The Casanova Code

by Donna MacMeans

  He looked at her in amazement. “Then it is true. Walter told me you could unscramble the coded messages in the agonies.”

  She laughed lightly. “Most of those codes are very basic, just like the ones the boys and I used when we played pirates. Of course, we thought they were brilliantly difficult back then.” She attempted to twist the outer ring. “This, however, would generate a very difficult message to decipher.” She glanced up. “Walter knows I read the personals?”

  “Something one of your friends said alerted him to your abilities.”

  She grimaced. “I imagine he didn’t approve.” She handed the coding device back to her father.

  He smiled benevolently. “The idea may have frightened him initially, but he’ll adjust.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Dinner should be ready shortly. You should go along and change.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She left the study, relieved that nothing along the lines of a pending engagement had been mentioned. Yes, Walter would be frightened by a pursuit that he didn’t share. Perhaps her deciphering talent would keep her free just a little bit longer.

  • • •

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, SHE PREPARED FOR LADY SUTton’s soiree.

  “Edwina, perhaps you should try this.” Her mother laid one of her own gowns on the bed. “While your gowns were appropriate for your season years ago, fashions have changed. I suppose I have been deficient in not insisting your wardrobe stay current with the times,” she said, looking askance, “but there hadn’t been a need before.”

  It was true. The academic affairs Edwina preferred—lectures, exhibitions, and poetry readings—had not required the same apparel as a society soiree. Walter had no interest, or time it seemed, to suggest they attend fancier venues. In reaction to the invented theater invitation, her mother had ordered new gowns, but they would not be ready in time for this evening’s event.

  “This is so beautiful.” Edwina fingered the delicate pink silk gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves. “Are you certain you won’t mind?”

  Her mother shook her head. “The beading on the bodice is designed to catch the light and emphasize a more youthful bosom than mine. The waist is too tight to be comfortable for me, but may be too large for you. That doesn’t matter. Kathleen can pin the excess so it won’t show.”

  But it did, which would not have bothered Edwina at all, but managed to cause a world of concern for her mother.

  “I have a solution,” she exclaimed and dashed off to her room. Meanwhile Edwina studied herself in the mirror. She had to admit she’d forgotten the thrill of dressing for a special evening. The creamy silk had a luminous sheen that bloomed in her cheeks. The high neckline had a V-plunge in the center front that exposed a small bit of skin. Hardly anything scandalous, as ball gowns would have exposed much more, but to a young woman who wore nothing but high-collared blouses, the flash of skin felt decadent. More astonishing than that was the realization that she liked it.

  “Here it is.” Her mother returned with a colorful array in her arms. “I purchased this at the Japanese exhibition last year. The fabric is exquisite and the pink in the cherry blossoms matches the dress perfectly.” She draped the light-as-a-feather scarf over Edwina’s arms in such a manner as to hide the pinched gathers at her waist. “As long as you don’t raise your arms overly much, that should do nicely.”

  Edwina laughed. “If I raise my arms, I’m liable to be stabbed with Kathleen’s pins.”

  “I also found this.” Her mother draped a necklace around Edwina’s neck. “Your father gave this to me several years ago.” Small cherry blossoms flashed in the V-opening of the dress. “At the time he told me cherry blossoms stood for something . . .”

  “The ephemeral nature of existence,” Edwina murmured, almost hearing Ashton’s voice in her ear, whispering about the need to experience pleasure before it became too late. A shiver unrelated to the temperature of the room teased her rib cage. She recalled his observation that the clothing worn by the people in the prints revealed much about the individual. What did the colorful scarf and the delightful necklace whisper about her?

  Her mother looked at her strangely. “I just thought it was pretty.”

  “The flowers look lovely on you, miss,” Kathleen said. “Just the thing for that dress.”

  “Mr. Thomas will be most impressed, dear,” her mother observed. “He must be taking you somewhere special.” Her eyes glistened.

  “Mr. Thomas is not my escort this evening, Mother. Lady Sutton has invited me to an evening party.”

  Her mother gasped. “Lady Sutton! However did that transpire?” Her gaze narrowed. “You must have been with that newspaper woman.”

  “Sarah?”

  “That’s the one. An invitation at this late conjuncture is not one issued in sincerity. You should have refused,” she lectured.

  Her mother wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know. The proper thing would have been to decline the invitation and suggest she had other obligations, but Edwina knew another invitation wouldn’t be forthcoming. If she was to have a glimpse of high society, this could well be her last chance.

  “Am I to assume you didn’t decline?” her mother asked.

  As the answer was obvious, Edwina didn’t respond.

  Her mother sighed. “I can’t really blame you. I’m rather curious about those society affairs myself.” She fussed about the dress. “You’ll be sure to tell me all about it—the clothes, the topics of conversation, who looks to be wearing a wig . . .”

  “Mother!” Edwina laughed, recognizing that as much as her mother disapproved of Sarah’s occupation, she still read her columns.

  “Just because I’m older doesn’t mean I’m less curious,” her mother replied, studying her own reflection in the mirror. She patted a stray hair in place. “Now, who will be escorting you to this affair?”

  “I’m a modern woman, Mother. A modern woman doesn’t require a man to take her anywhere. Sarah attends parties on behalf of the Messenger, and she hasn’t an escort.”

  “You might be a modern woman, but I don’t think it’s safe for a young woman to be traipsing about the city without protection. If Mr. Thomas won’t accompany you—”

  “He wasn’t invited, Mother. He can’t very well escort me if he wasn’t invited—”

  “Then I shall be your chaperone.” After one final glance, she tugged on her bodice before turning toward Edwina. “There’s no reason for that shocked expression. I’m certain Lady Sutton knew you could not attend without accompaniment. To think otherwise would be . . . improper. I’ll blend in with the other matrons and make sure you aren’t approached by the wrong people. You won’t even know that I’m there.” She dashed out of the room, but her voice drifted back down the passageway. “Lady Sutton! Oh, the possibilities!”

  Edwina sincerely doubted her mother would go unnoticed. And she could accurately predict Ashton would be designated as not suitable. So the only man with whom she wished to converse would be denied to her, while there’d be no restrictions on the men who held no interest. Her stomach already simmered with turmoil. She wished she could stay home with the agonies.

  • Nine •

  THE MOMENT ASHTON CROSSED THE SUTTON THRESHold, nostalgia rushed at him with the force of a cavalry charge then wrapped about him like a prodigal son. Little had changed from his Casanova years, except then he felt honored to have Constance by his side. Now he was embarrassed. Everyone in this room knew of their earlier entanglement. He could almost hear their sneers behind his back. If it weren’t for little Matthew, he’d leave this all behind and go somewhere where he had no history, and no stepmother to remind him of what he’d once been.

  The current crop of society beauties turned at his entrance, then tittered behind lace and feather fans. The matrons, the lovelies from past seasons that had successfully snared a wedding
ring, were more blatant with their unspoken invitations. Ashton grimaced, remembering having read an article in the Mayfair Messenger about some secret language of fans. No secret dialogue was needed here. Not while women understood the power of a bold smile and a seductive stare.

  He inhaled sharply, letting the combined taste of flowers, perfume, and sweat settle on the back of his throat. “I need a drink.”

  “Your father would have insisted you dance the first dance with me,” Constance murmured, before adding discreetly, “had he thought of it.” She held out her gloved wrist, presenting him with a dangling dance card.

  “Even in your self-absorbed existence, I would have assumed you had noted that my stick is more than a nod to fashion,” Ashton grumbled. “I’ve accompanied you out of respect for my father’s wishes. That should be enough. You’ll have to hawk your wares to some other fool blinded by your finery.”

  She pushed out her lower lip in a pout. “Ashton, I’m hurt that you should say such an awful thing. Your father—”

  “Do not play the martyr with me, Constance,” he interrupted. “I have no delusions that yours was a love match. You might have convinced my father that you’ve come for the female entertainment afforded by this gathering, but I know better.”

  He surveyed the crowd. Unlike earlier years, Ashton discovered he had no interest in the seductive matrons. Though he had no doubt that he could play with the best of them, he’d lost interest in flirtatious games. Instead he longed for conversation, serious conversation, not suggestive banter. An image of Edwina flashed in his mind, but she had already said she wouldn’t attend. Pity that. However, judging from the omnivores disguised in fancy silks and satins, hers was the prudent decision. Already he craved the distance alcohol would bring. He descended a few steps into the ballroom. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in search of Lord Sutton’s brandy.”

  “Go on,” Constance sneered, “ruin some willing innocent’s reputation. That is your special talent, is it not?”

  Ashton stopped midstep on his descent. Five years and still he shouldered a rake’s reputation. He had thought that a rich wife would resolve his current residence situation, but he found he hadn’t even the desire to pursue that. He glanced back at Constance. “I suppose it is. However, after so many years away from this den of vipers, I’m shamefully out of practice.”

  • • •

  SO MANY PATTERNS, REPETITIONS, CONSISTENCIES—ALL viewed from the steps above the ballroom. Colors met, converged, dispersed. So many feathered headdresses bobbed in a choppy rhythm that Edwina thought an aviary cage must have been opened to a field of grain. The men clumped in groups, as did the women. Even age seemed to play a part. All this she saw with alarming clarity, because as anyone who was familiar with patterns would note, she did not fit a single one. She did not belong in this particular gathering.

  Their clothes were different. Jewels suspended on sparkling gold decorated their necks and arms, not simple cloisonné flowers. No scarves draped the arms of the other guests. Edwina touched the fresh roses tucked in her coif, not the more popular ostrich plume. Another reminder that she was an outsider. So be it. She patted her reticule, feeling for the small notebook. Even if she were an outsider, she could at least be a productive one.

  “Edwina, are you certain we were invited?” her mother whispered harshly. “They don’t seem particularly friendly.”

  “No,” Edwina agreed, wondering why she had wanted to come. “They don’t.”

  She spied Ashton on the far side of the room, speaking to a woman who seemed anxious to press up against him as if he were a tasty morsel and she one of Lady Sutton’s dogs. The woman fluttered a somewhat distinctive fan, holding it as if it were a barrier to separate them from the rest of the crowd. There was something familiar about that fan, but the sight of Ashton in an elegant morning coat chased all logical thoughts from her mind. Her throat tightened even more than her snug corset.

  Lady Sutton separated from a group of guests and approached Edwina. She smiled as if she were welcoming a long lost cousin.

  “I’m so pleased you could join us, Miss . . . ?”

  “Hargrove,” Edwina supplied, embarrassed about this verification that she was truly not expected.

  “Hargrove. Thank you. I’m so horrid with names, you know. But faces . . . faces I remember. And I shall always remember yours as one of the many connected with dear Ashton.”

  A little twist of the knife—yes, that’s how it felt. So she was “one of the many,” was she? But then she was familiar with his reputation. Casanova, indeed. She reminded herself that if she were here with romantic aspirations then that little comment might indeed hurt. But she was here to observe, she reminded herself, to experience a lifestyle beyond her reach—and Walter’s, she added absently. Yes, this was bound to be her only high-strata social gala and she wouldn’t let her host spoil it. Lady Sutton snapped open a fan that, Edwina noted, had a remarkable resemblance to the one the woman held across the room.

  “And I see you’ve brought . . .”

  “Lady Sutton, may I introduce my mother, Mrs. Hargrove.”

  “I’m certain you understand,” her mother explained. “A young unmarried woman should never travel about without a chaperone. Don’t you agree, Lady Sutton? I knew that you’d be one to observe the proprieties one expects at affairs of this sort.”

  Lady Sutton, a woman not much older than Edwina herself, turned to her with a sympathetic look.

  “What an unusual fan,” Edwina remarked. “Are those Japanese figures?”

  Lady Sutton smiled. “This fan? Not so unusual, I would think. I’ve had this for about eight years now. Japanese is all the rage, you know?” She leaned close. “I would imagine you’ll have one yourself before long.”

  She stepped back before Edwina could ask for an explanation, then motioned to one of the older women for an introduction. She left the three of them alone while she attended to a new arrival. Edwina smiled and made small talk. Her mother launched into enthusiastic conversation with everyone she met, allowing Edwina to be quiet and observe. One person would introduce them to the next and in such a way she navigated the room.

  An ancient man passed Edwina on to a beautiful woman with the tiniest waist she’d ever seen and . . . a Japanese print fan. “Mrs. Trewelyn, allow me to introduce Mrs. Hargrove and her lovely daughter. I’m certain Miss Hargrove would much prefer conversation with someone closer to her own age than myself.”

  “Mrs. Trewelyn?” Edwina repeated, recognizing the woman she’d seen with Ashton when she spied upon him in the park. It was true then. He was married, after all. She could almost see Sarah gloating while her own heart sank.

  “Yes,” the woman responded absently while searching the room beyond Edwina’s shoulder. “Have we met? I don’t recall.”

  “We’ve not been introduced before, but I have made the acquaintance of your—”

  “Constance, there you are.” Edwina recognized Ashton’s voice. He joined their circle and smiled at Edwina. “And Miss Hargrove. I see you’ve met my stepmother.”

  “Mother?” Edwina repeated with a gasp. The woman appeared to be decades younger than her own, even with the frown she’d directed toward Ashton.

  “Stepmother,” Trewelyn repeated, emphasizing the first syllable. He turned toward the wasp-waisted woman. “The current wife of my father.” Edwina detected a tone of derision, as apparently had his stepmother. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  The censure left Ashton’s voice as quickly as it was initiated. “You won’t mind if I steal Miss Hargrove away for a moment, will you? I have a private matter to discuss.”

  Edwina glanced toward her mother, but she was distracted by another acquaintance.

  “Be careful, Ashton,” his stepmother said. “This one does not have your experience. You may find yourself caught in a trap from which ev
en your father can’t extricate you.”

  Edwina’s ire rose. They spoke of her as if she weren’t standing in front of them, and the woman’s insinuations were less than flattering. Ashton gripped her elbow with his strong fingers and guided her to a less populated part of the room. The stares of many of the women they passed burned into her back, and the tittering behind raised fans found its way to her ears. She could hear their censure. She didn’t belong here.

  “I’m pleased you changed your mind,” Ashton said, the strong odor of brandy scenting his breath. “We have unfinished business.” His eyes crinkled at the corners while a smile played about his lips. “Business begun in a most provocative setting.”

  In spite of her efforts to appear worldly and cosmopolitan, she felt heat rise in her cheeks at his reference to their meeting in the secret gallery. His eyes downcast and hidden from view, he fingered the smooth silk of her scarf. “Perhaps my stepmother is mistaken about your lack of experience.”

  She stiffened. At the moment, she wished she had one of those Japanese fans; she had a strong temptation to whack him with it. “I’m a—”

  “Modern woman. Yes, you’ve told me as much.” He raised his gaze, and she was struck by the flattering and captivating heat in his eyes. This was not the Ashton she’d become accustomed to. This, she imagined, was the rake of whom she’d been warned. He moved a fraction closer. “I see that you’re wearing cherry blossoms. Only we know the meaning of that fragile flower. Are you telling me you wish to embrace life’s pleasures?”

  His gaze held her transfixed while her knees melted like fresh butter on a warm muffin. If he moved his hand from her elbow, she would collapse about his feet in a puddle of pink silk and rose petals. She should run from him. She should signal her mother. This was the seductive power the Rake Patrol had decided to fight, but at the moment, she hadn’t a fighting bone in her body.