“I miscounted,” she said as she climbed into the carriage. “I waited a long time, but when no carriages came down the lane, I decided to sneak into his house.”
“Edwina!” Faith admonished her. “That’s dangerous! You shouldn’t have done that!”
“But I entered the wrong house,” Edwina explained, unaffected by Faith’s outburst. “I had to remain hidden a long time before I could sneak back undetected. Did I miss anything?”
“Only my near arrest for trespassing.” Claire glared. “I thought you were being held hostage. I thought you were being compromised.”
“Fortunately, none of that was true,” Faith said quietly. “So you didn’t see anyone? You didn’t see the Guardians?” While her voice held no accusations, Faith’s steady gaze did, as if she could see through Edwina’s lie.
Edwina shook her head. At least that part was true. She’d heard the voices in the hallway and then that book appeared on the library table. Someone had come to the Trewelyn residence as a result of that ad. She was sure of it.
“Not even Casanova himself?” Faith quietly persisted.
Edwina glanced up. Faith knew something. She could see it in the set of Faith’s shoulders. Edwina just held her gaze.
“Perhaps you misread the coded message,” Claire said with a determined air. “It was probably just another agony lamenting over a failed tryst or improper attraction.”
Edwina clenched her teeth. Claire had never accepted Edwina’s abilities in that regard. Under the sting of incompetence, Edwina mustered a false smile, then shifted her gaze to Claire. “I should thank you,” she said. “Had I truly been in danger, it’s good to know that my friends would rush to my defense.” Claire’s lips tightened in acknowledgment, then she nodded and resettled in her seat.
“We should consult with Sarah,” Faith interjected, “but now that I’ve had a chance to speak directly to him, I’m not certain the younger Mr. Trewelyn is as intent on debauchery as we supposed. In light of this evening’s events, maybe we should turn our talents to other ads. Do you agree?”
“He seemed kind enough at the Crescent,” Edwina said to justify her response. After all, she couldn’t very well admit to having spent an inordinate amount of time locked in a gallery with him. Still, she was grateful Faith had come to the same conclusion as she had. Casanova just wasn’t the Casanova of his earlier reputation. “Yes, I think we can assume Mr. Trewelyn is not as evil as we had imagined.”
“Good.” Faith settled more comfortably in her seat. “I’m certain Mr. Thomas will be pleased that we are no longer pursuing the charismatic Mr. Trewelyn. He seemed to take offense at Mr. Trewelyn’s interest in you.”
“Interest? It was a misunderstanding,” Edwina said, recalling the incident outside of the Crescent. “That was all.”
But was it? She couldn’t deny the way her spine tingled whenever Mr. Trewelyn’s brown eyes, with that interesting pattern of green flecks, turned her way. Her pulse still raced from his close proximity in the chamber. She was, after all, female. Still, she’d no reason to suspect he had any interest in her.
Edwina let the resulting conversation flow around her. She certainly hoped she hadn’t seen the last of Mr. Trewelyn. There was the matter of the coded message in the pillow book, which piqued her curiosity, and the matter of the man himself, which certainly piqued . . . other areas. She shifted uncomfortably on the leather cushion.
She smoothed her hand over Faith’s parasol, intending to return it, but her fingers encountered a hard lump beneath the fabric. A lump that shouldn’t be there. Given her recent activities, she didn’t wish to alert her friends to the item’s existence. Her finger drew a tiny inconspicuous circle on the surface of the parasol fabric, but her senses noted a distinctively curved surface and a cavity such as one might find in a bead. The shelves! She couldn’t recall exactly what the items were on the shelves, but they were small and had toppled when she bumped into them in the dark. One must have fallen into the parasol. “Would you mind if I borrowed this just a little bit longer?” she asked Faith, raising the parasol slightly in her lap. “I wish to show the fabric to my mother. The color suits me, don’t you think?”
“Of course, keep it as long as you like.” Faith looked at her curiously. “I don’t recall your interest in colors before.”
“Colors.” Claire snorted. “Women should wear either black or white. Colors are so impractical. If one considers the unhealthy dyes utilized to produce . . .”
But Edwina had ceased to listen, concerned instead about this accidental souvenir of that secret chamber. At least, she was assured of one thing. Whether Mr. Trewelyn was interested in her abilities or not, she’d be obligated to call upon him once more to return whatever had fallen into her possession.
• • •
THE NEXT DAY, AFTER THOUGHTS OF MR. TREWELYN HAD caused a sleepless night of tossing and turning, she almost hoped he wouldn’t seek her assistance at the Crescent. As much as she longed to take a crack at deciphering that note, the fear of discovery by her friends had left her a jittery mess. No one of her acquaintance was currently in the Crescent at this hour, but that could change in a moment. Faith tended to meet with fellow women poets at Hastings House most Thursday afternoons, and Claire only visited the Crescent for the weekly Women for a Sober Society meetings and for the Rake Patrol gatherings. Sarah would still be at the Messenger at this time of day, and Walter wouldn’t expect her to be here at all. The choice of time she’d given Trewelyn wasn’t without justification, but one never knew who would forfeit the norm and drop in unexpectedly for a cup of tea. She checked her locket watch once again. Yes, perhaps it would be better for all concerned if he didn’t come.
But then what would she do with that strange wooden object she discovered in Faith’s parasol? After she’d arrived home last evening, she’d gathered a lit candle to guide her upstairs and then opened the parasol in the safety of her room. A carved wooden bead the size of a large walnut fell to the floor. Upon close inspection, the bead resembled a naked woman sitting in a small wooden barrel. She turned the bead to discover the artist had carved the view from the underside of the water, which depicted the woman exploring herself in a similar manner as the prints. A hole tunneled through the sides of the figure, which explained the cavity she’d felt earlier while in the carriage. Why on earth would someone carve such a thing and in such intimate detail?
A knock at her door had startled her, causing the bead to slip from her fingers and fall to the floor. While she heard it roll, she hadn’t a chance to look for it when her mother opened the door.
“Edwina? I just wanted to see how you enjoyed your evening.” Her mother, with her neatly plaited hair down the front of her white nightgown, stood with a candle in hand. Edwina’s black kitten, Isabella, named for the famous woman explorer Isabella Bird, took advantage of the open door to stroll into the room. She chirped a welcome before leaping on the bed. Edwina prayed the pool of light from her mother’s candle didn’t illuminate her souvenir. Before she could respond, her mother’s eyes widened. “What a lovely parasol. Where ever did it come from?”
“Faith allowed me to borrow it. Walter invited me to the theater next week and I thought perhaps this might accompany one of my gowns.” Dear heaven, she could weave a thick carpet with all of her recent lies. Now she’d have to convince Walter to take her to the theater, an entertainment he generally despised. She worried her lip. Her soul must be becoming as black as Claire’s wardrobe.
Her mother had seemed impervious to her daughter’s distress. If anything she was elated at the news. “The theater? How lovely!” She winked at her daughter. “I imagine Walter wishes to show you off to society. I’m certain we can find something tomorrow that will nicely accompany Faith’s parasol. Meanwhile you need your sleep. I’ll send Kathleen in to help you ready for bed.”
She disappeared before Edwin
a could protest, then Kathleen arrived before she’d discovered the bead’s hiding place. After Kathleen left, Edwina was too exhausted to look further and fell asleep with a thought to search in the morning. But then she’d slept too late and after reviewing every item of her wardrobe with her mother, no longer had time to look for the bead. Her plan to return the object to Trewelyn would have to wait until she found where the blasted nuisance had rolled.
A tingling at the base of her neck roused Edwina from her thoughts. She looked up to see Trewelyn by the door, sweeping the room with that accessing glance of his. When it rested on her, she smiled, and all her earlier concerns dissolved like a sugar cube in a cup of hot tea.
“I wasn’t certain you’d be here,” he said, once he had negotiated the labyrinth of tables and chairs to where she sat. Raised heads and interested glances followed in his wake. She wasn’t the only one affected by his smile, she thought, perversely pleased that he came to her table. For the first time in her life, she imagined she was the envy of other women, even though they might have the advantage of society position, appearance, or intellectual pursuit. He came to her. Her rib cage fluttered.
He lowered himself to the chair opposite. “I was afraid that once you’d reflected on my father’s passionate pursuits, you’d have nothing further to do with me.” His eyes crinkled almost in question, and her lips lifted immediately in response. “Or this mysterious message.”
He pulled the paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. Her fantasies about being desired for her feminine attributes crashed about her. He was here for her abilities to decipher code. Nothing else. Her hopes—dreams really—that something else had passed between them last night were obviously a product of the late hour and unusual circumstances. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.
“May I?” She reached for the paper, just as he pushed it across the table. Their fingers briefly touched. As if to verify her suspicions, there was no sudden arcing of heat at the contact, no passionate flare of awareness, just his fingers encased in a butter-soft glove briefly touching hers. She was disappointed, of course, but also immediately aware of her unrealistic expectations. He was here for a translation. Nothing more.
As before, the waitress appeared immediately after Trewelyn arrived. He ordered a beverage, and the waitress suggested he supplement his order with a selection from their pastries. He raised a brow. “What do you suggest?”
The girl flushed. “The éclairs are very popular. Custard tarts, almond brioche . . .”
Trewelyn turned back to Edwina, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “What tempts you, Miss Hargrove?”
“I shouldn’t,” she replied. They all sounded wonderful, much more so than the dry tea cakes she’d sampled a few days ago, but her mother’s lectures about eating too much in the company of men held her back.
“Please, Miss Hargrove? I owe you something for last night’s ordeal.”
The waitress’s head swerved her way with a bit of a smirk twisting her lips. Just her luck to have one of the former barmaids as a server. Edwina pressed her lips shut.
“One éclair then, but with two forks,” Trewelyn told the waitress. Once they were alone again, he leaned across the table toward her. “Oscar Wilde once said, ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.’”
Edwina scoffed. “That sounds like an excuse for misbehavior, sir.”
He smiled. “And isn’t misbehavior the largest temptation of all.” His face sobered. “At least it was when I was younger. Now it hasn’t the allure that it once did, so you see, Mr. Wilde was right in this.”
The luscious cream-filled pastry arrived. Edwina tried to resist sampling, but the spread of rapture across Trewelyn’s face when he tasted the chocolate convinced her otherwise. Soon they were both licking chocolate and sweet cream from their lips, the dessert devoured. Trewelyn smiled at her indulgently. “Watching you enjoy yourself is as much a pleasure as the sweet itself.”
Flustered, Edwina quickly picked up the folded note to hide her heating cheeks from his view.
“It appears to be gibberish,” he said. “Random letters in no perceivable order.” He paused a moment. “Do you really think this has some meaning?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “You can tell by the break and repetition of certain letters that this is a code.”
“You can make sense of that?” he asked with an incredulous air.
“I could make sense of it if I had the key,” she replied.
He looked confused.
“There are many kinds of codes,” she explained. “Some are based on numbers, some are based on letters. Some involve inclusion of extra words and phrases, or a reordering of letters. Some use different types of inks. Based on the grouping of letters, I would guess that this uses a line or phrase from a particular book known to the intended recipient and sender that transcribes the nonsense letters into the intended message. It’s an easy code to use but challenging to break unless you know the key.” She glanced up at him. “In fact, my brother uses this type of code in his letters to me.”
Trewelyn’s face twisted into a curious expression, but she wasn’t inclined to explain her own family’s eccentricities at the moment.
A woman unknown to Edwina passed the table and dropped a lacy handkerchief near Trewelyn. He retrieved it from the floor and stood to return it, earning a softly murmured thank you and what Edwina would call a sultry glance in exchange. He lifted a brow, then returned to his seat.
“Let me show you.” Edwina set her annoyance over the interruption aside and pulled her brother’s most recent letter from her journal. “My brother uses Treasure Island to code his letters to me.” She pointed to the top of the letter. “You’ll note that he begins with the numbers seventy-three, slash, two, another slash, then one.” Using her finger, she pointed out the various components of the code. “The first number represents the page number. It tells me which page in the book to use.”
She handed her copy of Treasure Island to him, indicating that he should open the book to the directed page. It was fortunate that she’d thought to come prepared just in case Trewelyn needed to see an example. While she’d fretted earlier about his presence, suddenly she was pleased he’d come. “The second number tells me which paragraph to use and the third number tells me which sentence within the paragraph. As Harry—”
“Harry?” he interrupted.
“My brother,” she explained. “As he listed the number one, that would mean the code phrase is the first line in the second paragraph.”
“‘Hawkins,’” Trewelyn read aloud. “ ‘I put prodigious faith in you,’ added the squire.” He looked up. “Is that sufficient?”
“Perhaps,” Edwina said. “It really depends on the alphabet my brother requires for his letter.”
“I don’t understand.” He shook his head, looking as helpless as a stray pup. Funny how their roles had reversed from last evening. Now she was the one with the knowledge and he the shocked innocent. She hid her smile.
“That’s because there’s another step.” She lifted her journal and untied the scarlet red ribbon that held it closed. “I keep a list of all the letters of the alphabet in a column down a page just for this purpose. Like this.” She opened her journal to the page where she had created that very list on the left page. “Then, I list all the unique letters of the code phrase next to it. See, the ‘A’ of the alphabet lines up with the ‘H’ of ‘Hawkins.’ The ‘B’ of the alphabet lines up with the ‘A’ of ‘Hawkins,’ and so forth until I have a unique letter equivalent for each letter of the alphabet. I use this chart to transcribe the letter’s code to its English equivalent and then write the decoded message on the opposite page.”
“I see,” he said. His eyes scanned the page while his brow lifted
in a form of admiration. His appreciation of her abilities warmed her as if a purring Isabella had curled up in her lap. She basked in that unexpected pleasure for a moment before suddenly realizing that his gaze was not on her alphabetic listing but on the transcription of the letter itself. She pulled the book abruptly from his hands, then securely tied the ribbon that held the journal closed. “That letter is personal, sir, as is my journal,” she scolded.
“Forgive me,” he said with wide-eyed contrition. She suspected he was not sorry at all.
She bit her lip, experiencing once again the pull of his soft smile. What had Faith called it? Charismatic. She placed the tied journal on the table between them. “It’s nothing important,” she said, wondering how much he had read. Hopefully, he had only read the beginning of her brother’s letter and not her impressions of last night. “It’s just private.”
“It seems to me that you and your brother must retain the same edition of Treasure Island for the key phrase to function properly. For example, while I’m sure you both have copies of the Bible, the various translations and editions would make it unsuitable for a key.”
“Exactly.” He truly did understand the nature of the code. She tapped the coded message that had fallen from the pillow book. “This is a code with an unspecified recipient. Someone wrote it so that only the correct individual would be able to translate it.”
“So there’s no way we can decipher this message?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Edwina said.
Another embroidered handkerchief fluttered by the table. Trewelyn returned that one as before, with much the same results. Softly spoken words, an exchanged glance, and then he lowered himself to the seat.
“I’m sorry. You were saying that you can perhaps make sense of this message?”
Edwina lowered her gaze to her fingers fidgeting with the red ribbon on her journal, attempting to keep her annoyance in check. Beautiful women with greater talents at attracting a man’s attention than she must besiege him on a regular basis. She took a calming breath before continuing. “The messages are written to be decoded . . . just not by the wrong people. If we had the key, it would be easier to decipher, but it’s not impossible to translate without it.”
The Casanova Code Page 8