The Casanova Code (9 page)

“You can make sense of that?” he asked with an incredulous air.

“I could make sense of it if I had the key,” she replied.

He looked confused.

“There are many kinds of codes,” she explained. “Some are based on numbers, some are based on letters. Some involve inclusion of extra words and phrases, or a reordering of letters. Some use different types of inks. Based on the grouping of letters, I would guess that this uses a line or phrase from a particular book known to the intended recipient and sender that transcribes the nonsense letters into the intended message. It’s an easy code to use but challenging to break unless you know the key.” She glanced up at him. “In fact, my brother uses this type of code in his letters to me.”

Trewelyn’s face twisted into a curious expression, but she wasn’t inclined to explain her own family’s eccentricities at the moment.

A woman unknown to Edwina passed the table and dropped a lacy handkerchief near Trewelyn. He retrieved it from the floor and stood to return it, earning a softly murmured thank you and what Edwina would call a sultry glance in exchange. He lifted a brow, then returned to his seat.

“Let me show you.” Edwina set her annoyance over the interruption aside and pulled her brother’s most recent letter from her journal. “My brother uses
Treasure Island
to code his letters to me.” She pointed to the top of the letter. “You’ll note that he begins with the numbers seventy-three, slash, two, another slash, then one.” Using her finger, she pointed out the various components of the code. “The first number represents the page number. It tells me which page in the book to use.”

She handed her copy of
Treasure Island
to him, indicating that he should open the book to the directed page. It was fortunate that she’d thought to come prepared just in case Trewelyn needed to see an example. While she’d fretted earlier about his presence, suddenly she was pleased he’d come. “The second number tells me which paragraph to use and the third number tells me which sentence within the paragraph. As Harry—”

“Harry?” he interrupted.

“My brother,” she explained. “As he listed the number one, that would mean the code phrase is the first line in the second paragraph.”

“‘
Hawkins,
’” Trewelyn read aloud. “
‘I put prodigious faith in you,’ added the squire.
” He looked up. “Is that sufficient?”

“Perhaps,” Edwina said. “It really depends on the alphabet my brother requires for his letter.”

“I don’t understand.” He shook his head, looking as helpless as a stray pup. Funny how their roles had reversed from last evening. Now she was the one with the knowledge and he the shocked innocent. She hid her smile.

“That’s because there’s another step.” She lifted her journal and untied the scarlet red ribbon that held it closed. “I keep a list of all the letters of the alphabet in a column down a page just for this purpose. Like this.” She opened her journal to the page where she had created that very list on the left page. “Then, I list all the unique letters of the code phrase next to it. See, the ‘A’
of the alphabet lines up with the ‘H’ of ‘Hawkins.’ The ‘B’ of the alphabet lines up with the ‘A’ of ‘Hawkins,’ and so forth until I have a unique letter equivalent for each letter of the alphabet. I use this chart to transcribe the letter’s code to its English equivalent and then write the decoded message on the opposite page.”

“I see,” he said. His eyes scanned the page while his brow lifted in a form of admiration. His appreciation of her abilities warmed her as if a purring Isabella had curled up in her lap. She basked in that unexpected pleasure for a moment before suddenly realizing that his gaze was not on her alphabetic listing but on the transcription of the letter itself. She pulled the book abruptly from his hands, then securely tied the ribbon that held the journal closed. “That letter is personal, sir, as is my journal,” she scolded.

“Forgive me,” he said with wide-eyed contrition. She suspected he was not sorry at all.

She bit her lip, experiencing once again the pull of his soft smile. What had Faith called it?
Charismatic.
She placed the tied journal on the table between them. “It’s nothing important,” she said, wondering how much he had read. Hopefully, he had only read the beginning of her brother’s letter and not her impressions of last night. “It’s just private.”

“It seems to me that you and your brother must retain the same edition of
Treasure Island
for the key phrase to function properly. For example, while I’m sure you both have copies of the Bible, the various translations and editions would make it unsuitable for a key.”

“Exactly.” He truly did understand the nature of the code. She tapped the coded message that had fallen from the pillow book. “This is a code with an unspecified recipient. Someone wrote it so that only the correct individual would be able to translate it.”

“So there’s no way we can decipher this message?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Edwina said.

Another embroidered handkerchief fluttered by the table. Trewelyn returned that one as before, with much the same results. Softly spoken words, an exchanged glance, and then he lowered himself to the seat.

“I’m sorry. You were saying that you can perhaps make sense of this message?”

Edwina lowered her gaze to her fingers fidgeting with the red ribbon on her journal, attempting to keep her annoyance in check. Beautiful women with greater talents at attracting a man’s attention than she must besiege him on a regular basis. She took a calming breath before continuing. “The messages are written to be decoded . . . just not by the wrong people. If we had the key, it would be easier to decipher, but it’s not impossible to translate without it.”

He leaned forward, intrigued. “How do we do that?”

Encouraged by the use of “we” and the implied continued association, she leaned forward as well. “In the English language, certain single letters, like the letters ‘e,’ ‘t,’ ‘o,’ and ‘a,’ are used more frequently than others. Thus we can attempt to decipher the note by trying to identify what coded letters are used the most frequently.”

“I wouldn’t think that would help very much,” he said, a frown pushing his lips. “Knowing one or two letters in a word wouldn’t give us the full word.”

“There’s also common two-letter combinations. We can search the coded letter for the repetitious use of the same two-letter pattern that might be ‘th’ or ‘he’—”

“How about the combination ‘i’ and ‘s’?”

“Yes, ‘is’ would be one. It’s also a common two-letter word, beyond the mere combination.” She smiled. He was starting to be caught by the challenge. “There are common reversals and three-letter words. If we can determine the pattern by isolating the combinations, we might be able to unlock the other combinations.” She leaned back in her chair. “It’s a time-consuming affair, but not impossible.”

“Can you do it?” he asked, enthusiasm evident.

She hesitated, considering. While she relished the possibility of working with Trewelyn, one concern kept her from accepting the challenge. She held his gaze. “Who are the Guardians?”

His brow lowered. “Why do you ask?”

She softened her tone so as not to be overheard. “A coded message from the Guardians brought me to your library last night. Now we’re attempting to decipher another message, perhaps from them, perhaps from someone else. Still, it seems to me that the two events are related. If I’m to assist you in this, I want to know it’s for a worthy cause, or if it’s for . . . something not so worthy.” As much as she wished to embark on this adventure, she needed to know the purpose was just.

He tapped his fingers on her copy of
Treasure Island
. “You wish to know if we are the pirates or the righteous crew.”

She nodded, pleased with his analogy. “You’ve read it?”

“I believe I proved last night that I’m familiar with many books and many cultures.” His finger slowly stroked the well-worn binding of the novel. Something about the timbre of his voice and the repeated motion reminded her of the prints of men stroking parts of a woman’s body. His simple gesture assumed a more intimate nature, as if he were stroking her intimate places. A shiver slipped down her spine.

“While I can’t speak for the nature of the note,” Trewelyn said, “or the recipient for that matter, I can assure you that I’m not involved in any nefarious purposes. I would think that if anything, we may have the opportunity to stop wrongdoing, not participate in it ourselves.”

He pulled his hand away from the book, severing that intimate connection. Yet he seemed impervious to her thoughts. “For all I know,” he continued, “this note could be a listing of the week’s menu prepared by my stepmother for the cook.”

“Menus are rarely written in code, sir,” she said. She narrowed her eyes. “You are avoiding my question. Who are the Guardians?”

Another delicate bit of embroidered linen floated past the table. This time Edwina retrieved the handkerchief, then slapped it into its owner’s hand. There were no words or appreciative glances in response.

Trewelyn appeared to suppress a grin before he grew serious again. “Would you care to go for a walk, Miss Hargrove?” he asked. “I believe the fresh air and open space might better serve our purposes.”

T
HE
SLANT
OF
THE
AFTERNOON
SUN
BEYOND
THE
Crescent’s windows suggested she should really leave now to avoid uncomfortable questions when she arrived home. However, the lure of a potential collaboration with Trewelyn proved too tempting for a hasty retreat. She accepted his invitation, then collected the bicycle she’d left outside.

“You rode that contraption?” he asked, his eyes creased with a grin.

“It’s a very practical means of transportation,” Edwina explained. “The modern woman shouldn’t need to rely on a horse and carriage to tend to her affairs.”

“That is true,” he said, though his expression implied otherwise. “I don’t think I’ll abandon the carriage just yet.”

She carried her journal and book while he pushed the bicycle along as they walked. Something about Trewelyn in possession of her journal, even to just carry it, seemed unsettling. Some things were just too personal.

Hyde Park was resplendent. Even though they remained in the public eye, they were able to talk without fear of being overheard, or interrupted due to stray handkerchiefs.

“I can’t tell you definitively who the Guardians are,” Trewelyn finally admitted. “I’d heard of a secret group by that name when I was stationed in Burma. I had no idea that my father was connected in any way to them until you appeared in my library yesterday evening.”

“Your father is a member of that group?” She hesitated. “I thought it might have been . . .”

“Me?” He chuckled low beneath his breath. “No, Miss Hargrove. I am not a member, but I believe I may have recognized some of the voices before circumstances called for our hurried removal last night. My father was among them. He and some of his business associates . . . captains in industry, you might say . . . were walking down the passageway toward the library.”

She tightened her grip on the books, remembering her near discovery last night and Mr. Trewelyn’s swift action to prevent her imminent ruin. “Did I thank you last night for protecting me from detection?”

This time he laughed outright. “Given the means of protection, I’m not certain gratitude is in order. Those prints are explicit at best and hardly suitable for such a respectable and attractive . . . modern woman.”

She felt a blush spreading. It was an awkward conversation, but it provided the opportunity she needed. “There was something else in that room besides the woodblock prints . . . ?”

He looked at her in question.

“On the shelves?” she prodded.

“Oh.” Awareness brightened his face. “I didn’t realize you’d noticed the collection of netsuke.”

“Netsuke?” She tested the sound on her tongue. At the rate she was learning about ying, yang, and netsuke, she could be a docent at the Crystal Palace.

“They are fancy carved toggles that can be attached to the obi”—he gestured toward his middle—“the sash. Small boxes or cords attached to the netsuke could be used to carry personal needs.”

“Something like a woman’s chatelaine?” she asked, recalling the contraption her mother sometimes wore with keys and scissors and other household necessities.

“I suppose, although both men and women use a netsuke. They’re decorated for various purposes. Some are quite beautiful. My father only collects a certain type of netsuke.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I can show you an example the next time you visit the gallery that—”

She pushed him back. “Mr. Trewelyn, please! My presence in that chamber was purely accidental. I’m certain proper women never venture into that room.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Her gaze snapped to his face. “I beg your pardon?” He just smiled in response, and her heart flipped like a fish on a wharf. She glanced away, flustered.

“I’m not one to engage in needless gossip, Mr. Trewelyn.” Another lie of a sort. Other women had been to that gallery? She would love to know their names. Not to whisper about, of course, but just to know in whose company she stood. She studied the far trees that bordered a stream in this portion of the park. “These netsuke things, are they expensive?”

“Many are not, but my father’s collection is unique, as you can imagine.”

She could imagine very well, having studied one of the items from his collection at close range.

“Yes. I suppose compared to the newer, more common netsuke,” he said, winking at her, “my father’s would command a high price.”

Her heart sank. If she could not find the missing piece, she wasn’t sure how she could pay for its replacement.

“Why do you ask, Miss Hargrove?” His brow creased. “I don’t recall you studying those shelves last night.” His brows lifted, and his lids lowered with an invitation to sin. “Are you interested in purchasing one for your personal collection? I’m certain we can come to terms.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. Her jaw fell and she stared in disbelief. Had he just made an inappropriate suggestion? She would have slapped him if her arms weren’t full with her books. Instead, she placed the books on the seat of the bicycle then jerked the handlebars free from his grip. She pushed the bicycle steadily ahead.

Laughing, he trotted after her. “Forgive me, Miss Hargrove. I forgot with whom I was speaking.” She kept her focus straight ahead and refused to look at him. “Please, Edwina. May I call you Edwina?”

She glanced to her side. “No. You may not.”

“Edwina, please.” He wrestled the handlebars from her and stopped her progress. She might have continued her determined departure if not for the lure of the coded message. Such a challenge and opportunity might not come her way again. She couldn’t risk looking at his pleading eyes, not yet. So she turned her back toward him.

“I apologize for my inappropriate humor,” he said to her back. “Edwina, please look at me. I’m truly sorry.”

That blasted indecent netsuke had placed her in a particular bind. If she admitted to having it, he’d want its return, which she couldn’t accomplish at the moment, nor could she pay for it. Her only option would be to thoroughly search her room, then return it unnoticed to the secret chamber, and to do that and test her abilities on the coded letter, she’d have to continue her association with Mr. Trewelyn.

She turned begrudgingly. His finger tilted her chin so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “I promise to be on better behavior, but I need your help with the coded message and I value your friendship too much for you to be angry with me. Please forgive me.”

She couldn’t resist that pleading expression and suspected he knew as much. She nodded, which earned his wide smile. His fingers lingered on the sensitive skin a moment before he moved his hand.

“Friends?” He waited for her nod again. “Good. Then you should know that friends call me Ashton. Mr. Trewelyn is my father’s name.”

“Ashton,” she repeated. Though she tried to hide her pleasure at being afforded this intimacy with such a notorious character, her lips turned upward nonetheless. She caught his gaze; it was clear he noticed. She cleared her throat. “It appears we have drifted away from the original topic . . . the Guardians?”

“Yes.” As her irritation lightened, his smile deepened, and he immediately assumed the task of pushing her bicycle forward once more. “I have gathered from certain innuendo that a secret organization exists that is determined to maintain the superiority of the Crown against all challengers. They have tentacles of smaller groups scattered throughout England. The Guardians may be one of those tentacles, or perhaps it’s the larger organization.”

Tentacles!
An image of that woman and her octopus sprang forefront in her mind. A frisson of sensation shot from her core to her breast and required she exert a conscious effort to keep walking in a cohesive manner.

“I’m relieved the Guardians are a group of good intent,” she managed, albeit with difficulty. “Though I’m not certain how a purchase of a book of
that
sort would benefit the Crown.”

“What one considers ‘good works’ often proves inappropriate to everyone else,” he counseled. “I would not sing the praises of the Guardians based on a few rumors. We don’t know as yet if they are truly involved. This note was meant most likely for an individual, not the entire group. Otherwise, why would it be hidden?”

“Shall we assume then that the note was intended for your father? Wasn’t the package addressed to him?”

“But it was opened in the company of others. If the note had been meant specifically for my father, and if he expected such a note to be hidden in the book, wouldn’t he have opened the package in private?” He grimaced. “The note conceivably could have been intended for anyone in that room and have slipped their notice. No, I believe to truly understand what is transpiring under my father’s roof, we will need to transcribe the note and ascertain for certain for whom it was intended.”

“That’s liable to take some time,” Edwina cautioned. “Without a key, breaking the code will become to a certain extent a function of trial and error. Granted, there are certain letter combination frequencies that may help, and patterns or shapes of letters, but still . . .” She shook her head. “While I’m intrigued by the task, I must warn you that success may not be obtainable. My experience has been limited to translating the very basic sort of coded messages that appear in the personals and those codes to which I already possess a key.”

His face brightened. “Could the pillow book itself be some sort of key?”

She shook her head. “I suspect it is only the vehicle. You, of course, are more familiar with such things than I, but I don’t recall a single English word on any of those pictures. Of course, I did not look overly long.” Her cheeks warmed. She dared to glance at him. “If I may be so bold, why not just ask your father about the note? It may be that he was expecting it. That certainly would provide an opportunity for answers.”

“My relationship with my father is . . . difficult.” His eyes narrowed on something in the far end of the park. “I thought the distance and time spent with the Rifles might resolve our differences, but it appears I was mistaken.”

She could hear strain in his voice. Whatever wedge existed between his father and himself he wished to remain private. “I understand,” she sympathized. “You barely know me. I didn’t mean to pry, I just wondered—”

“Ashton Trewelyn! Is that you?” A fashionable open landau carriage rolled to a stop beside them. A woman with a stuffed hummingbird on her bonnet addressed him while fairly buried beneath squirming little spaniels. “I thought I’d heard rumors that you’d returned to London, and here you are!”

“Miss Marsh.” Ashton doffed his hat.

“It’s Lady Sutton now.” She laughed. “Much has changed since you left. I’ve married a viscount.” She turned her gaze to Edwina. “And who is this? The two of you were speaking as if you were thick as thieves. I’m not sure you even heard my horse approaching.”

“Lady Sutton, may I present Miss Hargrove. We were just discussing the far-reaching influence of certain aquatic creatures.” He turned, and unseen by Lady Sutton, winked at her.

Edwina almost bit her tongue to keep a straight face.

“Aquatic creatures! Surely you can aspire to a better conversation than that. Apparently much has changed with you, Ashton, unless, of course, you were discussing mermaids. I can understand your participation in a lengthy discourse on that topic.” She laughed gaily at her own humor, then turned toward Edwina. “They call him Casanova for a reason, Miss Hastings. Best you keep your hatpin at the ready.”

Edwina felt a subtle change in the man next to her as if he’d tensed, yet she noted he maintained that lazy smile. Perhaps if she hadn’t been standing so close, even she would have been fooled to think that the teasing comment had missed its mark.

“Now, Ashton,” Lady Sutton continued, “I believe you’ll hear more relevant conversation if you attend my little soiree tomorrow evening. Lord Fitzhugh is coming, and I do need someone to lighten the mood.”

“Ah my lady, I’m certain the moment you enter the room, the conversation will be light enough to compete with the clouds.”

Lady Sutton tittered while Edwina reached to pet the silky smooth head of one of the lapdogs eager to escape the carriage. “They’re adorable,” she said, allowing another to lick her hand. “What sort of dogs are these?”

“Japanese spaniels, of course,” Trewelyn replied with a grin.

“That’s right!” Lady Sutton exclaimed. “They’re all the rage.”

Edwina almost retracted her hand.
Japanese. Again!
Was everything to remind her of last evening and those prints?

“Good. Then I shall see you tomorrow evening. Your Constance is coming. I’m certain she will be grateful of your escort.” Lady Sutton glanced at Edwina. “You must come as well, Miss Hardin. It’s just a small gathering of friends. Aquatic creatures, indeed!”

“Thank you . . .” Edwina managed, surprised by the sudden invitation. “However, I believe my schedule—”

“Till tomorrow, then.” Lady Sutton waved her fingertips and instructed the driver to move on.

Edwina bristled from the snub. Not that she wasn’t used to it. She’d heard disdain and soft laughter in others’ murmurs at the Crescent about “bluestockings” and “modern women.” She didn’t fit with the fashionable crowd. She knew that, but it didn’t lessen the sting from their words.