The Casanova Code

by Donna MacMeans

  So she waited, watching the shifting pattern of tiger stripes against the vertical bars. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She checked her locket watch. He was only fifteen minutes late. It felt longer, as she’d arrived early. Ashton would arrive shortly, an event that she anxiously anticipated. Meanwhile, she’d entertain herself with memories of their last night together, of the way he made her body feel alive and made her feel important. The next time, I promise, it will be better.

  Just knowing that there would be a next time made her feel as weightless as the birds in the aviary. She wasn’t certain how such a rendezvous would be arranged, but as Ashton was experienced in this regard, she was certain there would be a next time.

  A baby cried in a passing pram, reminding Edwina of her earlier conversation with Sarah. Did the mysterious “S” push Ashton as a baby in such a contraption? She tried to imagine.

  She searched the faces beneath the tall hats of the passersby, watching to see the smile she loved, the soft twinkling eyes that populated her dreams. She listened for the distinct pattern of his stick on the walk, but time passed and Ashton wasn’t among the many people that passed her bench. The skies darkened and the wind increased. The number of passersby dwindled. A copy of the Messenger skittered across the walkway, buoyed by a sudden breeze. She caught the paper as it flitted by her bench. The storm will blow over, she thought, wishing she’d brought an umbrella. Perhaps Ashton would have one hidden away in a cane. The thought made her smile. Nevertheless, she shifted her position on the bench to place herself under the protection of a tree. Hopefully, Ashton would arrive before the rain threatened. Though she enjoyed the thought of them trapped together in a shelter while a storm kept others away.

  She glanced at the Messenger, noting the personal ads on the front page. She quickly scanned the column, noting two that were written in a basic code. Suddenly, decoding the ads was not the amusing game she had once considered it to be. The emotional toll of not being with a loved one and keeping it secret must truly be wretched. Claire once referred to the personal ads as “the agonies.” She wondered if Claire truly understood the misery and suffering encapsulated in those ads.

  But there was no need for her to feel the torture expressed by others because Ashton, although late—she checked her locket watch—a little over an hour late, would eventually join her at the park to learn the contents of his father’s note.

  He couldn’t have forgotten, could he? No, she reassured herself. The decoded note was too important. She was too important, wasn’t she? After what they had shared? Yet a small doubt registered in the back of her mind.

  The first raindrop struck her lap, earning her attention. The dull plop of water droplets striking surrounding leaves intensified around her. Thunder rumbled overhead. The few people remaining in the park hid beneath their umbrellas and scurried toward the more substantial shelter of their carriages or home. Even the tiger found shelter beneath an overhang created for that purpose. He stared at her as if she were the most foolish person alive, and at that moment she wondered if she was.

  Holding the Messenger overhead, she ran to a nearby wooden structure, a maintenance shed of some sort. If she stood beneath the eaves she might stay reasonably dry while remaining in sight of the bench. Ashton would appear at any minute beneath an umbrella large enough to cover them both. Even the animals retreated to the backs of their cages, seeking cover from the downpour. The rich green scent of foliage surrounded her as damp circles grew on her new gown, causing her a chill. While she hoped Ashton hadn’t been similarly caught in the rain, as the park emptied and lightning flashed overhead, she had to accept that Ashton was not coming. She watched the empty bench, the walkway that passed the cages, and all was vacant. Just the hard driving rain filled the park. She stood alone beneath the leaky eaves of the shack, her new hat, saturated with the downpour, drooped in front of her, the lovely embellishments of flowers and feathers flattened about her ears.

  “You best go ’ome now, miss,” a man’s voice said.

  She turned to see the man with the broom. Rain dripped off his hood and ran in rivulets down his mackintosh. The same rain that soaked through the lace on her dress, causing it to stick to her skin. Even her corset, thick with layers and boning, couldn’t keep the rain from soaking clear through to her skin. Fortunately, she’d kept her journal and its precious contents behind her back, away from the elements. The coded letter and her translation were bound to be the only dry things on her person.

  “It’ll be getting dark soon and this don’t look to let up. Go on ’ome, miss. I’m going to lock up.”

  While the shelter was minimal, it was better than no shelter at all. The Messenger she’d held earlier had absorbed so much water as to be worthless. Perhaps he saw hesitancy in her eyes, though with water dripping from her once jaunty brim onto her lashes, she wasn’t certain how he could see anything. She was certainly having difficulty.

  “You been ’ere before, ’aven’t ye? I’ve seen you on one of those bicycles.” His eyes narrowed. “Take this.” He shoved an old black umbrella in her hands. “I got me mac. You can bring the brolly back next time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she managed, blinking the water from her lashes. She pushed the sticky ring to open the umbrella. Two panels sagged from broken spokes, but the others carved out a small dry oasis. “You’re very generous.”

  He grinned and bobbed his head. “I’ll take this for ye,” he said, taking the soggy Messenger from her hand. “Off with ye, now.”

  She had to remove her hat to see where she was going. By carefully positioning the dips in the waterproof fabric, she managed to keep the bag that carried her journal dry. Thus she stoically walked away from the park, carrying her pride and dragging her wounded heart.

  She should have gone home as the kind man had insisted. It was painfully obvious that Ashton was not coming to meet her as promised. In spite of the pain that wound caused, she held her head high and straightened her spine, then walked to the Trewelyn residence. She wanted—no, needed—to know why he hadn’t kept his promise. Why had he left her out in the rain with no explanation like day-old rubbish? Sarah’s words haunted her with each step. He’ll run off and leave you. A man like that can’t be trusted. Don’t, Edwina. Just don’t. While Sarah appeared correct in her predictions, Edwina needed confirmation, no matter how painful the knowing would be.

  She stood in front of the Trewelyn residence, looking for all intents and purposes like her kitten Isabella when she’d been out in the rain, ready to shake her fur dry. Her mother would disapprove of her desire to confront Ashton. Proper young ladies did not walk bald-faced up to a gentleman’s residence. But when one was soaked to the skin, one did not give a fig about propriety.

  With her head held high, she knocked on the door. Hastings took one look at her sodden clothes and broken umbrella and rudely gestured to the service entrance set below the pavement. Edwina refused. “Please inform Mr. Ashton Trewelyn that Miss Edwina Hargrove is here to speak with him.”

  Hastings looked down his rather long nose at her. “Mr. Ashton is not in.”

  Was that truly the case? Or had Hastings been given orders to lie? The umbrella must have turned at that moment, as a rivulet of water ran directly onto the back of her neck, sending a fresh chill down her back.

  “May I wait in the foyer? As you can see, it’s very wet out here.”

  He stared at her, undoubtedly imagining massive puddles on the floor and carpets caused by her sopping clothes. “Mr. Ashton is not in, miss. Perhaps you should come back when it is not raining.”

  “And will Mr. Ashton be available once the rain ceases?” Edwina said, unable to keep sarcasm from her voice.

  “I wouldn’t know, miss. He is not in at present.”

  “Is there a difficulty, Hastings?” a woman’s voice interceded.

  “A Miss Hargrove wishes to see Mr. Ashton.
I have explained that Mr. Ashton is not available.”

  “Miss Hargrove?” There was a long pause. She imagined the propriety issue was being weighed against curiosity. Curiosity won. “Don’t make the poor girl stand out in the rain, Hastings. Let her in.”

  The door opened sufficiently for Edwina to step inside, though she felt rather the poor cousin dripping all over the carpet. She placed the mangled umbrella and her ruined hat in Hasting’s waiting hand.

  “She’ll need a towel. Several of them, I should think.” Mrs. Trewelyn regarded her with a cold eye, or perhaps it just felt that way, as Edwina was already chilled to the bone. “Send tea to the drawing room. She’s going to need something hot.”

  “I didn’t wish to interrupt your afternoon, Mrs. Trewelyn, and while I welcome your hospitality, I have an important message for your stepson.”

  “You do, do you?” Her lips curled, giving Edwina the impression that she actually enjoyed seeing her in this plight. “As Hastings has informed you, Ashton is not here. However, we can speak privately about it in the drawing room. This way.”

  Edwina followed, leaving a trail of moisture in her wake. “I know mine is an unusual request—”

  “On the contrary,” her host interrupted. Hastings entered with a stack of linen towels. Mrs. Trewelyn handed Edwina one and placed the rest on a table. “Your request is not unusual at all. In fact, it is all too common.”

  Edwina paused in the mopping of her face and neck, suspecting she’d just been insulted, something about hidden meanings buried in pleasant-sounding words. She let the sting of the comment fade, then rubbed her arms briskly.

  A maid entered with a laden silver tea tray. An English styling, Edwina noted, not Japanese. So the current Mrs. Trewelyn did not share her husband’s passion in that area. In fact, she looked about the room and thought she could have found a similarly furnished room in any well-appointed home in Mayfair. The china was hand-painted, and imported from India, she suspected. Exotic creatures, little brown monkeys and colorful birds frolicked across the porcelain. The pattern reminded her of Ashton and his days spent in such a setting. The maid left, closing the doors to the room with a gentle click. Mrs. Trewelyn placed a towel on a settee and indicated that Edwina should sit. “It’s time you and I exchanged confidences.”

  Though hesitant to sit due to the condition of her clothes, Edwina placed another towel on her shoulders to catch the drips from her hair and then lowered herself to the very edge of the cushion so as touch as little as possible. She scrubbed her lap and skirts with her towel before accepting a much appreciated hot cup of tea.

  “Hastings was telling the truth. Ashton is not here.”

  A memory nudged her brain, perhaps stimulated by the hot drink. Could Ashton’s absence be part of that test he’d mentioned? Of course, he hadn’t specified the nature of the challenge, or the timing. He could well be detained in another part of the city, proving his worth to the Guardians. She sighed then took another sip. That must be it. He would come to her tomorrow or the next day and she’d share her findings then.

  Edwina rose, cup and saucer in hand. “If Ashton is not available, then I’ve no reason to take further of your valuable time,” she said. “I appreciate the opportunity to dry a bit, but—”

  “Sit down, Miss Hargrove. There’s more you should know.”

  The back of her neck tingled in warning. Something in the woman’s smug expression reminded Edwina of the Bengal tiger in its cage, only there were no bars to separate them. Still she lowered herself to the cushions as directed.

  “He’s gone,” Mrs. Trewelyn said. “I don’t know when he’ll return, if indeed he’ll ever return.”

  “Ever?” The words knifed through Edwina’s heart. “What do you mean?”

  “Precisely what I say,” the woman raised her brows, then took a slow swallow of tea. “I assume you’ve slept with my stepson.” Edwina’s cup slammed to the saucer. “There’s no need for such dramatics,” Constance said, a smirk on her lips. “You aren’t the first, and you most likely won’t be the last.”

  Edwina, mopping up the spilled tea that added to the water damage of her skirt, sputtered, “You have no right—”

  “I have every right,” the woman insisted. “You see, Ashton did the same to me.”

  Edwina’s hand paused. She didn’t really want to listen to this. Constance did not know her stepson the way she knew Ashton, or so she imagined. She should march out of the parlor and not listen to another word, but her feet refused to move. She didn’t know if curiosity or fear glued her to the cushion, but like the trapped tiger she listened.

  “There now,” Constance gloated. “I see I have your attention. Five years ago, Ashton Trewelyn courted me in the manner of which every woman dreams. He was dashing, debonair, attentive, and skilled in a way few men can claim.” She closed her eyes as if lost in a memory. “The things he made my body feel. It was as if I’d awoken from a long slumber and come alive in his arms.”

  A shiver raced down Edwina’s spine that had nothing to do with her clinging wet clothes. She knew that feeling, that sense of being awakened and truly alive for the first time.

  Mrs. Trewelyn stared at her. “Did he take you to that den of iniquity off the library? Did he show you the pillow books and promise to do every disgusting thing pictured there?” Her eyes narrowed. “I can see from your wide-eyed expression that he did.”

  The pattern shifted, she could feel it. The awakening she’d attributed to Ashton didn’t go hand in hand with words like “disgusting” and “iniquity.” Something wasn’t quite right. “He never promised—”

  “To marry you?” The cold waves of Constance’s laughter chilled her more than her wet clothes. “Of course, he didn’t. Look at you. You’re not in his league. Not that it would matter.” Constance sipped her tea as if this were a proper conversation and not a dissection of her stepson’s virtues. “Ashton indicated that he wished to marry me as well. I waited and waited.” She patted her stomach. “And then I couldn’t wait anymore.” She smiled grimly, then selected a finger sandwich from the tray. “Eat something,” she directed. “You’re bound to need more sustenance now.”

  The turmoil roiling in her stomach wasn’t really conducive to eating, but her host did more than insist—she demanded. Edwina selected a small watercress sandwich and nibbled at the edges, mindful of the similarities in their experiences.

  “Naturally, I told Ashton, and what did he do? He ran off to play war hero with the King’s Royal Rifles.”

  “Ashton told me that he left because you agreed to marry his father,” Edwina said tentatively.

  “Is that what he told you?” Again she laughed, then looked at Edwina. “You truly are a gullible innocent. Have you not seen my son? Is he not the spitting image of his father?”

  As Ashton resembled his father, the best answer to this question was no answer at all. Patterns, she reminded herself, listen for the patterns. Patterns don’t lie.

  “Even Matthew instinctively knows his father. Ashton is the only one who can make him behave.”

  From her observations, Ashton was the only one willing to spend time with the boy. Matthew looked up to Ashton. Of course he would do as Ashton directed.

  “I was fortunate in that Ashton’s father agreed to marry me,” Constance continued. “I turned to him with my dilemma. He, of course, was anxious to protect the child and the family name.” She selected another treat from the tray. “What else was I to do?” Her eyes raked over Edwina. “Society is not kind to a used and abandoned woman.”

  Edwina needed to speak with Ashton about all this. The turmoil in her stomach seemed to have worked its way up her throat, so that her voice had lost much of its strength. She wanted to trust her heart about Ashton, but there was some truth in Constance’s words. Enough truth to make her uneasy. “When did Ashton leave?”


  “Sometime last night. He took much of his wardrobe, his walking stick, of course, his razor . . . the sorts of things a man takes when he plans to disappear for a long, long time.”

  A long time! Would a test from the Guardians keep him a long time, or were Constance’s insinuations true? She swallowed hard. “Did he leave a letter?”

  “A letter? For you?” Constance laughed again and shook her head. “Ashton does not write letters. He certainly never responded to mine.”

  One small flicker of hope ignited in her chest, and Edwina carefully nursed it to keep the flame burning. Ashton did write letters, and there was a good chance there was one waiting for her at home. She scolded herself; she should have gone there directly. Ashton must have had a good reason for leaving. At least the time of his departure explained his failure to meet with her at the Park.

  Constance’s brow lifted in a determined arch. “Your mother tells me that you have a potential match with a Mr. Thomas. As a woman who made a difficult choice to protect my own security, I would suggest that you give serious consideration to his proposal.”

  That proposal that hadn’t even been extended as yet but seemed to have been accepted by many on her behalf. Edwina sipped her tea to give herself time to think. Constance lifted her teacup, reminding Edwina of the tiger painted there. How apropos that she should choose that pattern. Could Edwina trust anything that Constance had told her? Her interpretations made sense, though. Maybe too much sense.

  She glanced over Constance’s shoulder and saw a small, framed embroidered picture of cherry blossoms on an otherwise cluttered wall. The silk threads were woven with such intricate detail, the flower appeared luminous. In the lower corner, she noted the letter “S.” She could understand, if Constance’s facts were true, why she had married Ashton’s father, but Edwina wasn’t certain why Ashton’s father had married Constance. Clearly, he loved another enough to hang this small memento in a very public room. Curious, she smiled toward Constance. “Have you had second thoughts about your decision to marry Ashton’s father?”