Remembering the interruptions of the dropped handkerchiefs from their earlier rendezvous, he chose a table in the rear, and selected a seat that would place his back to the wall. That way his full attention would be directed to Edwina and not to any passerby. He placed an order for tea from the waitress who followed him to the table. While tea was not his beverage of choice, it was what Edwina preferred and thus his beverage for the day.
She arrived soon after with the two loyal ladies who had threatened to storm the house in search of their friend. The memory brought a smile to his lips. A smile only faintly returned by the one called Faith. Something had changed. He could feel it in Edwina’s stern expression and her ramrod straight posture.
She spoke a word to her friends, then walked toward his table while the other two sat somewhat removed.
He stood. “Miss Hargrove. I was afraid you’d been dissuaded from coming today.” The jest inspired by her tardy arrival failed to solicit a returning smile. Strange, he would have thought she’d have some reaction.
Instead she quietly untied the ribbon to open her journal. “I assume you brought the note.”
She was avoiding his gaze, an action that did not bode well. He removed a folded paper from his vest pocket and handed it to her. “Has something changed since last night?”
She smoothed the paper and placed it on the side of her journal. She picked up her pen to copy into her book, all in silence. His earlier good humor soured and congealed in the pit of his stomach.
“It’s that kiss, isn’t it?” he said, keeping his voice low. “I won’t apologize, Edwina. It may have been ill-advised. It may have been presumptuous on my part, but it was the loveliest moment of the entire evening.” He altered his voice to what had always been an effective seductive purr. “One that I hope will be repeated.”
Her pen stopped its motion. She frowned at him, her expression as stern and formidable as the high collar on her stiffly starched blouse. “I would not count on that occurring, Mr. Trewelyn. In fact, I must insist that if we are to work together on this project you will not attempt such familiarity again.”
His eyes narrowed. “Has that brute that caused the ruckus last night turned you against me? What was his name?”
“Mr. Thomas was concerned about my reputation.” This woman, overly formal and annoyingly polite, was not the Edwina whose company he’d so anticipated. Her pen continued to copy the nonsense words into her journal.
“Just keep the note,” Ashton said, irritated. “It’s probably safer in your hands. No one would think to look for it with you.”
She glanced up. “Someone is looking for this?”
“No.” He considered his answer. “At least not yet. My father hasn’t mentioned a note, and Constance seemed no more agitated than usual last night. That woman, however, has the talents of an actress on Drury Lane. There was a time I thought I knew her thoughts. Now I wonder if she shows a true face to anyone.”
She returned to her task. “I don’t require the original to work on the code. I’ll copy the letter so a second copy exists. You can keep the original. You may wish to keep it for—”
“Bait?” He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. “That’s an interesting thought. I see you have a mind for espionage, Miss Hargrove. I would not have expected as much.” Though he had noticed a wicked little gleam in her eyes on occasion.
“My brothers and I fancied ourselves spies on occasion,” she said. “Although I think they were more interested at times in torturing me for any secrets I might have.”
“Torture?” His stomach clenched.
“Spiders and garden snakes . . . harmless things.”
And something maybe not so harmless based on the hesitation of her pen. His code breaker had secrets of her own, it seemed. He decided to carefully explore this area, but not now. She was so tight-lipped at the moment, he would consider himself fortunate if she gave him the time of day.
Once she’d copied the mysterious correspondence into her journal, she proceeded to list the letters of the alphabet in several long horizontal lines on a different page of her journal. With her finger moving along the line of coded text, she recorded a mark under the corresponding letter on her alphabet page each time that she encountered it in the message. Even as she efficiently tallied the frequency of the letters, he had the sense that something was still amiss. She paid little more attention to him than the cooling cup of tea near her hand.
“Is it true,” she asked suddenly, “that a woman committed suicide after attending one of your parties?”
“What?” Another blow to his gut. “Who told you this?”
“Someone with a personal connection to the young woman,” Edwina replied, keeping her head down in her task of recording letters. “A man took advantage of her at one of your parties seven years ago. When she discovered she was with child, she threw herself into the Thames.”
Dear God, was it true? The devil knew it could have been. While he’d never experienced difficulty finding a willing woman to share his bed, he knew that was not necessarily true for others of his acquaintance. Back then he had tended to turn a blind eye to the others, preferring to place his full attention on his amore of the moment. He raked his hands over his face. Had the devil come to collect his due? “I don’t recall that such a thing had occurred. It might have. There’s much about those parties that I don’t remember or . . . avoided.” He looked askance. “I was often involved in other quarters.”
“Do you remember Sarah from the Mayfair Messenger?” Edwina asked, her pen poised in the air. “Her sister has a similar tale.”
“She committed suicide?”
“No. The sister died giving birth to a beautiful little girl. A girl who Sarah now raises.”
“Was that the result of one of my . . .” The burden on his shoulders intensified.
“No. But the outcome is similar.”
His eyes narrowed. “It is true that for a period in my youth, I gave little thought to the consequences of my actions, or those of my acquaintances. I found it difficult to ignore the . . . opportunities presented to me.” How else could he explain the surprising number of women, married and otherwise, who were desperate for companionship and attention? That they’d enjoyed the physical pleasure he gave them only added to the demand for his favor. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Because I’m finding it difficult to trust your sincerity in the midst of such stories.” She glanced up from her pages, meeting his gaze head-on.
“Those tales are from years ago.”
“Last night was last night,” she countered. She quickly looked right and left and lowered her voice. “Why did you do that?”
“I couldn’t help myself,” he replied. In that moment he knew it was the truth. While he recognized that kissing her was not the wisest course of action, it was a most pleasant one. “You looked lovely wrapped in cherry blossoms, standing in the moonlight.”
She harrumphed and returned to her deciphering task.
Suddenly, her aloofness made sense. Between her departure last evening and now, someone had filled her head with stories from long ago. Hadn’t he already explained that his time in the King’s Rifles had changed his ways? “Is that the reason for the company of your friends? Are they protecting you from my alleged dubious grasp?”
She didn’t respond immediately, but her pen had stopped its forward progress. “Are you going to just sit there and watch me?” she hissed.
“If there is some other matter in which I can be of assistance . . .”
She glanced up. “No. In fact, I believe you’ve done enough. The work is quite tedious and is probably best if done with a certain element of privacy. Let us meet in two weeks and I’ll report my progress.”
“Two weeks? I had thought you’d be able to unravel the mystery before then.” Two weeks! He
’d have to live in his father’s residence not knowing if he lived among traitors and spies for two long weeks?
“You must not grasp the difficulty.” She placed her pen down and appraised him without humor. “Some codes are never broken. I did mention last night that it could take months.”
He looked out a window, gnawing at his lip. “I thought you meant that as an invitation.”
“An invitation?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “How could you interpret such a statement as an invitation?”
Now who felt the dullard? “I thought . . .” He tried to think of a way to explain without sounding like a presumptuous fool, and came up empty. He had no choice but to admit his error and hope for mercy. “I thought you were encouraging me to meet with you on a frequent basis.” His lips raised at the corners. “And you’ll recall that I agreed most urgently.”
She stared at him with disbelief for a moment, then her eyes crinkled with humor. Her shoulders relaxed, which, in turn, lightened his mood.
“Perhaps it would help if we knew from whom or from where the letter originated,” Edwina said. “What became of the brown paper that wrapped the pillow”—color heightened in her cheeks—“the purchase?”
He had to think for a moment. “It may still be in the chamber. I haven’t returned since that night.” Something akin to panic flashed in her eyes. His focus narrowed. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she answered quickly and studied her journal, but she was hiding something. A silent warning sounded in his head. He thought he’d finally found someone he could trust, only to discover this. Strange that his mention of returning to the chamber spooked her.
“Your father’s freight business would have delivered the package,” she continued. “Would there be a record? Some sort of journal that would indicate the individual who sent the package? Their origin or route?”
Not only was she hiding a secret of hers, but she thought nothing of asking the impossible of him. “You wish me to speak to my father about the coded message? What if he is the recipient?”
“You don’t have to mention the message,” she explained quietly. “Just the package. Perhaps if you’d expressed an interest in the process . . .”
Gloom shaded his thoughts. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m not certain what you mean,” she said, obviously innocent of the relationship between himself and his father. A relationship not enhanced by his father’s choice of bride.
“My father wishes that I join him in the drayage business. If I were to approach him—”
“Is that such a bad thing? Working alongside your father?”
Now that was unexpected. Most of the women he had met would shrink from the idea of his working anywhere. His father’s allowance allowed him to live sufficiently, so in their minds, there was no need for him to actually earn a wage. Truth be told, though, he wasn’t comfortable living on his father’s coin. He’d much prefer to have his own means . . . but without any discernable skills, that possibility led nowhere. If he were to join his father in drayage . . . ? “I’m not certain my interests follow that pursuit,” he quickly replied.
“If your interests include discovering who sent that letter, I would think learning its route would provide the proper start,” she challenged.
“How could studying the backside of a Clydesdale possibly assist our discovery of the initiator of that note?” He couldn’t keep his irritation from his voice.
“Think. You would be privy to the inner workings of the business,” she explained. “If books of record exist notating the senders of packages, you would know where they were kept. Perhaps you’d even know if similar packages were sent to your father’s business associates, or to your father? You’d learn the delivery routes taken in the event that the note was inserted in the pillow . . . purchase . . . while en route. As you don’t wish to approach your father with questions, you’d be able to find the answers yourself.”
Damn the woman! Need she be so determined? While he could appreciate her logic, he wasn’t certain he appreciated her conclusion. “You wish me to drive a freight cart?”
She tilted her head just a fraction and just looked at him. It was answer enough.
“There’s no guarantee you’ll be driving a cart,” she said. “Your father’s respect for you—”
“Respect.” He snorted. “Therein lies the difficulty. He considers me a dandy whose only apparent skill was in the selection of his future wife.” He’d even failed at that if one considered the tension that simmered at home.
“Perhaps this would give your father an opportunity to appreciate your other talents,” she counseled.
That was unlikely. His father had ignored him for most of his life. Why would he take an interest now? Still, should his father insist he drive a cart, he’d escape Constance’s attempts to reinsert him into a social structure for which he had little use. He’d escape the powder keg of his father’s household. He’d have time to think about the future. And while it would be unlikely that he’d earn the respect of his father, the set of Edwina’s chin suggested it might earn hers.
“I suppose if it will help in deciphering the purpose of the message, it is necessary,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Most likely I won’t be in London to hear of your deciphering progress.” He glanced at her face, but even that pronouncement did not earn him sympathy. Then it occurred to him that traveling the length and breadth of England must seem a reward and not a punishment to one whose soft blue eyes lit inexplicably at the mention of adventure.
This certainly wasn’t the conclusion he’d anticipated when he arrived at the Crescent in such high spirits. Which reminded him . . . “I’ve brought something for you.”
He removed the cylinder wrapped in brown paper from his pocket. Her eyes widened, but not with appreciation. “Do not assume I’m one of your conquests, Mr. Trewelyn.” She regarded the package as if it were a poisonous viper. Her journal closed with an audible thud and she hastily retied the ribbon. “I didn’t fail to notice the number of fluttering Japanese fans last evening.” She stood, gathering her belongings. “Keep your fan for your next paramour.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your next Mistress of Cherry Blossoms.”
“Edwina, wait!’ But she didn’t. She hurried to the table where her friends lingered. Then after a shared glare in his direction, the three turned as one and headed for the door.
He looked at the small spyglass wrapped in brown paper. Fan? Why did she believe the package contained a fan? In light of their discussion of the constellations, he had thought she’d enjoy the spyglass. It had been at least six years since he’d given a woman a fan, and that was for . . . Damnation! His jaw set. He’d forgotten that a Japanese fan had once been considered his unique personal gift to women with whom he’d enjoyed a special relationship. He hadn’t paid attention to the women’s adornments last evening, but clearly Edwina had. Obviously, the path to Edwina’s respect was not to be paved in gifts. He supposed he should be grateful for that. No. She demanded a higher price that required humiliation and self-sacrifice.
• • •
CLAIRE GLARED AT EDWINA ONCE THEY HAD LEFT THE Crescent. “You still intend to work with that man after what Mr. Thomas told you about his sister?”
“I don’t think Mr. Trewelyn was responsible for that,” Edwina replied.
“He’s a rake, Edwina, and he’s leading you down the garden path.” Claire shook her head in disgust. “How can we protect innocents from a rake’s grasp if we can’t even protect our own?”
“Enough, Claire,” Faith quietly scolded. “You’ve always championed women’s rights, now champion Edwina’s right to choose her own course of action.”
Edwina smiled her gratitude.
“You do know what you’re about?” Faith asked quietly. “You’ve given consideration to Mr. Tho
mas’s wishes in this matter?”
“I’m assisting in decoding a note,” Edwina insisted. “Nothing more.” Though she wondered if that were true. The lure of testing her abilities against the letter was strong enough that she was determined to honor the agreed-upon rendezvous this afternoon, but not without the support of the Rake Patrol. The presence of so many Japanese fans last night, which she suspected was connected to Casanova, combined with Walter’s suggestion that Trewelyn was attached to his sister’s untimely death, had kept sleep at bay half the night . . . or perhaps it was that kiss that caused her to resist sleep. She sighed at the memory.
“Did you say something?” Faith asked.
Edwina shook her head. “Just tired from the late evening, I suppose. I was just reminding myself not to be swayed by Casanova’s abundant charms.”
Faith nodded. “Good advice.”
• • •
ASHTON ASSUMED HIS FATHER WOULD BE IN HIS STUDY. Ever since Ashton had returned to his father’s residence, he’d noted it was the one room his father rarely left. A knock on the doorframe caused his father to pause in rolling an inked stamp of Falcon Freight’s trademark—a falcon head enclosed in a circle—across an envelope. “It’s our mon,” his father had explained when he was a boy. “An emblem the Japanese use to distinguish a family or organization. Falcons are fierce fighters that fly at high speeds, like us,” he had said, patting his chest. Strange that even as a young boy, he hadn’t asked why his father had adopted a Japanese symbol for his business. At the time Ashton seemed to recall many Japanese influences in the home. More so than now.
Two Japanese swords with elaborately tooled hilts hung on his father’s study wall: a katana and its shorter companion sword, a wakizashi. Both were suspended by four fiercely decorated netsukes. He’d have to show these to Edwina so she could see that not all the netsukes were as . . . stimulating as those in the gallery.
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