soft light of the room he could see tension flee her face.
Interesting.

“I need to check if the way is clear. It might be safer if you wait in the chamber room,” he said, playing a hunch. Terror instantly crossed her eyes. “Or you can stay in the library, as long as you’re quiet.” She sagged in relief, thus supporting his supposition. She was . . . what did they call it?
Claustrophobic.
The thought that he knew this small thing about her pleased him somehow, like a shared secret. “I’m going to close the door to the library,” he warned, “just in case someone should pass by. Is that all right?”

“Of course, that is fine,” she said. If he wasn’t mistaken, her nose rose just an inch in the air. He noted her discreet glance to the library window. “I’m a modern woman, you know.”

He smiled. “Yes. So I’ve observed.”

He closed the door to the library softly behind him. Such a twist of events. He’d come to the library earlier to sort out his thoughts over Constance, his father, and his stepbrother. Unlike Miss Hargrove, he preferred the solitude afforded by the dark. Lighted rooms offered too many distractions, and in this residence, too many memories. He certainly hadn’t expected to encounter the charming Miss Hargrove. If he wasn’t mistaken, for a self-proclaimed modern woman, she was as innocent and naive as a new dawning day, which was delightfully refreshing given his most recent female acquaintances.

He quickly ascertained that the back steps would provide the quickest exit for Miss Hargrove. If no servants were about, she should be able to slip out unnoticed, which in retrospect, would explain why she stumbled into the library in the first place. He, however, was apparently not as fortunate as Miss Hargrove as he barely made it to the steps before being intercepted by a footman.

“Sir, your father has been asking for you. Something about the police, sir.”

“The police?” Now, that was a message he hadn’t been anticipating.

“Yes, sir. They’re looking for a young lady, and they thought you might know her whereabouts. They’re talking to your father now, sir.” The footman had difficulty hiding the slight smirk that threatened.
Lord Almighty.
Now that he was back in London, was his earlier reputation going to cause him to be suspect in every young woman’s disappearance?

Ashton felt his brow furl. “Where is my father?”

“Everyone is in the foyer, sir.”

The commotion near the front entrance greeted him before he could approach. One uniformed bobby restrained two determined females who seemed oblivious to his father’s pronounced displeasure and the butler’s silent but obvious vexation.

“Are you certain the young woman is not here, Mr. Trewelyn?” the bobby addressed his father. “These ladies seem to think—”

“My son is most likely off enjoying himself in a most inappropriate manner, but I assure you, he’s not doing so here. These young ladies are mistaken in—”

“There he is!” One of the ladies, a harsh-looking young woman with an unfortunately predominate nose, pointed a finger in Ashton’s direction. “Casanova! He’s the one!” Everyone turned to look his way. “He and his friends have taken Edwina for their own sordid purposes.”

His father’s anger found a new target. He turned toward Ashton. “You’d best have an explanation for this accusation! I’ll not have that sort of violation under my roof.”

Ashton pretended to look about him as if the allegations were meant for someone else while he scrambled for a solution. He couldn’t very well admit that he had Miss Hargrove sequestered in the library. Given their lustful imaginations, that would not do at all. Someday, he vowed, he’d have a frank discussion with the engaging Miss Hargrove about what sordid activities these women imagined occurred on a nightly basis. He leaned heavily on his walking stick. “Who exactly am I accused of violating?”

“Miss Hargrove, sir,” a soft-spoken woman with a compassionate air replied. “She is one of our friends.”

He liked this woman. She was far more agreeable than her harsh companion. He directed his reply to her. “What makes you believe she might be here?”

“We were in the area for . . . a recital. Edwina . . . expressed an interest in this residence.” Lying apparently was difficult for her. That failing spoke well of Miss Hargrove’s friends.

“It sounds as if you simply misplaced Miss Hargrove,” Ashton said with what he hoped was a meaningful glance. “I suspect she is probably looking for you at this very moment.”

The soft-spoken woman smiled lightly then nodded her head. Message received. Ashton discreetly nodded as well, not surprised that Edwina had intelligent as well as compassionate friends.

“Yes,” the harsh one insisted. “She is looking for us to save her. Don’t be fooled by him, Faith. He’s the devil.” She pushed forward. “Edwina!” she shouted. “We’ve come to save you! Cry out if you can!”

“Now see here, Miss—” The policeman tried unsuccessfully to restrain the irritating woman, but she brushed by Faith, causing her to knock the policeman off balance. Ashton moved to catch Faith before she fell. Unfortunately, this provided the determined woman the opportunity to surge down the passageway.

“I’ll save you, Edwina!” she called. “Even if I have to search the entire house!”

“Young lady, stop this!” his father yelled ineffectively.

The policeman righted himself and gave chase to the intruder. The one called Faith regained her footing and murmured her thanks to Ashton. After a quick nod, Ashton dashed after the others to stop the madness before they reached the library and his curious intruder. If discovered, not even a self-proclaimed modern innocent like Miss Edwina Hargrove would survive the ensuing scandal.

E
DWINA
GLANCED
AT
THE
FLOOR
-
TO
-
CEILING
BOOK
cases surrounding her and sighed. If circumstances were different, if she had been an invited guest rather than a snooping annoyance, being abandoned in such a library would be akin to a fantasy. She could spend hours curled up on the alcove window seat lost in a swashbuckling adventure. However, after her unsolicited appearance this evening, she imagined this was the last she’d see of this room.

Her gaze fell to a square book with a plain cover on the center wooden table, nested in paper wrappings. She was fairly certain that this table had been empty when Trewelyn pushed her into the secret chamber. Curiosity carried her closer. She tentatively lifted a few pages at a corner and noted the bright flat colors and pen and ink technique of the books in the gallery.
What had Trewelyn called them? Oh yes, a pillow book, used to teach young wives what to expect in a marriage.
A tremor of excitement slipped through her. She hadn’t had a very good opportunity to closely examine the books in that chamber, not with Trewelyn watching her every expression.

Cautiously, she opened the pillow book more fully, hoping to spot some of the symbols Trewelyn had mentioned, meaning within meaning. The sight of the exaggerated sexual genitals—
and please God, let Trewelyn be telling the truth about that
—did not shock her as they had earlier. Instead, she was able to focus on the entire print, the setting and the emotions. If the prints were to be believed, “having a bit of bum” as her brothers called it, was not limited to a private room or to a single couple. Some prints depicted what she would describe in whispered conversation as an orgy. A shiver slipped down her spine. Yet, in all the prints, the women had soft reassuring smiles, which made her wonder. Perhaps the act of coupling was not as tortuous as she had been led to believe. She turned a page and noted a slip of folded paper had been tucked into the binding of the book. She started to remove it when she heard voices. Loud agitated voices. Someone was coming, and she suspected the library was their destination.

There’d be no hiding under the table as there was no cloth to provide privacy. Certainly the attractive alcove would be no help; she’d be spotted immediately. Her only recourse was to find the latch that unlocked the secret chamber. With the pillow book in the crook of her arm, she attempted to duplicate Trewelyn’s moves. She tugged on books in succession, praying for the sound of an opening latch. Unfortunately, the only sounds beyond the pounding in her ears were the approaching agitated voices.
The latch must be here
,
she prayed.
Please. Please. Please . . .

• • •

“S
TOP
HER
!”
THE
SENIOR
T
REWELYN
SHOUTED
. “D
ON
’
T
GO
in that room!”

The policeman caught the noisy meddler just outside the library door. She was a fighter, that one, swinging her arms and grabbing everything she could to free herself from the policeman’s grasp.

Ashton sagged with relief. He could well imagine poor Miss Hargrove trying to press herself into the corner of the bookshelves, attempting to make herself invisible. His lips tightened. As if that could happen. If she hadn’t been able to make herself unnoticeable on the crowded streets of London, she certainly couldn’t escape notice in an empty room.

Just as the policeman was attempting to pull the feisty intruder forcibly away from the library door, she grabbed the doorknob and pushed the library door open for all to see.

“There!” she cried out triumphantly, pointing to the interior. Ashton’s stomach clenched hard as a rock. There could be no saving Miss Hargrove now.

The policeman paused and peeked cautiously into the room. The senior Trewelyn pushed his way forward, causing both the policeman and his captive to enter the library. Ashton followed behind the others, trying desperately to think of some logical explanation for a woman to be secluded in a stranger’s library at this hour of night.

But there was no need. The library was empty.

Ashton quickly glanced at the secret door and noticed a slight, almost unperceivable crack. The door wasn’t closed completely. He moved deeper into the library, placing himself directly in front of the opening, hiding it from sight. “I hope you’re satisfied, miss.” He used his best glare. “As you can see, there’s no one here.”

“You could have her sequestered upstairs,” she replied. She opened her mouth so as to shout again, but Faith clamped a hand over it.

“Enough, Claire. At this rate, you’ll have all of London on the Trewelyns’ doorstep. She’s not here.” She glanced at Ashton. “I think we should follow Mr. Trewelyn’s advice. Edwina is most likely waiting for us at the carriage right now, wondering what happened to us.”

“But . . .”

“She’s not here,” Faith insisted. She turned to his father. “My apologies for the intrusion on your household, sir. We were obviously mistaken in our information.”

“Would you like to press charges against this one, sir?” The policeman scowled at Claire. “She’s guilty of disturbing the peace, she is.”

His father stared at the empty table as if Edwina herself sat there wrapped in a flowing Japanese robe with a beckoning smile. Ashton shook his head, wondering why imagination had conjured that particular image. “No,” his father said. “Just take her out of here. I don’t wish my wife to witness this disturbance.”

The policeman escorted the two women out of the library. As their footsteps retreated up the passageway, his father turned toward him. “That was quick thinking on your part. I must admit I panicked when that chit flung the door wide open. I would have had a difficult time explaining the pillow book.” His lips quirked as if he wasn’t quite certain . . . “You did move it, did you not?”

Ashton suspected the talented Miss Hargrove waited on the other side of the secret door, pillow book in hand. “Yes,” he replied. “At the moment, it’s well concealed.”

“Good.” His father closed his eyes and sighed. “I should have placed it in the chamber myself once the Guardians had left, but then that commotion erupted.”

“Guardians?” Ashton asked, silently thanking the powers that be that his father didn’t stumble upon the both of them in the chamber. Edwina was correct about the meeting. His admiration for her talent increased tenfold. “Who are the Guardians?”

“Did I . . . ?” His father’s eyes widened a moment before he looked away. “Perhaps one day I shall be able to introduce you, but for now it would please me greatly if you just forget you ever heard that name.” He fumbled about for a moment, as if he’d misplaced his pocket watch, then he glanced back to Ashton with a weak half smile. “I’d best make sure those women have left. Wouldn’t do to have your mother discover them here.”

“Stepmother,” Ashton corrected.

“Yes . . . yes . . . of course. I meant to say that.” His father turned for the door. “With Matthew in the house, referring to Constance as ‘mother’ has become something of a habit. I’m sure you understand.”

No.
Ashton was quite certain he would never understand why Constance occupied that particular role in this house.

His father, framed by the library doorway, looked back toward him and frowned. “You don’t know anything about that missing woman, do you?” His father shook his head. “I had hoped after your stint with the Rifles you would abandon these frivolous romantic interludes.” He didn’t wait for Ashton’s reply but kept talking as he walked down the passageway. “It’s small wonder that every time a woman goes missing, the police appear on my doorstep.”

• • •

A
SHTON
FELT
A
PROTEST
FORMING
DEEP
IN
HIS
BELLY
. Perhaps if his father had acknowledged his presence in the slightest way in those early years, he would have traveled a different road, and not one that earned him this Casanova title. He stood in the library fuming, when the press of the door to his back reminded him he wasn’t alone. He pulled the secret door fully open and Miss Hargrove tumbled out, the missing pillow book in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she managed in between gulps of air. “I just picked it up to look at it. After you had shown me the others, I was curious. I should never have taken it.”

“Actually, you did my father a service, not that you can ever tell him.” His lips lifted in a smile. So the contents of the chamber had intrigued her after all. Enough to study the new arrival for his father’s collection. He would have liked to discuss that interest further, but now was not the time.

“Allow me to put the pillow book away. Then we need to get you out of here and reunited with your friends.” She placed the book in his hands with downcast eyes and a bit of color high on her cheeks. She blushed very sweetly, that one. It made him wonder what else beyond embarrassment would cause that rise of color. He mentally gave himself a shake. Most likely he’d never see her again. Sweet innocents did not travel in his jaded circles. “I’ll need to douse the lights. This may take a moment or two.”

He returned the book to the secret chamber, then paused, sensing a faint scent of oranges in the room. Funny that he hadn’t noticed her scent earlier. His attention must have been focused elsewhere. He turned off the gas jets and returned to the library to discover Miss Hargrove studying a piece of paper. “What is that?”

She folded it and handed it to him. “I found this in the pillow book. It must have fallen when I gave you the book. It was lying here on the floor.”

He slipped the note into his pocket. “I’ll read it later. Let’s get you safely away before my father returns, looking for his latest purchase.” Ashton peeked down the corridor and spotted his father involved in conversation at the far end. Constance must have returned home. All the more reason to get Miss Hargrove out of the residence. He turned toward Edwina. “My father is busy at the front of the house. I’ll distract the servants from the back entrance. Wait here a few minutes, then slip out the back door. Understood?”

She nodded.

“I’ll meet you outside,” he said. She began to protest, but he silenced her with a quiet hush. “I’m not about to let you wander unescorted in the dark. Just wait for me outside and I’ll see you safely returned to your friends.”

• • •

E
DWINA
WAITED
FOR
T
REWELYN
AS
INSTRUCTED
,
GRATE
ful for his promise of escort. The hour had advanced beyond that for which she had confidence. Even Faith’s frilly parasol would prove no match for the sorts of miscreants that might be out at this hour. While she and her friends hadn’t uncovered the sort of debauchery they had suspected when they embarked on this adventure, she had enjoyed an experience she hadn’t anticipated. Could she . . . would she . . . describe the contents of the secret chamber to the Rake Patrol? Or would that cause them to think less of Trewelyn? For some reason, their opinion of him held importance to her.

He appeared a moment later as promised. “Shall we?”

She had to admit, the mews was less ominous with Trewelyn at her side. “Thank you for this,” she said. “I suppose I’m not as brave as I’d like to believe.”

“Given tonight’s discoveries, I would disagree,” Trewelyn said, his voice companionable and warm in the dark. “I’m sure those Japanese prints were rather shocking to you.”

“I’ve not seen anything like those before.” It was easier to talk like this, in the open, in the dark. “They were certainly lewd and . . . common, but at the same time”—she shook her head—“I don’t know how to explain it.”

He laughed, a soft sound that vibrated deep within her. “So tell me, Miss Hargrove, have I passed inspection? Will I be able to continue to look for a suitable companion for my friend without interference?”

“Will you do that?” In light of all the recent activity, Edwina had forgotten that a personal ad had started it all. “Will you continue to advertise for a companion?”

“I haven’t decided,” Trewelyn acknowledged. “For the most part, the responses I received from that first advertisement were not exactly what I had hoped. Perhaps I should employ more traditional methods, or”—he laughed— “perhaps I should leave James to search for himself.”

Once she reported back to the others, she was certain the Rake Patrol would no longer question Trewelyn’s intent and would thus terminate their intervention. That he passed their inspection was a disappointment, as it meant she’d have no valid excuse to spy upon him. If nothing else, the research had proved an adventure.

“Are your friends waiting in that carriage?” he asked.

She nodded. It was the only carriage pulled along the curb. So much for discretion.

“Then I’ll leave you here.” Trewelyn turned toward her. “You’ll be safe under the driver’s gaze, and while I admire her loyalty, I’d prefer not to encounter your friend Claire.”