That was a mistake. She could clearly see his tantalizing eyes crinkle with humor, causing her to feel silly and ignorant. Perhaps she was in this particular area, but she didn’t wish to be so obvious. Her cheeks heated. His lips parted as if to say something, but he caught her gaze and coughed into his fist instead. All traces of humor had vanished when he looked at her again. He led her to the next print.
“The prints were often contained in a ‘pillow book,’ as you can see here.”
Following on his heels, eager to leave the intimidating illustration in front of her, she focused on his words, hoping to ignore her embarrassment. “The pillow book provided guidance to a new bride as to what would be expected within the marriage. The books also provided inspiration and ideas for experimentation for couples. You can see this couple consulting such a book.”
Though tempted to ask what he meant by inspiration and experimentation, she remembered his attempt to hide his laughter at her last question, so she remained mum. Turning her face toward the woodblock print, she noted several square books on the floor surrounding the couple. A fully clothed man intensively studied an illustration, while the woman looked discreetly down at the blurred page. Curiosity led Edwina to twist her head to see if she could make sense of the contorted couple depicted in the pillow book, but the details escaped her. As there were no exposed genitals in this print, just beautiful flowing robes of multiple patterns on both of the participants, she relaxed a small bit—as much as an inexperienced woman could relax when surrounded by explicit depictions of copulation.
The man, propped up on his elbow, had his back to the viewer. His gown, a dark blue with a sensuous swirl of light blue and white dots, left his legs exposed. The subject was so finely rendered that she could count each toe on his feet. Though the woman’s mouth was hidden by an equally impressive printed cloth, something about her expression as she gazed at the pillow book gave Edwina the impression that she was hiding a smile. The blues and grays of her clothing worked well with the open sky of the background and with the intricate pattern on a nearby tray of food. It was a very pleasing nonthreatening print, and she supposed she must have studied it overlong.
“You seem enthralled with the pillow book,” Trewelyn observed. “My father has several such books in his collection that you could study in some detail.” He pointed to the overflowing cubbyholes below. His voice took on a hint of disdain. “But then, I’m sure you’re well aware of what to expect, as a soon-to-be bride yourself.”
She kept her focus on the print. “Mr. Thomas likes to suggest we are engaged, but we are not. I have not given my consent.”
“No?” He sounded surprised. After a moment of hesitation, he continued. “You are a rare woman indeed, Miss Hargrove. The one woman in all of London, in fact, who doesn’t rush for the promise of security that comes with marriage. Why is that?”
She glanced toward the secret door, hoping to avoid his question. Surely they’d been trapped a sufficient time. He followed her gaze.
“Don’t worry. My father has been known to meet with industrialists to discuss business issues,” he said. “I imagine those are the men who interrupted our conversation in the library. Hardily a secretive society—”
“I know what I read,” she insisted. “How else would I know those men would gather here this evening?” He did not appear convinced. “Did you think my appearance on the same night as them is a coincidence?”
His lips pursed as if in consideration. “I’m certain you will agree that nothing good would result from exposing your presence in this room. I’ll look into this matter of . . . Guardians, if you will, after you have safely left the premises. However, the gentlemen”—he nodded toward the door—“have barely begun their discussions. We’ve time yet to wait.” He motioned toward the next print. “Shall we continue?”
She followed his lead, though she thought they had less time than Trewelyn imagined. How long would Faith wait before she called the police? Would they discover this chamber and her presence when they came? How embarrassing that would be. She almost wished she hadn’t made the suggestion that Faith involve the police. Her thoughts left her unfocused even as they moved toward the next print. She harnessed her wayward thoughts to concentrate on the print before her, when the images registered with a jolt to her senses.
The man in the picture used his hand to explore the woman’s “embellished” parts, thus coaxing some sort of liquid from them. The woman showed no form of protest; in fact, one would think she enjoyed this strange probing.
Trewelyn’s voice warmed her ear and, truth be told, other parts hidden from his view. “This print shows there’s more than one way to coax ying from a female.”
“Ying?” She stared at the depiction of a woman’s privates. Dear heaven, what manner of art was this? When the Rake Patrol thought Casanova was abusing innocents, they hadn’t considered he was doing it by means of a secret art gallery. She attempted to swallow her surprise and maintain her composure. She needed her wits about her, that much was certain.
Taking a calming breath, she looked at the print anew. Was that how all women looked in that area hidden from inspection? Or was this unique to Japanese women? European paintings suggested a woman was devoid of tresses in the nether regions. She knew from her own ringlets that those depictions were not correct. While she hoped she didn’t resemble this gaping orifice surrounded by tufts of black hair, she suspected that the Japanese print was the more honest. If that were true, was the depiction of pleasure at the act of probing true as well? While the two caricatures were crass and common in their actions, they still remained somehow fascinating.
Trewelyn nodded beside her. “The Japanese believe that a balance of ying and yang is necessary for the health and longevity of both genders. The more they can collect, the better. A woman produces ying in her body fluids, a man produces yang. A man can obtain ying through sexual congress or”—he pointed his chin to the print—“in a more direct fashion straight from the heavenly gate.”
There was nothing heavenly or even angelic in this depiction of a woman, but the term was less embarrassing than some of the other words she’d heard used for that particular area. “I suppose that woman in the first print holding the man’s . . .”
“Jade stalk?” he offered.
Edwina tried unsuccessfully to keep from smiling. “She was collecting yang?”
He turned toward her, a devilish lift to his lips. “I believe she was priming the well to receive yang in the more traditional approach.”
Why had she considered this room large? It seemed to be shrinking at a precarious rate. She glanced about, looking for windows. Anything that could bring relief to the heated air. But there were no windows. That surprised her. Normally, just being in a room without windows would be terrifying in itself, but Trewelyn’s presence made her fear dissipate.
“Is something wrong, Miss Hargrove?”
She shook her head. “How do you know so much about this aspect of the Japanese culture?” She had attended some of the popular Japanese exhibitions with her mother, but the sort of information of which Trewelyn spoke had not been presented. That he should be so knowledgeable about the intimacies of a foreign land intrigued her.
“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.
“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.”
• • •
ASHTON STUDIED EDWINA FOR A MOMENT. SHE 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?
The Casanova Code Page 6
