His father’s eyes narrowed. “I still don’t see . . .”
“If I’m going to be a part of Falcon Freight, then I think I should be a part of the Guardians as well. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ I always say.” He pointed to his father’s new Excelsior stamp pad. “May I?”
“You believe you’re to be part of the operations of Falcon Freight, do you? The company I started with a horse and a map?”
Ashton simply rolled the mon stamp over the ink pad—best to give his father some time to adjust. Eventually, his father’s glare weakened. “I suppose if the company is going to outlast me, it’ll need some innovations. I’ll consider the motorcars.”
“And the Guardians?” Ashton persisted.
“That’s not up to me. The other members have to vote on any new inductees. It’s a secret society you know. We’re careful about who we allow at our meetings.”
The Guardians’ meetings couldn’t be that secret if Edwina had already cracked the code used in the Mayfair Messenger. Ashton bit back his smile as he rolled the mon stamp on a blank piece of paper. “Now that’s a nice improvement over the old inks.” He blew on the paper to help it dry, then wrinkled his nose. “Hope they can do something to improve the smell.” He grinned up at his father. “See. Progress.”
“You shouldn’t even know of the Guardians,” his father continued, nonplussed. “I’ll need to talk to the others before I introduce you.”
“And when will you do that?”
“We’re a secret society, Ashton. That includes the meeting dates and location.” His father sighed and shook his head. “We should meet again within the month. I’ll let you know the outcome.”
Ashton stood, carefully folding the stamped paper, then placed it in his pocket. “I’ll be anxious to hear the results.”
• • •
THE TRULY WONDERFUL THING ABOUT LIVING IN A MODern city such as London was that mail could be delivered up to ten times in a single day. The truly miserable thing about such a modern city was that the mail often arrived without a single envelope for her. Ever since she had agreed to correspond with Ashton, she discovered that she held her breath waiting for the postman to ring with a delivery. Ashton wrote to her daily, based on the dates he’d placed on the letters, but they didn’t always arrive in a consistent pattern. He wrote that he’d approached his father about joining the Guardians, which filled her with apprehension. If the group was involved in the sort of espionage that Ashton felt they could be, she anguished that he would come to regret his decision, all the more worrisome because she felt she had a part in encouraging him to join.
While they waited for a response from the Guardians, she wrote Ashton with stories about the calls she made with her mother. She advised him of Isabella Bird’s announcement that she planned to travel next to Korea and Japan. She told him about her kitten Isabella’s antics and about the ads being considered for investigation by the Rake Patrol. She shared news of her brothers’ travels. Like her childhood, it seemed once again she was left behind while the men around her experienced adventures. But with Ashton’s frequent letters, she didn’t feel alone at all.
“Edwina, where is your head?” Claire asked. “Normally, you’d have torn through the personals in the Mayfair Messenger by now. You’ve barely glanced at the paper.”
“Sorry. I was lost in a bit of whimsy, I suppose.”
“It’s true.” Faith joined in Claire’s scrutiny. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Ever since that Sutton affair, you’ve seemed distracted. We barely see you anymore.”
Edwina was about to explain her mother’s intent to call on everyone she’d met at the Sutton soiree and the ensuing boredom such calls presented, but she didn’t get the chance.
“I think she’s daydreaming about Mr. Thomas,” Sarah said with an air of confidence. “He came by the office yesterday, asking for you.”
“Why would he look for me at the Messenger office?” Edwina asked.
“He called at your house yesterday. Didn’t he leave a card?” Sarah asked. “He said your mother was out and no one knew where you had gotten off to on that bicycle of yours, so he thought he’d check at the office. I think he had something special to ask you.”
“Probably not to ride your bicycle,” Claire said with a quirk of her lips. “You’d best not take up smoking cigarettes. That would drive the poor man into a fit of apoplexy.”
Edwina grinned. Her passion for bicycling was becoming a constant bone of contention with Walter. “I’m certain it’s nothing.”
“He seemed very serious,” Sarah added. “I think he may be looking to secure your future. Where were you?”
“Walter is always serious,” Edwina replied. “He is a kind and considerate man, but he’s always serious.”
“Edwina,” Faith said, rattling the paper, “did you see this message in the personals? It’s in code.”
Edwina pulled the paper closer to her. She recognized the number code immediately. She removed her journal from her reticule and opened to the page with the alphanumeric translation key. Thus she determined the date and address of the next meeting of the Guardians.
“What is it?” Faith asked.
“Just notice of another meeting of the Guardians.” Edwina tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “As nothing untoward occurred at that last meeting I assume . . .”
“What’s this?” Sarah picked an envelope from the floor. “A letter from your brothers? It fell when you removed your journal.”
“That’s a local letter,” Claire observed. “Just a regular stamp.”
Edwina felt a flush rise to her cheeks as she snatched the envelope from Sarah’s hands. That, unfortunately, was her undoing.
“It’s from that Casanova, isn’t it?” Sarah accused. “There’s nothing but trouble down that path, Edwina.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that where you were yesterday?”
“No. I haven’t seen Mr. Trewelyn since I discovered him and his brother in the park two weeks ago,” Edwina admitted. She knew herself to be an awful liar so she didn’t even try. Though recent events had given her lots of opportunity to practice. “They were launching Matthew’s model ship.”
“Casanova’s brother,” Sarah sneered. “Do you believe that? Did you not see how closely they resemble one another?”
“They share a common father, Sarah; they should resemble one another.” She slipped the letter into her journal and closed it. “I think you’re being needlessly cruel.”
“And I think you’re being needlessly foolish,” Sarah replied.
“Enough,” Faith intervened. “There’s no reason for you two to snip at each other. Even if Mr. Trewelyn is known for his . . . charm, I’m certain Edwina has done nothing that would violate the principles of respectability. Isn’t that so, Edwina?”
She bit her lip, not wishing to lie, but not willing to be totally honest either. She’d neglected to mention the secret gallery that night when she’d slipped into Trewelyn’s library. Likewise, they didn’t know about the kiss, or her discovery of the scandalous netsuke and its influence, or that she’d been in Ashton’s parlor without benefit of a chaperone, not that anything had occurred that would require a chaperone’s interference. So she nodded in response to Faith’s question. Somehow not giving voice to her answer made it less of an untruth.
She turned toward Sarah. “I had hoped to ask a favor of you and Claire, but I can’t mention the reason for the request. I’m not certain now if I can count on your cooperation.”
“A favor of me?” Sarah replied, her eyebrows rising above the frame of her glasses. “I can’t imagine what you would want from someone like me.”
“You’re a journalist,” Edwina replied, leaning forward. The others followed suit. “You know how to research and have access to the archived copies of newspapers at the Ladies of
Print Society. I need Claire’s assistance, as she has access to many women due to her involvement in so many political movements.”
“That’s true,” Faith agreed.
“I would like you two to research a few things for me,” Edwina said, shifting her position.
“What sorts of things?”
Edwina removed the paper Ashton had sent her with the Falcon Freight mon from her journal. She smoothed it out on the table. Sarah gasped. “Where did you get that?”
“It’s the symbol of Falcon Freight,” Edwina replied. “The Trewelyn family company.”
“That’s the symbol that has appeared on those mysterious packets of money.” Sarah stared at the symbol, then raised distressed eyes to Edwina. “Why would Trewelyn send money to me?”
Edwina hid her smile, pleased that Sarah had confirmed her supposition about the mysterious benefactor. “The day after Walter told me how his sister met her untimely end, I told Trewelyn. I also told him about Nan, just so that he would understand the consequences of those reported orgies at his residence. I suspect the money is his way of making amends for any suffering he may have inadvertently caused.”
“Inadvertently?” Claire scoffed.
“Sarah has already admitted that Trewelyn is not Nan’s father,” Faith scolded. “There’s no proof that he was the cause of another woman’s violent end.”
“Nevertheless, his need to make amends is not the basis of my request,” Edwina said, bringing the attention of the group back to her purpose. “I have reason to suspect that other companies here in London use a similar design, a circle”—Edwina traced her finger around the outside of the symbol—“and maybe an animal or some other image in the middle.” She looked toward Claire. “I would think your network of women might recognize the symbols as those of their husband’s employers.”
Claire nodded. “I can make inquiries.”
Edwina refolded the paper and put it back in the envelope. Sarah looked up. “What about me? You said you needed my help as well.”
Edwina smiled. It seemed the revelation of the Falcon Freight mon had altered Sarah’s attitude toward Ashton. “Didn’t you once tell me that reporting the insignificant facts of a ball or a dance as well as the idle talk of the affairs of the highest classes was a journalistic tradition going back to the earliest newspapers?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t see—”
“I want you to research those papers for any female names that are associated with Mr. Trewelyn’s father in his younger years. I’d also like to know if any of those women currently live in Calcutta, India.”
“Calcutta!” Faith exclaimed. “What are you about?”
“I can’t tell you,” Edwina replied sympathetically. “However, I assure you it’s important.”
“Is there nothing I can do?” Faith asked.
“Not as yet.” Edwina patted her hand. “Just continue to stand by me when I need a friend.”
Their business resolved, the meeting broke up soon after Edwina had requested assistance. Faith walked outside with Edwina after the others had left, and waited while Edwina retrieved her bicycle.
“You’re falling in love with him, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t thought about it in those terms. Perhaps she’d been denying the very thing that was clear to others. “He’s very kind, Faith, and smart. He’s been to the most interesting places and done the most fascinating things. And he’s never said a word against my riding a bicycle, or my desire to explore.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have to live with the consequences. Why should he care about what you do?”
“I feel different when I’m with him. Special and worthy of respect.” She looked down and toyed with her handlebars. “I don’t feel that way with Walter.”
Faith sighed. “He’s Casanova, Edwina, known for his charm where women are concerned. His family is far wealthier than ours are. If a time should come when he must choose a wife, it won’t be from the likes of us, I’m afraid.”
“He writes to me every day. You don’t think he cares for me?” she challenged.
Faith smiled. “Of course he cares for you. Why should he not? I think it’s dangerous to assume his affections are more than that. You’re inexperienced with men of his ilk and your heart thus more susceptible to his charm. Casanova can slake his thirst with just about any woman. Take care that when the time comes, you are not merely the convenient one.”
Edwina bit her lip, afraid to admit that she indeed prayed that someday he might consider her to fulfill those sorts of needs. He was the only one that could take her on the sort of adventure that she’d witnessed on those forbidden prints.
Faith gripped her arm, demanding her attention. “Don’t do it, Edwina. You’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
• • •
EDWINA MANAGED TO SEND A REPLY TO ASHTON’S LETTER by the afternoon post, advising him of the Guardians’ meeting in one week. Would that mean he’d return to London to be available for the meeting? She missed him. While she could almost hear Ashton’s voice in his letters, she wished she could see his face, the crinkling lines about his eyes, the devilish sparkle that made her knees weak.
He wrote to her about the towns through which the drayage carts passed, and described the people and landmarks with such attention to detail that she could almost see them herself. When the weather aggravated his leg wound, he told her about the circumstances of its occurrence, the pain of the bullet ripping into his flesh, and the guilt and gratitude toward the man who suffered a disfiguring scar in the process of saving him. She recalled it was for this very man that Ashton had originally purchased the personal ad that led to their meeting. She already felt a debt of gratitude to this stranger. He wrote as well that he’d given more consideration to their discussion on rifle scopes. He’d sent inquiries to Thomas Harris & Son, the makers of her spyglass, for their input. While newer rifles had scoping abilities, the newer rifles were never distributed to the ranks in Burma and India. Had he such a scope on his Martini-Henry, neither he nor his disfigured friend would have suffered injury that day.
His letters were so important to her. It wasn’t as if she’d not been involved in correspondence before. Her brothers had written to her for years. They wrote of the scenery as well, but Ashton’s . . . his letters were different. They satisfied her in a way never imagined in others. They were personal, intimate, humorous, and compassionate, and receiving one was the highlight of her day. She’d even purchased a map of England just so she could follow his daily progress as he traveled with the drayage cart.
Yes, she had to admit, she could very well be falling in love with their author.
• • •
THE DRAYAGE ROUTE WAS SO ROUTINE THAT ASHTON WAS able to tell Edwina the days that he would arrive in each town and village. Even though he’d given her the information on how to reach him, he always worried that her letters would not find their way to the country post offices in time. Her letters were the highlight of his day, and he would mourn missing even one of them.
Given that today had been a particularly miserable one, he needed such a highlight. The morning rain had turned the country roads to muck. The heavily laden cart needed manual assistance twice to free it from the sucking mud. Their last delivery had been refused, which affected the entire packing of the cart, and his leg hurt like hell. But even that wouldn’t stop him from coming into the village to check for mail.
The postmaster in Leighton-on-the-Wold also ran a dry goods store. The combination of postal services with other shops or services wasn’t all that unusual in the smaller villages and hamlets. Ashton waited patiently for the store’s customers to finish their business before he approached the young woman behind the counter.
“I was checking for mail. Falcon Freight? Ashton Trewelyn?” He held his breath while she walked toward
the cubbyhole cabinet reserved for mail.
“Falcon Freight? We don’t normally receive mail for them here.”
“Could you check for a letter sent specifically to Ashton Trewelyn?” Ashton asked. He’d had similar reactions in other small villages. “I know we don’t have a box here, but I thought you might hold a letter addressed to the post office.” He smiled, hoping enough of his old charm still remained to persuade a little extra customer service.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said, pulling a letter from a slot. “This must be it.”
Ashton let out his pent-up breath. It would be a good day after all.
“Ashton Trewelyn care of Leighton-in-the-Wold post office.” She glanced up, bouncing the letter off her fingertips. “How did they know to send it here?”
Ashton gritted his teeth, wishing he could just grab the letter from her hand. It was from Edwina; her handwriting had become as familiar to him as his own. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone else would write to him. Even during his time with the Rifles, no one bothered to post a letter, except Constance. She wrote once, right after he joined, but he never bothered to read what she had to say. He’d simply tossed the letter in the fire. She never bothered to write again.
“I made our itinerary known,” Ashton explained. He nodded to the letter in the young woman’s hands. “She knows the stops we make along the way and plans the letter’s destination accordingly. Now may I have my letter please?” Again he tried an encouraging smile.
“How do I know you’re the one to whom the letter is intended?” the lady clerk challenged. “I can’t be handing out letters to complete strangers.” If he wasn’t mistaken, she was making a game out of this. A game he had no interest in playing.
“A complete stranger wouldn’t know that this letter is from Miss Edwina Hargrove of 86 Commonwealth in London, would they?” he replied with perhaps a little more annoyance than necessary. “When she writes, she has the unfortunate tendency to get ink on her fingers. There is probably a print of her fingertip somewhere on the envelope.” He looked over the counter and down at the woman’s hands. “Yes, there it is”—he pointed—“lower corner on the left. And if you sniff the envelope, you might get a faint sweet scent of cinnamon and oranges.”
The Casanova Code Page 17
