The Casanova Code

by Donna MacMeans

  • • •

  THE GUARDIANS HAD PICKED A MOONLESS NIGHT FOR their meeting. A few well-lit lower rooms cast a soft light to the pavement. Edwina silently rounded the row of well-heeled dwellings to access the collection of carriage houses behind them. She counted her way down the lane to discover the back entrance to the Trewelyn residence.

  A well-attired footman stood just outside the door, smoking a cigarette. He would be impossible to pass. Just as she had concocted what she hoped was a plausible reason to be admitted inside, the door flew open and a woman servant called out.

  “Henry, come quick! They’re having at it again!”

  The footman tossed the remains of his smoke into the kitchen garden and hurried inside.

  A fight . . . That would absorb the attention of the servants. If ever there was an opportunity to sneak undetected into a residence, this would be that time. She dashed forward and quietly entered, taking care to go upstairs toward the more intimate areas of the household and away from the popular—and from the sound of it—painful diversion belowstairs.

  She managed her way to the first floor without discovery. Now what? If indeed there were women being held captive in the house for the amusement of others, where would they most likely be confined? She hadn’t time to fully consider this question when she heard footsteps advancing from the opposite direction. Edwina slipped into the first open room and cowered in a corner, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

  The familiar fragrance of old leather and musty paper teased her nose, pulling a smile. A library! Her fingers slipped along the binding of shelved volumes to her side and back. Did a rake stock a library with tales of adventure and piracy on the high seas? Would she find Robinson Crusoe and his marvelous tree house here, or Ivanhoe, or perhaps Shakespeare’s sonnets? This was not the time to consider such things, she scolded, pressing her back to the shelves and holding her breath. The footsteps hurried past, affording her a sigh of relief.

  Suddenly, a spark flashed with a sizzle of sulfur. She gasped, turning her head to the source of the light. She felt her life’s blood fleeing her face. Casanova!

  “I wondered who crept into the room.” He lit a gas jet on the wall, flooding the library with a yellowish light. “So you’re a thief, Miss Grimwood, as well as a liar and some poor fool’s fiancée.”

  His insults, though not unjustified, stung. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

  His brow lifted. “This is my home. I ask the questions.” He walked toward her, his stick leading the advance. “I hadn’t anticipated such an attractive thief would steal into my house this night.” A wicked gleam sparked his eyes. “Searching your person for missing candlesticks will be a delight I hadn’t anticipated.”

  Her heart pounded with a ferocity to rattle the books on the shelves. She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. “I’m not a thief,” she protested. “That’s not why I’ve come.” He stepped around a large table situated in the center of the room. With each step toward her, she felt her confidence erode. “I’m . . . I’m searching for someone.”

  He drew up short and cocked his head. His eyes narrowed in accusation. “You followed me the day I picked up the responses from the Mayfair Messenger.”

  The man continually surprised her. “You knew?”

  “I thought you looked familiar when we met earlier but I hadn’t put it together until just this moment.” He pushed the hood of her cape back, then slid a strand of her hair through his fingertips. “Your hair gives you away, Miss Grimwood. It’s the color of sunlight. I thought it unusual to see this particular shade on so many women about London that day, but it was you all along. Only you.”

  She tried to shrink back from him, but there was little room for retreat in the corner.

  His voice turned gruff. “Why were you following me?”

  “It was your personal advertisement,” she admitted. “We thought—”

  “We?”

  “There are others, yes.” She looked up into his eyes. A mistake. She instantly felt her confidence draining, so she quickly glanced away. “We thought it unlikely that a man of your reputation would need to advertise for companionship, unless it was for . . .” She paused.

  “For what, Miss Grimwood?”

  She winced. “Please don’t call me that. It’s not my name. The real Miss Grimwood left the Crescent before you arrived.”

  He hesitated. She heard a swift intake of breath. Apparently she had the ability to surprise him as well. That knowledge restored some of her confidence. “Then what should I call you?” he asked.

  She thought she heard a smile in his voice, but she could have been mistaken. More likely it was a sneer, not a smile. The tips of his fingers gently guided her face back toward his. She couldn’t avoid his eyes now.

  “Who are you?”

  The time for fabrication had passed. “Edwina Hargrove,” she replied. He stood so close. His body trapped hers in place, keeping her close enough that she noted the scent of sandalwood soap on his skin, close enough that he most likely could hear her heart racing.

  “Then, Miss Hargrove,” he said, his voice low, tantalizing, and seductive, “please explain for what purpose you believed I would advertise for companionship?”

  She shrugged and averted her gaze, not wishing to admit their suspicions.

  “Do you believe that a man such as myself does not deserve companionship?”

  A slight catch in his voice, a slight shift in his speech pattern, alerted her to a possible vulnerability, but she had no time to consider that now.

  “No, not at all,” she replied quickly. “We thought that a man such as yourself had ample opportunity to secure companionship through the more traditional methods.”

  Demand was in his eyes as he gazed down a straight nose, past expressive lips and the dark shadow that covered his chin and defined his cheeks and, inexplicably, incited in her a desire to touch. The moisture in her mouth evaporated, making speech difficult. She grasped Faith’s parasol more firmly. “You . . . you don’t need to advertise.”

  His lips—lips that were rumored to be quite experienced in all sorts of decadent acts—pulled into a half smile that resonated in places it really shouldn’t. “I suppose I should be flattered,” he said. “But I fail to grasp how that would lead to your need to spy upon me.”

  “We thought that Casanova—”

  “Casanova?” He drew back, faintly amused. “Do they still whisper that name?” She nodded slowly. He shook his head. “I thought that had died years ago.”

  His demeanor lightened, and she took a welcome breath. Glancing down the unbroken row of books in something akin to nostalgic revelry, he chuckled softly then returned his focus to her. “I don’t recall seeing you at any house parties, Miss Hargrove. I would have remembered you. How would you know of Casanova?”

  “The social column of the Messenger—”

  “Ah, yes,” he interrupted with a smile. “That ridiculous column about who is wearing what. As if the matter of jewelry flashed at one’s tête-à-tête would make the slightest difference in the outcome of world affairs.” His smile faded, but his eyes continued to search her face, his black pupils large in the dim light. “But go on . . . you thought Casanova would have no need . . .”

  “No need to advertise unless . . . unless . . .” It was difficult to admit the Rake Patrol’s suppositions to his face, especially as they now seemed frivolous and unsupported. But she drew herself up tall. “Unless he was planning to lure an innocent woman for unconscionable purposes.”

  He pulled back. “Unconscionable purposes?” He stared at her a moment and then chortled. “I suspect you have me confused with my father.”

  Such an odd response, her nose crinkled in annoyance. “No. I don’t believe—”

  “The ad was placed to benefit another, Miss Hargrov
e,” he said without listening to her protest. “Someone who is truly worthy of the love of a good woman, as it appears in your estimation I am not.”

  Confused, she fumbled mentally for a moment. “I did not mean to imply . . .” He stood close, too close to discuss his worthiness for anything other than the sort of delicious unease he caused within her. She slipped past him, freeing her back from the uncomfortable press of the shelves. “Still,” she insisted, “you lied in your advertisement. Those women thought you were the person with interest.”

  “The ad did not identify me,” he protested. “I would have explained my purpose had I received the opportunity to actually speak to the respondents.” A wicked smile spread across his face. “I had no idea there existed an entire corps of women determined to thwart my purposes.”

  She was tempted to believe him, if only for the humor in his eyes. But his words didn’t explain the reason for this evening’s venture. “What about the Guardians?” she asked. “Why did you call them to a meeting this evening?”

  “The Guardians?” His brows lowered. “What are you talking about?”

  “A coded message appeared in the Mayfair Messenger that announced a meeting on this very night in this very house.”

  “Coded?”

  He certainly appeared flummoxed, but it could be more of his cat and mouse game. “It wasn’t a particularly difficult code to break.” It was her turn to sneer. “If you don’t want strangers to read your secret invitations, you should use a more complex coding methodology.”

  He looked at her as if she spoke in scrambled text. “I didn’t place a coded message in the Messenger.”

  “There was no mistaking the address,” she insisted. “The Guardians are to meet here at—”

  They both heard men’s voices in the hallway. Panicked, she glanced at Trewelyn. He immediately ran his fingers along the top of a series of books on a shelf far to her left. “Good. It’s still here,” he murmured.

  His fingers tugged on one of the books and an entire section of the wall with bookshelves swung forward. A hidden door. Just like those she’d read about in adventure novels. Curiosity tingled down her backbone, but with it a cautious uncertainty.

  “You can’t be discovered here.” He grasped her arm and tugged her toward the door. “You’ll be safe inside.”

  “But—”

  He didn’t listen to her protest, but pushed her through the opening. He followed and once on the other side, he pulled the bookcase door behind him.

  The space was devoid of light, but she could sense his presence even without seeing him. It was as if he extracted the air from what she envisioned to be little more than a pantry. She backed up slowly, attempting to put distance between them. Confined in a dark closet with a man known as Casanova, with only a parasol for protection. How did she go from protecting vulnerable women to becoming one herself?

  Her bustle bumped something that rattled.

  “Be still,” he rasped. “This is not an empty room. I wouldn’t wish you injured.”

  She heard the click of a second latch. “There,” he said. “They can’t hear us or see a light with both doors closed.”

  “What is this place?” she whispered.

  “It’s a place you shouldn’t be,” he stated. His harshly spoken words, combined with the total darkness, lifted gooseflesh on her arms. After a moment, she heard a resigned sigh. “Miss Hargrove, I would not have brought you here if there had been another option. You understand that, don’t you? Your reputation would suffer greatly if you were to be discovered alone with me at this time of the evening.”

  “Yes. I understand, but—”

  “Since I’m not certain how long we will be detained here, I’m going to light the gas jet so we might safely negotiate the limited space. But in all fairness I must issue a warning.”

  “A warning?” Alarm rattled her already jittery insides. Had she escaped the stewpot only to be sacrificed in the fire? She slipped her hands behind her to investigate what she had backed into. She discovered what felt like chess pieces that wobbled and fell to the floor. She withdrew her hands before she did more damage. “What kind of warning?”

  “If you value your innocence”—he struck a match that flared a moment, casting his face in stark, somber shadow—“keep your eyes tightly closed.”

  • Four •

  EDWINA STRAIGHTENED HER SPINE. “I’M A MODERN woman, sir, and in no need of your condescending platitudes.” Insulted by his guileless inference that she was little more than a schoolgirl and not a full-grown woman, she lectured his back as he fumbled with the screw for the jet. “I cannot believe there is anything in this servants’ closet that requires . . .”

  The fumes ignited and the room opened before her. Far more than a pantry or a closet, the long narrow space in which they stood approximated the size of her parents’ bedroom. In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, a mattress lined the far wall. Her breath caught. Dear heavens above, had she erred in her assumption that Trewelyn was not the rakehell her friends believed him to be? Was she truly trapped in the debaucher’s den? She attempted to swallow the rising lump in her throat and gripped her parasol tightly. Perhaps it would serve as a weapon yet.

  “If you plan to ravish me,” she said stiffly, her gaze glued to the mattress, “I will fight you tooth and nail.” No need to mention that her tendency to chew her fingernails had rendered them useless as weapons. “My eyes shall be open the entire time, and you shall witness in them my utter repugnance to your actions.”

  Trewelyn followed the direction of her gaze, then chuckled. The low sound rattled her more than the sight of the bed.

  “My dear Miss Hargrove.” His warm breath and soft seductive voice managed to titillate her breasts by way of her ear. Was there no part of her that wasn’t receptive to his charms? She pressed her lips together to block an escaping sigh. “Fisticuffs will not be necessary. I assure you, I pose no threat.”

  If he believed that, then it must have been a long time since he looked in a mirror. She watched him move toward the gas jet in the back of the room.

  “This is my father’s gallery, where he keeps his art collection of shunga woodcut prints.” He tilted his chin toward the opposite wall. “It’s the nature of the collection that required a warning.”

  Curious, and strangely disappointed, Edwina allowed her racing heart a moment to settle before further investigation. As soon as she moved, the shelves behind her shook again, causing the additional tumbling of tiny objects. Something hit the floor and rolled. She glanced behind her. A series of shelves, the sort her mother used to display her delicate Parisian snuffbox collection, lined this portion of the wall. These shelves, however, held tiny carved wood and ivory figurines, the sort that normally would require close scrutiny. But she gave them little more than passing notice. She was far more interested in this shunga about which she’d been warned. She stepped toward a better angle from which to view the prints.

  Initially she saw no reason for his concern. A series of bold prints adorned the walls, while small boxlike compartments rose from the floor to knee height. The compartments were filled to overflowing with bound papers. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The prints on the wall were Japanese, judging by the pattern-draped figures with slanted eyes and unique hair arrangements. She recalled the pattern of intricate letter characters raining from the top of the print in parallel lines from an exhibition of Japanese art and industry at the Crystal Palace. Unlike the European paintings that decorated most households and museums, these Japanese prints had no depth, no subtle shadings to denote distance or rounded curves. The renderings appeared to be pen and ink drawings with bold swatches of color. She moved in front of the first print, a man hovering over a woman reclined on steps, and gasped.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yes.” Trewelyn stepped behind her. She imagine
d even there he could sense the heat burning her cheeks. “Now you understand why I suggested you keep your eyes closed.”

  The print contained detailed depictions of a man’s genitals. She should look away. She should verbalize her shock and disgust, but her eyes wouldn’t move. Surely the print was not realistic. This man’s huge member was easily the length and thickness of Faith’s parasol. While Edwina knew something of a man’s physique—she had, after all, accidentally spied on her brothers jumping into a stream—she had no idea that a man could be so gigantic. His female companion’s delicate hand could barely circle the appendage. A woman’s hand? Why would a woman have her hand just there? A lump formed in her throat at the prospect of being introduced to such a . . . weapon on her wedding night. How could men hide such an encumbrance in their trousers? How could Walter? She fought the urge to look behind her at the junction of Trewelyn’s trousers. To do so would expose a lack of knowledge that she supposed a modern woman would have in abundance. Just knowing, however, that Trewelyn stood behind her with an encumbrance of his own . . .

  She swallowed, hard. “The man is so . . .”

  “Exaggerated?”

  Relief flooded her body, easing tension from her shoulders that she hadn’t realized existed. Knowing he couldn’t see her face, she closed her eyes and said a quick prayer of gratitude that this massive instrument would play no part in her future. She smiled to herself. “Yes . . . exaggerated.”

  “The purpose of shunga is to show the pleasure of a natural union.” The hesitancy in his speech caused her to question if he was experiencing a difficulty articulating. She knew she was. “The prints illustrate the many ways gratification can be achieved. Thus the artist . . . embellishes . . . both the male and female for instructional purposes.”

  Female? The prints illustrate female anatomy? She followed the direction of the bulbous tip of the man’s member, but the drape of a flowing sleeve obscured its intended destination. “Instructional?” Her voice sounded strangled even to her ears. Now that she could look at other aspects of the print beyond the obvious fat sausage punching the air, she noticed the bodies in the print were flat and nonproportional. “I don’t think such positioning is even possible.” She glanced over her shoulder toward him. “For what purposes could one call this instructional?”