Edwina exchanged a satisfied look with Faith, who retrieved the paper from the table.
“What?” Sarah asked, looking from one to the other. “We just print what we’re paid to print. We don’t edit the personal ads for content.” She poured some tea from Faith’s pot into the empty cup that appeared by her wrist. “No one wants to pay a few pence more for extra words even if urgently needed.”
“Look at this one. It’s so sweet.” Faith sighed, then smirked at Edwina. “And it’s not in code.”
A refined gentleman, age 25, of wealth and education, seeks the acquaintance, with a view to matrimony, of a highminded, kindhearted lady who prefers an evening of quiet conversation to the lively demands of society. Address box 8 at the Mayfair Messenger.
“He’s not a gentleman.” Sarah scowled and sipped her tea. “Refined or otherwise.”
“You know who placed this ad?” Faith asked, her eyes widened.
Sarah looked about the room as if she were about to share the Queen’s secrets. “Ashton Carswell Bradford Trewelyn III.”
The resulting collective gasp turned the heads of the other patrons.
“Casanova . . .” Claire whispered with disdain.
“You saw him?” Faith asked, awe in her voice. “Was he as handsome as they say?”
Sarah nodded. “I can understand an attraction.”
“That man knows no restraint.” Claire bent her head closer to the others. “I’ve heard that because of him, five otherwise decent women have been unexpectedly bundled off to the Continent for an extended stay.” She hesitated. “All within two months of each other.”
Everyone gasped.
“My brothers told me he was tossed out of every school in England on moral grounds,” Edwina murmured, though she had no knowledge of what moral grounds those had been. At the time she had difficulty accepting that news. His name, Trewelyn, so resembled the name of the noble squire from Treasure Island that she had difficulty separating the two. Even today, she felt as if someone had slowly stroked a feather down the inside of her arm just at the mention of his name.
“Didn’t he leave the country?” Faith asked, pulling Edwina from her reverie.
“I thought my brother said he joined the King’s Royal Rifles,” Edwina offered.
“He’s returned, and he’s even more handsome than before,” Sarah said. “His years away have given him a harder edge, a sort of dangerous quality that . . . well, I don’t recall before.” She leaned forward. “Lately when I go to those dinners and dances on behalf of the Messenger, the question is always if Casanova will make an appearance. All the single women hope he’ll be in attendance. Some of the married ones too.”
Claire scowled, then turned the paper around so she could read the ad. “Why would London’s most notorious rake advertise for a kindhearted lady who prefers quiet conversation—”
“And enjoyment of a good book,” Faith added with a wistful gleam in her eye.
“Over the lively demands of society?” Edwina finished.
“I can think of only one reason.” Sarah leaned back in her chair. Her sober face studied each of them in turn. “Debauchery.”
“Sarah!” Edwina straightened. Faith merely mouthed the sinful word without giving it voice. “You don’t know that.”
“Think of it,” Sarah insisted. “Gentle women, quiet women respond to his ad in pursuit of love and affection. He lures them to his lecherous lair and seduces them into trading their innocence for a life of scandal and degradation.” Sarah rummaged through her reticule for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “That’s how it happened with my sister.”
“Ashton Carswell Trewelyn the third?” Faith’s jaw dropped.
“No, not him,” Sarah said with a shake of her head. “But someone like him. He got her in the family way and then abandoned her. My dear sister didn’t live long enough to hold little Nan in her arms.”
They all knew the sad story. Sarah was raising her niece as her own child and had sought her current position at the Messenger as a means for her support. As much as they derided Ramsey for failing to publish Sarah’s serious articles, they were grateful he’d offered her employment in her time of need. The friends sat in silence to allow Sarah time to gather her composure.
Ashton Trewelyn III. Edwina remembered him from her own two failed seasons years ago, before she gave up the illusion of a man falling at her feet and pleading his undying devotion. Trewelyn had been dashing back then, debonair in his evening tails, and desired by all the young women. He had smiled at her once, but she hadn’t the coquettish looks or the charm or the connections to draw men to her side like honey. She certainly hadn’t the allure to attract Ashton Trewelyn III. After that brief moment, he’d returned to his wealthy friends . . . and one beautiful woman in particular . . . What was her name? She remembered watching them on the dance floor; they had moved so eloquently, so full of grace, as if they were one person. Edwina recalled the woman had the smallest waistline she’d ever seen and a strange sort of laugh. Trewelyn didn’t glance Edwina’s way again. He ignored her, just like so many others.
“I wrote a poem about him once,” Faith admitted. “I fancied him an angel cast to earth.”
“From hell, more likely,” Sarah grumbled.
“We can’t let this occur,” Claire insisted. “We can’t let him take advantage of innocent women.” Ever since Claire had become involved with the Temperance Society, Edwina had noticed her passion for platforms. Sometimes the cause didn’t matter, just the related call to action.
“How can we stop him?” Sarah asked. “I had to run the ad even though I suspected it was a deception. I have Nan to consider.”
Faith patted her hand in sympathy. “Casanova’s lecherous actions are not your fault.”
“Surely we can use your connections to the Messenger to thwart his scheme of seduction,” Claire said, gathering a head of steam. “Think, ladies.”
“Will you see the responses to his ad?” Edwina asked.
“Only the envelopes,” Sarah replied. “I’m not allowed to open them. I could lose my position.”
“Some of those envelopes will have the return address on the back,” Faith said. “We could at least warn those women.”
“He may not have his sights set on those women,” Edwina said thoughtfully. “It would be better if we knew which responses interested him the most and concentrate our efforts there. Perhaps we should follow him about London.” She brightened at the idea. “I’ll follow him and foil any attempt he makes to meet with innocent women.”
“You can’t follow Trewelyn around London,” Sarah said.
“I can,” Edwina protested. By far, this would be the most adventurous feat she’d ever attempted. She imagined Jim Hawkins from Treasure Island must have felt a similar twinge of anticipation. “My father is so involved with the Perkins case, he won’t know that I’m not about. My mother is barely home as it is with all her clubs and organizations. I could be Trewelyn’s shadow, and he won’t even know it.”
“What about your Mr. Thomas?” Faith asked. “Won’t he disapprove?”
“I don’t know,” Edwina replied, defiance in her voice. But she did know. Mr. Thomas would not approve of anything that involved risk or adventure. If it weren’t for the fact that being in the company of the beau her father had handpicked from among his employees to escort her about town allowed her a freedom she wouldn’t otherwise experience, she would have ended their relationship. “I do know that Mr. Thomas has binoculars that he uses to watch birds. I’m certain he will let me borrow them.”
Sarah’s skepticism showed in her eyes.
“I’ll watch him from afar, Sarah. No harm will come of it.”
“She could try,” Faith said. “What is there to lose?”
“I don’t know, Edwina.” Sarah gave voice to her uncertainty. “I’m not certain this will work, and it could prove dangerous. Besides, your actions could anger Mr. Thomas. While you may not appreciate it now, securi
ty is nothing to gamble away.”
Edwina took her hand. “If we save one woman from the fate of your sister, it would be worth the risk. I won’t do anything outlandish, I promise.”
Edwina held Sarah’s gaze until her skepticism reluctantly turned to acceptance.
“And if we’re successful, as I’m certain we will be,” Claire said, “we can do this for other questionable personal ads as well. We’ll protect innocent women.”
“We’ll be the Rake Patrol,” Faith whispered.
“The Rake Patrol,” Sarah said softly, testing the sound.
Edwina lifted her teacup, inviting the others to do the same. “To the Rake Patrol.”
The four carefully clinked their cups, then grinned as their pact was formed. After each took a dutiful sip of the cold tea, Edwina replaced her cup on the saucer. “Now, ladies, let us plan how this is to be done . . .”
THE BASE OF ASHTON TREWELYN’S NECK TINGLED, A warning not felt since his service in Burma. He looked about the stark environs of the Mayfair Messenger’s office, suspecting he was under unfriendly scrutiny—and by someone in addition to the woman clerk behind the wooden counter, who kept glancing his way when she thought he wouldn’t notice. He remembered her from when he initially placed the ad. One would have thought he hadn’t bathed for a week based on her reaction to his appearance then. Under the circumstances, he waited patiently for a well-attired young lady to conclude the business of placing an ad. The Mayfair Messenger had become known for their personal ads, just as the Pall Mall Gazette was known for their coverage of social issues, or the Illustrated London News was known for their woodcuts. They each had their specialty, but Ashton had to admit, the Messenger’s niche appeared to be a lucrative one.
The young woman turned away from the counter. The instant she spotted him near the door, her cheeks flushed an attractive pink. After a moment’s hesitation, she patted her hair and issued a seductive smile. Ashton opened the door for her, then tipped his hat as she passed by, just as any gentleman would do. Yet she paused, issuing a brazen unspoken invitation with her eyes. He remembered a time when he would have led the lady to a less public location and explored the pleasures her gaze suggested she wished. But today he slowly shook his head. She nodded, then continued on her way. Though he never understood why his appearance managed to elicit that almost universal reaction, it was what it was, and he’d become accustomed to it. He returned inside, removed his hat, then stepped up to the counter.
“The replies in box eight, if you please.” He held the marker he’d been given to claim the responses to his search for a suitable companion for his friend, James. If ever a man was in need of a woman’s company, it would be James. His friend, however, refused to exert effort in that direction and had instead taken up some unsavory practices that were bound to destroy his health. As Ashton had already lost close companions in Burma, he had no desire to lose more. James would surely cease his latest pursuits if he had a caring companion by his side.
Companions Ashton could readily produce. The stipulation that they be caring, however, posed a difficulty. None of Ashton’s acquaintances would be suitable. That pack of hungry wolves could judge a man’s finances by the tilt of his top hat, and his marriage availability by the caliber of his glove. No, those shallow, transparent women would have no interest in James, just as he imagined James would have no interest in them. A quiet, unassuming woman would be best. Someone with little interest beyond the hearth. Someone—
“Your ad met with success.” The lady clerk smiled, an event so unexpected and transforming of her features that Ashton was taken aback as she stacked a small quantity of letters before him.
Strange. This very same clerk wouldn’t spare him the time of day last week. Now she embodied the very symbol of cooperation.
“Do you wish to continue your ad for another week?” she asked.
“All this resulted from one ad?” There must’ve been twenty letters in that pile. “I had anticipated only one or two responses.”
“London is filled with honest women seeking companionship,” the clerk said, her eyes warm and helpful. He truly must have caught her on a bad day before. That, or the lady had a friendly twin. A particularly licentious memory from years ago brought a smile to his lips. He’d had some experience with twins.
Did a flicker of disgust just flash in the clerk’s eyes? Or was that merely a reflection off the lenses of her eyeglasses? No matter. The clerk’s demure smile obscured any ill feelings. “Responses are bound to be plentiful when the ad is placed by a refined and educated man such as yourself.”
“You recall the ad?” he said, surprised. “Given the number of advertisements that must slide across this very counter, you must possess a remarkable memory.”
“It is a consequence of my position to associate the faces of the advertisers with the ads they place.” She hesitated a moment, then glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “I assume you intend to interview the respondents.”
“That had been my initial intention, yes.” He ran his finger across the edges of the envelopes. “However, I hadn’t planned on so many replies.”
She brightened. “You may find that some are unsuitable once you read their letters. The others . . .” She pushed her spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose. “If I may be so bold, sir, have you given any thought as to where you intend to interview the others?”
Ashton straightened. “I believe that’s a personal matter—”
The clerk leaned forward. “I only meant to caution that an honest, respectable woman might have difficulty meeting a bachelor in his own quarters.”
“That is true.” His lips quirked. He should have considered this before.
“So you might want to consider arranging a meeting in a public spot. Are you familiar with the recently renovated Crescent Coffee Palace?”
He frowned. “Coffee Palace? I thought the Crescent was known for . . . beverages of another nature.”
“It has something of an illustrious past,” the clerk admitted. “However, the Temperance Committee has renovated the building, and it now offers a variety of wholesome food and drinks of a more genteel nature.”
Teetotalers. He winced. “Have you been to this new Crescent?”
“I have, sir.” She smiled. “It is the reason I can recommend the location as perfect for your purposes.”
He hesitated, then nodded. The clerk certainly would have more experience and knowledge of such matters than he. He supposed she dispensed this sort of advice with some regularity. Perhaps the Crescent would be best. He began to stuff the envelopes into his pocket.
“And, of course, you’ll need a method to identify the woman,” the clerk continued.
“Identify her?” Another detail he hadn’t considered. Who would have thought finding a woman for James would prove so difficult?
“Of course, sir. There will be many women of quality at the Crescent. You should employ some method to distinguish the lady responding to your advertisement from the other patrons.”
It had been Ashton’s experience that most women managed to recognize him immediately. Or, if an attractive, engaging woman had only recently arrived in London, he generally knew someone who could intercede with an introduction. This meeting of strange women was problematic.
“Ask her to carry a rose,” the clerk said suddenly. “There’s a florist near the Crescent. Acquiring the flower would not be difficult.”
“A rose . . .” It was a romantic notion worthy of one of those Austen books. He could place a bud in the buttonhole of his lapel. A woman with a single rose should be easy to spot. “That’s an excellent idea.”
Delight spread across the clerk’s face, again transforming her into a much younger woman. Obviously she hadn’t experienced an easy life or she would not be employed in a newspaper office. Ashton briefly wondered if his own face carried the travails of his years in Burma. His aching leg certainly did.
“Thank you,” he said, sweeping the
last of the letters from the counter. He secured some in his inside pocket before stuffing others in his coat pocket. “You’ve been most helpful.”
All should be fine as long as Caroline did not discover the letters. He’d planned to meet with her and young Matthew in Regent’s Park after this stop at the Messenger. While two letters would have been easy to conceal, twenty or so might catch her attention. With her sharp tongue, she’d eviscerate any kind woman daring enough to respond to an ad. Caroline knew a thing or two about “daring.”
Ashton removed a few shillings from his pocket and placed them on the counter. “For your assistance.”
Color bloomed in the clerk’s cheeks, but as he turned, he heard the scraping of metal across wood. As he suspected, times could be difficult. He left the office, leaning more heavily on his walking stick. A change of weather must be in the air.
The prickling at his nape resumed even as he left the newspaper office. Pausing a moment, he searched for the unseen assailant. He’d foolishly thought he’d left combat behind when he departed the Royal Rifles with a bullet wound in his thigh. Instead he’d returned to a household riddled with conflict. He hadn’t sorted out all the issues as yet. No one really spoke except young Matthew, and his governess hushed him at every opportunity. One didn’t need words to sense the powder keg of tension, or the feeling that somehow he might be the match to ignite it all.
Scanning the street, he noted nothing out of the ordinary, except a lovely young woman with hair the color of sunlight standing next to a bicycle. She angled binoculars toward a copse of trees. What on earth was she studying there—pigeons? It was not as if the grays of London were disturbed with colorful birds like those of Burma. A smile tipped his lips with the memory. Some of Burma’s heat would be appreciated on this cool spring day as well. London may not have been the best choice for his recuperation, but at the time, he had thought it was the easiest. He’d been mistaken there as well.
He glanced back at the girl. Surely a comely bird enthusiast posed no threat, especially one that should be the object of study rather than some feathered creature likely to end up on someone’s dinner plate. He couldn’t imagine danger coming from that quarter. No, the warning must be something else. Something not visible, not yet.
Redeeming the Rogue Page 34
