The Casanova Code

by Donna MacMeans

  Their strategy to foil Trewelyn’s plan had its limitations. What if he rejected Sarah’s suggestion and interviewed women at another location? Edwina had thought to continue to follow Trewelyn all over London, tracking his every movement, and learning his unique patterns, but the others forbade her such foolishness. In the end, she had to agree. Even a determined modern woman on a bicycle was no match for a man in a carriage. Her one attempt to follow him had proved that. The downpour that ended that day and continued the following made her plan ludicrous.

  So they’d adopted a different approach. Faith would call on the women on Sarah’s list who so kindly included return addresses on their replies. Edwina and Claire alternated the days they would wait in the Crescent in case Trewelyn still managed to lure someone into his seductive snare.

  Excitement tingled to her toes at the thought of being seduced by someone the likes of Ashton Carswell Trewelyn the Third. Sarah had been correct. When viewed through the lens of Mr. Thomas’s binoculars, Trewelyn had appeared more seasoned and more earthly sinful than during his earlier days as a debonair rake. He’d almost caught her studying him. She recalled the panic and the excitement of the near discovery. He’d glanced in her direction, but then quickly lost interest. She sighed. How would it feel to be regarded in his eyes, or anyone’s eyes, as someone worthy of attention and value? More often she was an object of curiosity, or, as with Walter, a means to secure ties to her father’s business. What if Casanova saw her, truly saw her for all that she was? Would he still turn away?

  And what of the women Casanova planned to interview? What if he had decided that none of the replies were suitable for his purposes and he’d chosen to abandon the whole plan without interviewing any? Disappointment that their mission might end before it ever had a chance to begin left a heavy weight in her stomach, or maybe that was just the countless tea cakes she’d consumed waiting for Trewelyn to appear. She really shouldn’t hope that a nefarious scheme might unfold in front of her, but Edwina hadn’t had this much excitement since decoding her brother’s last letter. She sighed. Just once she’d like to experience a true adventure. Spying on Ashton Trewelyn and his innocent victims was as close as she’d come, and even that wouldn’t extend beyond the confines of the Crescent.

  The Rake Patrol didn’t know when the interviews were to begin, nor when they were to end. Would she be waiting in the Crescent for weeks on end? She pulled a copy of the Messenger from her satchel. At least she had the personals for company.

  She started reading an article on Menie Muriel Dowie, who had recently married and was traveling down the Nile with her new husband for a honeymoon. The Scottish woman explorer was living the life that Edwina so desperately desired. She could never imagine Walter taking her on a cruise down the Nile. She doubted he could even be persuaded to cruise the Thames. That blasted bell rang, drawing her attention to the door.

  Finally! A lady, similar in age to herself, stood with a red rose firmly clutched in her gloved hand. Not a woman of adventure, Edwina assessed. The poor fragile thing looked in need of a fortifying cup of tea, but if Edwina was successful in convincing her of her peril, the quivering rabbit would depart before she’d consumed two swallows of the hot brew.

  “Excuse me.” Edwina approached her with a wide befriending smile. “Are you here to meet with Mr. Ashton Carswell Trewelyn the Third?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Is that his name? His letter simply said to bring a rose to the Crescent and all would be revealed.”

  Edwina guided the woman past the painted mirrors toward her table. “I doubt he would reveal the nefarious purposes for which he lured you to this place.”

  The woman gasped. “Nefarious purposes!”

  Edwina tilted her chin and set the Messenger aside. Her eyes narrowed. “Does his name mean nothing to you?”

  The woman hesitated thoughtfully and shook her head. Edwina sighed. The woman really did need the patrol’s assistance. “Ashton Trewelyn is a well-known rakehell, a rogue, a debaucher of women, a libertine of the worst nature. He’s often referred to as Casanova. Have you heard of that name?”

  “But he had the most beautiful penmanship,” the woman protested, “and his words sounded so sincere and . . . trustworthy.”

  Edwina nodded in sympathy. “That’s how they do it. They charm their victims into a never-ending web of despair.” She studied the woman’s trembling lip. “May I ask your name?”

  “Miss Grimwood,” she replied, her eyes dazed in disbelief.

  “Well, Miss Grimwood,” Edwina continued, adopting an authoritative tone, “I’ve been waiting here just to warn you to run away from this place as fast as you can, else you’ll meet the devil incarnate. He beguiles women with his charm and seduces them down a path of destruction. Don’t make the mistake of so many other poor unfortunates.”

  The woman stood abruptly, her eyes wide with terror. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She clasped Edwina’s hand. “The world would be a better place if there were more concerned women such as yourself.” Before she fled the Crescent, she tossed her vivid red rose on the table, whereupon it rolled to the table’s edge and fell to the floor.

  Victorious, Edwina pushed her back to the chair. How gratifying to be the one who saved another’s life. Her pride and self-satisfaction pressed the restraints of her corset. The Rake Patrol had protected an innocent from ruin. Like truly modern women, they had recognized a problem and taken action to resolve it. How fortuitous to be part of such an illustrious group!

  The discarded rose lay inches from her feet. Edwina placed a hand on her new straw hat to hold it in place while she bent to retrieve it. The hat featured a jaunty ostrich plume, which seemed to have a mind of its own, so she held it stable while she reached just a few inches beyond her feet . . . just a few . . .

  The bell above the door jangled. While her retrieval efforts kept most of her face hidden by the tablecloth, she was still able to peek at the newcomer above the tabletop. She froze.

  The very man who had haunted her dreams of late and titillated her with visions of adventure stood near the entrance, sporting a neatly clipped rosebud on his lapel and a handsome silver-topped walking stick in his hand. The steady hum of conversation in the Crescent suddenly dropped to near silence, and then slowly resumed. He was even more handsome and charismatic in person than when viewed through Walter’s binoculars. Her cheeks heated, her pulse raced. What to do? Would he recognize her from that near discovery when she’d followed him about London? Was there nowhere to hide?

  The Messenger lay nearby on the table. Her fingers crept toward it until she had it in her grasp. She waited till Trewelyn scanned the room in the opposite direction, then she quickly lifted the newspaper to cover her face. Only the feather of her hat bobbed above it. Straightening in her seat, she tried to kick the visible rose stem under the table before Casanova thought she might be an innocent waiting to be ravished. Her cheeks heated anew and something akin to butterflies batted at her rib cage.

  She should have anticipated his appearance, she supposed, but she really hadn’t thought much beyond warning the woman. So what was she to do now? Would he recognize her? She’d been discreet chasing him about London that first day. Trying to keep up with the carriage had certainly proved taxing on her legs, and she’d lost him in the vicinity of Regent’s Park. By the time she’d spotted him near the zoo, he was assisting a beautiful woman and a darling little boy who looked remarkably like Casanova himself into his carriage. Maybe not so remarkable. Her lips shifted into a frown. That was, after all, one of the reasons she was warning women away. So there wouldn’t be any more darling little boys growing up to look just like Casanova.

  Edwina peeked around the edges of the Messenger. He had taken a seat at a table between hers and the door. Heavens! He was so close she could see the pattern on his pale gray waistcoat and the fine shadows thrown by his long downcast eyelas
hes. Her mouth dried to the consistency of newsprint, making her wish she hadn’t drained that last cup of tea. Sarah hadn’t exaggerated about his attraction. Though tempted to flee, Edwina supposed she should wait to see if Casanova met with someone else. If nothing else, she could observe how Mr. Casanova dealt with frustration when his plans met with defeat.

  A waitress hurried to his table. Edwina had waited several minutes before anyone had noticed her or taken her order, but for Casanova, service was instant. Not that she could blame the waitress. Trewelyn looked up, eyes large and pleading, impossible-to-refuse eyes, much like those of a cocker spaniel Edwina had spoiled as a young girl. Trewelyn’s lips curved into a smile that managed to turn the mature waitress into a giggling, blushing schoolgirl. The man certainly had charm.

  Just then, his gaze shifted and his smile turned toward her. Panicked, she ducked back behind her trembling newsprint, but not before the force of all that seductive allure blasted through her with a heat that warmed her more than those countless cups of tea. She couldn’t trust her hands to keep the paper still, but she couldn’t risk letting the barrier fall to expose her to his mesmerizing gaze.

  She reminded herself to be strong. If Trewelyn could affect a woman bent against him with just a smile, how much more devastating would that smile be to someone who hoped to form a relationship? She thought of the young boy who had looked up at Trewelyn with those exact same adoring eyes. While she should find Casanova’s obvious trysts abhorrent, thoughts of sharing illicit intimacy with a man of his persuasions sent that titillating flutter in her rib cage spiraling lower. He would be one to cruise the Nile. Of that, she had little doubt.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A waitress with a charming Irish lilt loomed over the edge of the newsprint. “The gentleman at the next table sent over this warm pot of tea.” She replaced the near-empty pot with a fresh steaming one. “He thought you might be cold, as your paper trembled so.”

  Edwina lowered the Messenger just enough to see Trewelyn. He smiled and nodded his head. Her lips tightened and she issued a quick head bob as a means to acknowledge his generosity.

  She supposed now she was committed to sit there and drink at least one cup of tea. There was no need to hide behind the paper, now that he’d seen her face, which was just as well. It would be entirely too difficult to pour a cup of tea and hold the paper upright at the same time. She poured the steaming liquid into her cup, added one lump of sugar, idly stirred, and tried very hard not to stare at Trewelyn waiting for a woman who, thanks to Edwina’s interference, would never show up. Surely he would tire of waiting and leave. Meanwhile she observed the flow of people outside the Crescent through the large plateglass window lettered with menu options.

  Time passed. Trewelyn checked his pocket watch but remained at his table, writing on a small pad of paper, giving her an opportunity to steal discreet glances. She supposed there was no reason she couldn’t leave, but her legs refused to spring into action. She gazed out the window and noted another young lady clutching a rose, standing outside the Crescent as if hesitant to enter.

  No wonder the man was so patient waiting in the Crescent—he’d lined up multiple interviews. This would never do! Edwina abruptly stood, then crossed to the door, determined to talk to the woman before she entered. Trewelyn’s head lifted briefly from his notes. Edwina hurried to the door to intercept the woman before he spotted his next victim through the window.

  The bell jangled at her hasty exit. She dashed toward the stranger. “Don’t,” she cautioned, not even waiting for the door to close behind her. “Don’t go in there.”

  The woman stared as if Edwina had escaped from Bedlam.

  “You’re here to meet a man, aren’t you?” Edwina asked, then waited for the tentative answering nod. She took the woman’s elbow and turned her away from the Crescent. “You appear to be a decent woman. Do you truly believe a respectable man would advertise in the paper for a life mate? Do you?”

  She searched the woman’s eyes, noting cold disappointment settle over a glow of desperate yearning.

  “How did you know?” the woman whispered.

  “The rose.” Edwina nodded to the flower in the woman’s hand. “All of his targeted victims carry a rose.”

  The emphasis on “victims” did the trick. Although almost a year had passed since Jack the Ripper’s last attack, the Whitechapel tragedies were not far from memory. The woman gasped and dropped the offensive flower.

  “Go,” Edwina said gently. “Go quickly and don’t look back.”

  The woman obliged, her brisk pace swiftly putting distance between them.

  Edwina barely had time to feel the pleasure of her accomplishment in saving yet another from Trewelyn’s clutches, when the door opened behind her.

  “Miss? You forgot your flower,” an Irish voice called.

  Edwina turned to see not only the waitress holding the rose, but Trewelyn standing behind her, his gaze focused on her.

  “Allow me,” he said, carefully removing the stem from the waitress’s hand. His smile almost reduced the woman to a puddle at his feet.

  Edwina remained frozen in place, half wishing to run, half wanting to stay. Her heart raced as he advanced, tapping the rose against a small cleft in his firm masculine chin.

  “Were you scaring off the competition, Miss Grimwood?” An eyebrow lifted, as did one corner of his lips.

  She shook her head slightly, unsure what to say.

  “I hadn’t expected a woman of action, a woman of strategy when I advertised for someone quiet and refined.” Interest sparked in his eyes, while his low tantalizing voice mesmerized. “I’m not certain why you didn’t make your presence known earlier, but I do admire a woman who is unafraid to take a risk now and again.”

  His gaze slid down her length in a slow appraising perusal. She should run, just as she had suggested to the others, but her feet refused to obey. She felt weightless, as if she might rise from the ground like a hot air balloon, but his voice kept her firmly tethered to his expressive lips. He had managed to upset all her patterns, wiping them clean. Which must explain why she stared like a wide-eyed child.

  “Let us return inside to sit and talk.” He reached for her elbow to guide her back into the Crescent, just as she had moments earlier guided others away. “I have many questions for you, Miss Grimwood. Shall we?”

  “I should warn you,” Edwina managed, annoyed that under his influence her feet obeyed his wishes and not her own. “I’m not—”

  “Edwina!”

  Rats! She’d forgotten Walter normally passed this way after leaving his clerking position at her father’s law office.

  “Unhand her immediately!” Walter demanded, marching toward the Crescent entrance with the stride of an angry bulldog.

  Trewelyn released his hold on her elbow, but raised a brow. “Edwina?”

  Her lips wouldn’t move. It seemed her entire body refused to function in a normal manner with Trewelyn’s brown eyes turned her way—brown with the most interesting flecks of green. Trewelyn turned toward Walter and calmly extended an arm. “Allow me to introduce myself, I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Walter snarled, his face an unbecoming red. “You’re a womanizing blackguard who has no business placing his hands on my fiancée.” He harshly gripped Edwina’s other elbow.

  She supposed she should be flattered by Walter’s possessive posture, but her annoyance left no room for trumpetry. Walter didn’t have the right to interfere, especially when he hadn’t been presented with all the facts regarding her presence with Trewelyn.

  “Fiancée?” Trewelyn’s eyes widened a moment before narrowing at her in censure. “Is this true, Miss Grimwood? If so—”

  “Miss Grimwood?” Walter’s lips quirked.

  Her head swam. So many misconceptions, so much manly posturing. “No, it is not,” she sa
id, trying to pull her elbow free from Walter’s grasp. “I can explain—”

  But Walter didn’t give her the opportunity. He tugged her toward the street, away from the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes upon. What must Trewelyn think of her? Embarrassed, she tried to look back while holding her hat to keep the bouncing feather intact. But Walter’s speed made it difficult enough to just stay on her feet, much less try to judge Casanova’s reaction.

  • • •

  ASHTON WATCHED HER GO, PULLED AWAY BY THAT LIP-curling stick of a man. He’d thought to interfere, to stop the cad from using brute force to drag her away. However, if she was his fiancée, the man was right to remove her from Ashton’s presence. Lord knows he should have used whatever force was necessary to drag Constance away from his father so many years ago.

  At the time, he had thought of Constance as his fiancée, though he hadn’t gotten the nerve to ask her the all-important question. Little did he realize that his very own widowed father had similar intentions. His father had announced the impending nuptials one evening, and Ashton had left the next day to join the King’s Royal Rifles. That was four years ago. Yes, he should have dragged her away the moment his father laid eyes upon her.

  But that was yesterday’s news. Constance had made her decision and chose to become his stepmother, not his wife. Now they both had to deal with the consequences of her decision.

  Somehow though, he wasn’t surprised that Miss Grimwood wasn’t satisfied with the man who wished to claim her as his own. She had a spark of life in those inquisitive soft blue eyes, a vitality that would most likely be smothered by that suffocating fiancé. Her bright hair would fade, the perky tilt of her nose would be at odds with downturned lips that rarely smiled. Women trapped in misaligned marriages readily displayed their woes to those who could read the signs. That Miss Grimwood would become one of those sad victims was unfortunate; she had such potential. For a moment, he thought she had seemed somehow familiar, almost as if he’d seen her before, but that would hardly be likely.