The Casanova Code

by Donna MacMeans

  The kitten’s head popped up out of the drawer with the middle of one of Edwina’s white silk stockings clasped in her sharp kitten teeth. The bulge in the closed end of the stocking confirmed Edwina’s fears that the kitten had discovered the netsuke. Edwina struggled to keep the panic from her face. She wasn’t certain what was worse, that her mother would discover the erotic piece in her possession, or that the expensive artifact would be damaged from the kitten’s play. Neither possibility was favorable.

  “What sort of radical behavior?” Edwina asked in an attempt to keep her mother’s attention focused on her and not the kitten’s antics.

  “Riding that bicycle of yours to start. Proper young women do not ride bicycles.”

  “Princess Beatrice was rumored to ride a tricycle.”

  “And she didn’t marry until she was twenty-eight,” her mother argued. She shook her head. “One wonders if even that would have occurred if she wasn’t a royal. We do not have that in our favor. Your future husband—”

  “You mean, Mr. Thomas,” Edwina said sadly. The stocking fell to the floor with a thump. Isabella jumped to the floor in pursuit, then dragged the stocking under the bed. At least the netsuke wasn’t visible, though that could change in a moment with a well-timed kitten stroke.

  “Yes, Mr. Thomas.” Her mother sighed. “I’m certain it’s your insistence on riding that bicycle that has kept him from offering for your hand.” The sound of racing paws and the uneven roll of the carved netsuke filled the silence after her mother’s pronouncement. “Whatever has that kitten gotten hold of?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Edwina quickly replied. “Probably just a thread spool. Something Kathleen left behind, I imagine.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her mother frowned toward the floor. “It sounds heavier than a spool. Let me take a look.” She began to get down on a knee.

  “No.” Panicked, Edwina pulled on her arm. “You don’t want to get down on the dirty floor. You’ll be mussed for your card party.” Her mother glanced up, considering. Edwina needed to get her out of the room before it was too late, so she did the unthinkable. “I promise to stop riding my bicycle if that’s what you prefer. I’ll do better to garner Walter’s approval.” She glanced toward the door. “You don’t want to be late for Lady Sutton’s, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” her mother said, rising to her feet. “I’m sorry to ask you to give up something you enjoy, but once you are married, you’ll appreciate the necessity.” She kissed Edwina on the forehead. “You have a pleasant evening, dear.”

  As soon as the bedroom door closed, Edwina took a deep breath of relief, then got down on hands and knees. “Come here, you rascal.” She retrieved both the kitten and her prize. “You’re bound and determined to get me in trouble, aren’t you?”

  Cradling the cat in one hand, she emptied the stocking on her bed so she could inspect the erotic carving for scratches or marks. What would her mother think of the small innocuous sculpture if she knew of it? Would she suspect it was something a courtesan may have worn on her person? Edwina ran her fingers over the smooth, centuries-old carving. A small thrill tingled her rib cage. What would the Perennial Society say? The Ladies Society for Good Works? She almost laughed, but she didn’t wish to attract anyone’s attention. Possession of such an item would not be smiled upon by any of those groups . . . or by Walter.

  In fact, if he knew she had it, he might think twice about the engagement that her parents had assumed was a certainty. The man thought riding a bicycle was radical and breaking codes peculiar. What would he say if he knew she’d been in Trewelyn’s secret chamber? Ashton’s voice whispered in her memory. “I know you, Miss Hargrove. You are a modern woman who rides bicycles and breaks conventions as easily as breaking my poor devoted heart.”

  She certainly was going to break convention tonight. Edwina dropped the netsuke in her reticule, anxious to return it before its absence was noted. So much anxiety over a small carved piece of wood.

  Glancing up, she caught her reflection in the small circular mirror suspended on the wall. She was not a striking beauty, not in the manner of those with whom Ashton associated. His reputation had been well documented. He was, as Sarah said, not the marrying kind, not like Walter. A lump gathered in her throat. Not like Walter.

  An earlier conversation played in her mind. “What do you wish for me, Mother?”

  “I wish for you to be married and have lots of children. No woman can be happy without marriage. No woman can be secure. That’s what I want for you. Security.”

  Security meant that she must return the troublesome carving to the gallery. Security meant she had to forsake the things in life that gave her pleasure. Security meant that she would ultimately give up her association with Ashton Trewelyn, . . . but not tonight. Tonight she needed to break convention one more time.

  Just then her mother opened her bedroom door. “I almost forgot to mention that your father has already left this evening. I’m sorry to leave you home alone, dear, but I know you’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll probably just go to bed early,” Edwina said, stroking her kitty to induce deep purring. “Enjoy your evening.”

  • • •

  ASHTON PACED, LISTENING TO THE CLOCK TOLLING THE hour while he waited for Edwina’s arrival. Everything was falling in place. The house was almost completely empty, with the remaining servants cautioned to remain belowstairs. Similar demands had been common back in his Casanova days. He guessed from the slight upturn of lips that the staff had assumed the old Ashton Trewelyn had finally returned. In fact, they had most likely cast wagers on when the event was to occur. Good. Their celebrations would keep them out of sight.

  Would she come? Never had he so intensely anticipated a woman’s arrival as he had this woman’s. Of course, never had he felt such a connection with another, as he did with Edwina. Until he saw her at the theater, he hadn’t really considered using the convenient departure of both of his parents for anything more absorbing than settling down with a good book and a fine brandy while he waited to hear of the Guardians’ decision. However, the moment he saw her in the black silk with the oranges that were so reminiscent of her scent, and noted the way her eyes sparkled when their glances met, he knew he had to see her in private. Others may wear fringes and falderal, but Edwina’s simple elegance outshone them all. He wasn’t certain additional coded messages even existed, or that, if they did, such additions would help in cracking a code that had thus far defied Edwina’s talents. However, if using the lure of additional notes would bring her to him in private, and to the secret chamber at that, well—he wasn’t above resorting to Casanova’s tricks.

  On one hand, he didn’t like that he was exploiting her innocence and trust, but on the other, he couldn’t help himself. He was, after all, only a man, and Edwina was . . . Edwina. He’d lusted for her from the first time she stood in the gallery proclaiming herself a modern woman. His groin tightened with the memory. The promise of having her was far more seductive than he realized, and Walter, fool that he was, had left her alone with an out-of-practice but well-experienced scoundrel.

  Of course, she could decline his suggestion that he needed her assistance. Even he had to admit it was a thin ploy. As Edwina suggested, he could search without involving another in the process. Most women would laugh in his face at such an outrageous invitation. If she decided not to come, he would accept that she was wise to his ways and had disregarded his amorous inclinations. He would seek information about the code from the Guardians themselves. He would work from the inside and avoid contact with the fair, delectable, highly desired, yet purely innocent Edwina.

  But what if his innocent Edwina came in expectation of actually looking for coded messages? Should she come to his residence, how would he know if she came to search, or to sin?

  The answer was obvious.

  If she insisted on
restricting her search to the perfectly respectable study, then they would look for coded messages and little else. But if she agreed to search the pillow books, then he’d know that she burned for him as he did for her. His heart pounded in his chest in a manner to compete with that bloody clock. He paced to the windows, checking once again if the carriage had returned, and praying that it would return with a passenger inside.

  • • •

  EDWINA COVERED HER HEAD WITH THE HOOD OF HER cloak. She didn’t wish Trewelyn’s neighbors to see her arrival and assume she was one of those women. Still, a thrill titillated her bones at the adventure of it all. She slipped her fingers over the cloisonné necklace of cherry blossoms that she continued to wear even after Lady Sutton’s soiree. This would be the last night for the Mistress of Cherry Blossoms. She remembered how shocked she had been thinking that Ashton had intended to make her his mistress. Given that he’d never attempted anything more than a kiss, that supposition now seemed laughable. After tonight she would have to revert to demure, traditional behavior as per her promise to her mother. But for now she could pretend she was the sort of woman who did as she wished for the sole pleasure of the experience. How lovely such an experience must be.

  She hurried from the carriage Trewelyn had sent to the front door, which opened before her as if by magic. Then she saw him. Ashton. Waiting with open arms for her mad flight from the carriage to the town house. Without hesitation she stepped into those arms that wrapped about her as if to protect her from the night itself. The door closed behind her, sealing off the outside world. Her hood fell back on her shoulders, then Ashton’s lips discovered the sensitive skin of her neck, awakening her body as if from a long sleep.

  “You came,” he whispered. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

  She pulled back, enjoying the delicious sensation of Ashton’s stubble scraping her skin. Did Walter ever generate this kind of dark enticing stubble? She didn’t think so—all the more reason to revel in it now. “Of course, I came. You said you needed me.”

  His eyes darkened and smoldered; it was the only way to describe how the heat from his gaze affected her insides . . . or maybe it was the heat of hellfire. She could almost hear Faith whispering in her ear that now that she’d entered the devil’s playground, she could expect little else. No, she reassured herself, Ashton Trewelyn could have any woman in all of England. He would not smolder for the ordinary and maybe slightly peculiar Edwina and yet . . . his fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her back to press against his chest. Panic that he might have misunderstood her purpose in coming settled in her stomach.

  “Where do we start?” she asked in a rush, hoping to deffuse his kisses.

  His gaze unfocused, a slight smile pulled at his lips. “I’m more interested in where we stop.”

  She attempted to pull back, but his hold was strong. “Our time to look for additional notes is limited,” she said. When he didn’t immediately respond, she added, “To break the code?”

  He looked as if she were speaking gibberish, but then his eyes cleared, his lips tightened, and he released her. “Yes.” He inhaled deeply. “The notes.”

  “We should get started,” Edwina said, almost wishing she hadn’t spoken. Her lips tingled for his return. What would have happened if her decidedly practical nature hadn’t interrupted? “We only have a few hours.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. He stepped back, perhaps a bit unsteady on his feet. His eyes closed briefly as if he were offering a prayer. When he opened them again, his face had cleared of all expression except that of a reluctant expectation as if time had stopped and the world held its collective breath for the space of this one moment. “Where would you like to start?” he asked tentatively.

  She knew immediately. “The secret gallery.”

  • Fifteen •

  COULD ANY WOMAN POSSIBLY BE MORE FRUSTRATing?

  One minute she was melting in his arms, enjoying kisses placed to her intoxicating neck—at least, he knew he was enjoying them. The next minute she spoke of codes and messages as if completely unaware of the passionate heat she’d unleashed by her mere presence. And then, just as he was regaining his senses and ability to think without the narrowing focus of rampant lust, she invites him to accompany her to his father’s secret chamber of erotic works.

  Dear Lord, with those three words he thought she had answered his dreams. Desire and lust resurged that he might sweep her into his arms and carry her to the chamber to explore the wonders and intimacies of their surroundings. But he hesitated . . . something was off balance. Something wasn’t quite as it should be. She had just invited him to that shameless gallery, yet she remained wrapped tightly in her cloak, hugging that embellished sack to her chest, gazing at him without the fire that consumed him. She didn’t fit the pattern of his expectations.

  He had thought that should she respond to his invitation to come to his residence, knowing full well that no chaperones, no family, no saviors of any sort would be present, then he would know that she was willing to ignore society’s rules to be with him. Now he wondered if his reasoning was valid, which was troublesome in itself. However, if she wasn’t here to advance the intimacy that had begun in their shared letters and conversations, then why did she insist on going to the gallery?

  “Would you like me to take your cloak and your . . . ?” He twirled his finger at the cloth bag that he assumed carried her ever-present journal.

  Her eyes rounded. “No,” she insisted. “If they were to be discovered, my presence would be known.”

  “No one is here, Edwina,” he reassured her. “There will be no interruptions.”

  She clutched the bag as if her very life depended on it. “Just to be safe, I’d like to keep them with me.”

  She led the way to the gallery—led the way—then stepped aside to watch him pull the lever, all with a strange sort of urgency, as if she couldn’t wait to get inside. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was being pursued. The thought of some sort of matrimonial trap came to mind.

  “Does someone know you’re here?” he asked suspiciously, half expecting that crazy friend of hers, Claire, to come pounding at the door.

  “No.” She looked at him as if his sanity was in question. “Why would I tell anyone? This is not exactly proper.” She looked askance. “I may be peculiar but I’m not—”

  “Who said you were peculiar?” He engaged the lever that opened the secret door, then frowned back at her. “I might describe you as many things, Edwina Hargrove, but peculiar would not be one of them. I might say you were talented, intelligent, interesting, engaging . . .” He stepped into the small passageway and opened the second door that led to the chamber of erotic prints. “Sensitive, highly desirable, adventurous—”

  “Did you say ‘highly desirable’?” She looked at him in wonder.

  Dear Lord, did she not have a clue that she made his blood turn to liquid fire? How his cock was even now straining to find her heat? How his fingers trembled with the overwhelming desire to pull her close and kiss those softly parted lips into total submission?

  He pushed open the second door to his father’s illicit and highly erotic gallery, a devil’s playground if ever one existed, then looked back over his shoulder to where she impatiently waited.

  “Absolutely.”

  • • •

  A PLEASANT TREMOR SLIPPED DOWN EDWINA’S SPINE. NO one had ever considered her highly desirable before, at least not for reasons unassociated with her father. She watched him lean on his walking stick as he fumbled to light the gas jet. She knew him to be observant and humorous from his letters, compassionate for the way he cared about his younger half brother, intelligent from his observations about the constellations and weaponry, and handsome because the sight of him took her breath away. Heat singed her cheeks. “I find you to be highly desirable as well.”

  He li
t the second jet, then turned toward her with a gleam in his eyes that made the strength in her legs dissolve like sugar in tea. She glanced quickly to the shelves that held the netsuke, reminding herself of the real reason for her visit to this chamber. Now that she’d managed to gain access to the secret gallery, she’d need to find a way to return the netsuke in her reticule to its place on the shelves without notice.

  As light filled the room, her gaze slipped to the prints on the wall. They weren’t as shocking as they had been the first time she’d seen them. And as the memory of them occupied a good deal of her wandering thoughts, they’d become immensely familiar. Once again she saw the enormous “jade stalks,” the open and weeping “heavenly gates,” the facial expressions that expressed enjoyment, the beautifully patterned robes . . .

  “How should we go about this?” Ashton stepped behind her and unfastened her cloak, then slipped it from her shoulders. His kiss placed to the back of her neck rippled throughout her entire body. Her breasts lifted; her toes curled. His voice close to her ear generated another wave of deliciousness. “Shall each of us select a pillow book and check for hidden notes, or should we look together?”

  He was teasing her, she suspected. He didn’t seem to take this evening’s mission very seriously, which had her wondering if she wasn’t here for some other purpose. “We should be able to look through the entire collection in a minimal time if we both look separately,” she pronounced. “It would be the most practical method.” Then an idea sparked. She turned to him with enthusiastic expectation. “Perhaps you’d prefer to take your pillow books into the library to check for additional correspondence there?”

  He looked at her strangely. Perhaps her functional blouse, skirt, and wide leather belt were not the appropriate attire for an evening of searching for coded messages. She glanced down the front of her outfit and then back to him.