The Casanova Code

by Donna MacMeans

  • Twenty •

  ASHTON SLUMPED IN HIS SEAT ON THE TRAIN TAKING him from Rome to Paris, the final leg in his acceptance test to join the Guardians, with an old beaten rucksack beside him. Everything of importance was packed in that sack, except the one essential he kept in his pocket. Funny. The rucksack reminded him of Edwina’s journal, overstuffed and tied with that red ribbon. He imagined her heart and soul were contained on those journal pages . . . and he hoped loving thoughts of him were written there as well. Lord, he could not wait to see her again.

  The challenge from the Guardians had arrived nine days ago in the middle of the night. His father woke him none too gently to deliver it. Ashton almost rolled over and ignored the whole trial by secret mission, but his father’s gleam of pride and expectation proved enough to roust him out of comfortable slumber. He couldn’t recall ever having seen his father look at him that way, as a responsible man with meaningful goals. He certainly had withheld that sentiment during Ashton’s Casanova days. Even a bullet wound earned while serving with the King’s Royal Rifles hadn’t resulted in that paternal slap on the back and hearty wish for success.

  He’d been instructed to leave in the middle of the night without telling anyone of his destination or purpose. He could leave no notes nor post any letters. His father assured him the Guardians would know—they had eyes and ears everywhere. For all intents and purposes, he was to vanish. This, he was assured, would be a test to see if he could keep his activities secret, a fundamental element of being a Guardian.

  He was to make his way to a small town in Italy to see a farmer who had unearthed several medieval artifacts. He was to purchase what he deemed worthy based on his finances, then report to an address in Paris for an expert to evaluate the items. The mission seemed innocent enough. No government secrets to extract, no threats to make. Just pay a farmer out of his own pocket and return eventually to London . . . and Edwina.

  It had been a long, long week, most particularly because he wasn’t even allowed to write to Edwina. He had so much to tell her he thought his head might explode. Then all the little details about the scenery he’d passed and the people he’d met would come tumbling out. He’d even ridden a bicycle! How he longed to see her face when he told her that tale. The farmer had lived so far away from the train station and he couldn’t find a horse to hire, so he’d rented a bicycle. The bone-jarring ride over earthen roads hurt his leg like nothing else, but somehow knowing that Edwina would enjoy hearing that he’d tried had kept him moving forward.

  If riding a bicycle had marked Edwina as a modern woman, did riding a bicycle make him a new man? Lord, he hoped so. He certainly felt new and confident whenever Edwina looked at him. Even his father seemed to recognize the “newness” of him, and approved of the change.

  Would his father approve of his choice of Edwina as a wife? Not that it mattered. While he would regret losing the new bond that had developed with his father as a result of his efforts in the family business and participation in the Guardians, both of which resulted from Edwina’s suggestions, the new respect and friendship would not stand in the way of his taking Edwina as a wife. He wanted her beside him always, ever into the future. The thought made him smile. Of the items he was able to hastily assemble for this trip, his most treasured were her letters. He refused to leave those behind for fear Constance would find them and destroy them. It would be like her. This way he could reread Edwina’s letters while they were apart. Once he returned and made her his wife, they would forge a new path, travel to the places she had dreamed, sample a new life, and join together each and every night.

  His groin throbbed just at the thought of seeing Edwina naked on his bed, her arms wide in invitation. He knew from the moment she offered herself to him that she was the one he wanted to be with for the rest of his natural days. Someone to love. Someone he trusted implicitly. Someone he hoped now carried his child.

  Edwina would be a wonderful mother; he saw that in her interactions with Matthew. She would be a wonderful companion, mother, lover, and wife. What more could a man ask for?

  A man could ask to get this Guardian business over with quickly so he could return home and make her his once again, that’s what. He frowned. Three days to get from Rome to Paris, a modern miracle, but not fast enough to meet his needs. He had made this same trip in reverse about a week earlier. The dismal skies and rain slashing across the windows on that journey mirrored his mood at leaving Edwina behind. He knew she’d understand why he couldn’t tell her of his quest once he returned home to explain. At least the skies had cleared by the time he reached Rome. He lost a day in traveling from Rome to the countryside, and then renting the bike to travel to the farm and back. He traveled back to Rome and then allowed himself a day to get his filthy clothes cleaned and rest his throbbing leg, the result of his bicycling experiment. Three days ago, he boarded the train for Paris and now glanced out the window while the train slowed into Montparnasse station.

  Suddenly, he sensed movement beside him. He glanced up to see a stranger with a bag that looked remarkably like his scurrying toward the rail car exit. A quick check to his side confirmed it was indeed his bag, the one that contained a few changes of clothing, three artifacts, and all of Edwina’s letters. In a moment, he was on his feet giving chase to the miscreant. He would have had him had the doors not opened to the rail station. Fellow passengers were quickly on their feet, trapping him in the aisle. He forced his way off the train, then spotted the man attempting to blend into the crowds on the platform.

  “Stop! Thief!” he yelled, pointing his cane in the thief’s direction. A gendarme on the platform blew a warning whistle and gave chase on foot. Ashton would have done the same but knew that his leg would never keep up. Then he spotted the bicycle leaning against the station wall. Tucking his cane beneath his arm, Ashton mounted the bicycle and pedaled furiously after the thief and the whistle-blowing policeman. The smooth platform made for fast progress and much easier steering than had his Italian route. Shouting warning to the foolish few in his path, he made significant progress toward his target. Pedestrians dashed and jumped out of his way, and unfortunately managed to knock the pursuing gendarme into a stack of luggage. Ashton continued past the commotion, his bag with Edwina’s letters in his sights.

  Medieval artifacts were not necessarily light affairs, as the thief most likely discovered. The sheer weight of the bag appeared to be slowing him down even as Ashton closed the distance between them. Ashton caught up with him just as the smooth train platform ended in an earthen patch filled with weeds and rocks. Letting the vehicle fly off the platform, Ashton leapt from the bicycle onto the man’s back, shoving him into the dirt. While the crook struggled to regain his footing, Ashton used his cane to snag the handle of the bag on the ground.

  Ashton pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his pocket and aimed it at the thief, who dared to reach for the rucksack handle. “Don’t.”

  The single confident command was all that was needed. The thief scrambled down the dirt embankment, leaving his prize behind. Ashton pocketed the revolver before the gendarme caught up to him, huffing from the run.

  “Are you hurt, monsieur?” the policeman asked in French.

  Ashton shook his head, then accepted the policeman’s extended arm to rise. He dusted the dirt from his pants and jacket. “Nothing that a trip home won’t fix.”

  The officer’s lips twitched. “English. I thought so.”

  “At least I fared better than that bicycle.” Ashton nodded to where the bicycle lay, its front wheel twisted at an unusual angle. “It must have landed on a rock.”

  The officer lifted the bicycle, inspecting its wheel. “Nothing that a few francs won’t fix. Plus cab fare to return home,” he said with a rueful smile. “The bicycle was mine, monsieur.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” He paid the officer more than required. After all, if it wasn’t for the use of the
bicycle, he might have lost Edwina’s letters forever. Afterwards, they shook hands, then walked back to the train station, Ashton with his bag firmly in his grasp, the officer carrying his wounded bicycle.

  “I wonder if you might tell me where I might find this address,” Ashton asked, producing a paper with his destination.

  After waiting for the warning whistle blaring from the steam engine to cease, the officer told him the hotel was within walking distance and gestured the route. Ashton waved his appreciation and started off on this final leg of his “test.”

  He followed the directions to the front of a fairly nondescript granite hotel that looked as if it had served witness to the wide tree-lined boulevard on which it had stood for centuries. Pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks while horses pulling hansoms and carriages trotted crisply down the boulevard. Good. Once this final piece of his admission test for the Guardians was completed, he shouldn’t have difficulty finding a hack to take him back to the station. Indeed, one waited patiently at the curb of the walkway. Just as Ashton stepped toward the door in the recessed entrance, a beautiful woman emerged from the hotel. She paused, tugging on her gloves, and gifted Ashton with a most alluring smile. But he wasn’t interested. He held the door open for her as a gentleman should, but he imagined the woman couldn’t transcript a single line of code and had probably never heard of Treasure Island. She wasn’t Edwina, and he wasn’t interested.

  With a slight shrug of indifference, she moved to her waiting cab, leaving a lavender scent in her wake. Ashton entered the establishment, anxious to conclude this business so he could continue on home.

  He climbed three flights of steps to reach the room noted. He knocked and waited. A voice called to him to enter. He turned the doorknob, surprised to discover it was unlocked. Obviously, he was expected. Still, he slipped his revolver in his hand, as he wasn’t certain who was doing the expecting.

  He pushed the door open. A man stood with his back toward the door at a washstand in the back of the room. A wide bed, rumpled as if hastily made, dominated the small chamber. Not surprisingly, a hint of lavender scented the air. The man turned, drying his hands with a towel. Rothwell!

  “A gun? Is that necessary, Ash?”

  “Did you expect me to embark on this wild-goose chase without one?” Ashton asked, pocketing the weapon.

  “I suppose not.” He gestured to a small sitting area. “Have a seat. Tell me of your adventures.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to find you here,” Ashton said as he lowered himself to a chair by a window. From this height, he could see over the rooftops to Luxembourg Gardens. Edwina would enjoy the gardens’ fountains and plantings. In fact, Paris would be perfect for their honeymoon, or at least the beginning of their honeymoon. There were so many places he wanted to show her. “Didn’t you warn me away from the Guardians?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t listen.” Rothwell placed a snifter of brandy near his hand before lowering himself with his own glass in hand into the chair opposite. “And I wanted to see how far you would pursue it.”

  “Is any of what you told me true?” Ashton watched his old friend carefully, not exactly certain which side he was on.

  “Everything I told you was true.” Rothwell sipped from his glass. “The Guardians are a group of moneyed individuals who use their resources to bring the world’s cultural riches to England. Just as you brought back the artifacts. May I see them?”

  Ashton moved to the bag he’d left on the bed and rummaged inside. “Are you the expert I was told would evaluate them?”

  “No. That would be Hargrove.”

  His hand paused on the reliquary that he’d wrapped in one of his old shirts. “Edwina?”

  “No. Her father is our medieval expert,” Rothwell said. His lips twitched. “But I see you’ve met his talented daughter. I’m not surprised. I imagine some habits are hard to break.”

  Ashton let the implied reference to his womanizing days slide off his back. His old reputation was what it was. Eventually, it would be forgotten, or at least be as interesting as last year’s news. He handed Rothwell the brass reliquary. “The crystal is broken and the relic missing, but with a little cleaning, I think the artwork will be exquisite. You can feel the pattern of a textured design beneath the dirt.”

  Patterns. Edwina had him thinking of patterns. Ashton hid his smile while watching Rothwell rub his finger across the crusted dirt. Did she know her father was one of the Guardians? His face twisted. “Why do you call her talented?”

  “She’s a code breaker,” Rothwell said. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but she has a natural talent for breaking codes. The Guardians have had their eye on her for some time.” He held the brass reliquary up to the light, while Ashton prepared to hand him a beaker, the second of the medieval artifacts. “This is a lovely piece. Hargrove will be pleased.”

  “Why would the Guardians have an interest in a code breaker?” It troubled him that a group of well-placed men had been watching his Edwina from afar, as if they had some ulterior purpose in mind.

  Rothwell took the beaker with painted enamel and examined it closely. “What I told you before is true. Sometimes secrets that are of interest to the Crown travel with the artifacts. It’s one of the reasons I’m a member of the Guardians. Sometimes those secrets travel in code. Access to a code breaker would be instrumental in deciding what secrets are important and which are not.”

  Ashton thought of his father’s coded note. Did the Guardians know of that communication? Were they suspicious of his father? He knew that he had been. Did the slogan for Falcon Freight finally unlock the full communication? Edwina and he were to have met to discuss her findings, but, of course, this test by the Guardians had interfered.

  He unwrapped the final artifact, a piece of limestone that had been carved in the likeness of a king, based on the crown atop his head. The nose was gone and significant effacement had occurred in the facial features, but enough artistry remained to make it an appealing purchase, or so Ashton thought.

  “So this is what made that blasted bag so heavy,” Rothwell said, taking the carving into his hands.

  The comment startled Ashton as he retraced his actions since he had stepped into the room. He couldn’t recall a time when Rothwell had lifted his bag. He glared across the small table between them. “How did you know of the bag’s weight?”

  Rothwell smiled. “It was all part of the test. We wanted to be certain that you would protect any items you were assigned to retrieve. It was of particular concern to those who worried that your wound would hinder your abilities in that area. However, Jacques reports that you were both devious and resourceful in your efforts. He said you pulled a gun on him to protect the artifacts. I found that particularly encouraging, given that these trinkets most likely mean little to you.”

  He was correct in that regard. The trinkets meant nothing, but Edwina’s letters meant everything. But Rothwell didn’t need to know that. “Are you telling me that I passed the test?”

  Rothwell lifted his glass to clink against Ashton’s. “Most definitely. Your performance will silence the critics who felt you weren’t ready, or weren’t committed enough to succeed. There is one more item I wish to discuss with you.”

  “Critics?”

  “There were some who still think of you as a skirt-chasing rake. They weren’t certain you’d take your obligations seriously enough and would put the group’s secrecy at risk. Thus the need for the test.”

  While he wasn’t surprised that his old reputation had caused skepticism, one possible skeptic concerned him. “Was my father one of the critics?”

  “Not at all; your father was outspoken on your behalf. You made quite an impression on the old man while you worked for him.”

  Surprise jolted through him. His father had kept that impression well hidden. Again, working for his father was a
nother of Edwina’s suggestions. The Guardians thought she was talented due to her code-recognition abilities. They didn’t know the half of it. He sipped his brandy. “So what was the other matter you wished to discuss?”

  “I understand you’ve been working on a rifle scope.”

  Not only did he spill brandy down the front of his last clean shirt, but the alcohol at the back of his throat took a different turn. The resulting burning windpipe made it difficult to take a breath. “How . . . you . . .”

  “How did I know?” Rothwell interrupted. “You’ve been working with Thomas Harris & Son on the optics. Harris is one of our members and speaks very highly of you.”

  Ashton was beginning to wonder who wasn’t a member of the Guardians.

  “He says you’ve developed a mount for the Martini-Henry rifle and have been working with him regarding the placement of a modified scope for maximum eye relief—whatever that is.”

  Ashton’s voice was weak, but at least he could form a sentence. “It’s a term for the space—”

  “Don’t bother explaining. It means nothing to me. Given your experience with the King’s Royal Rifles, I would imagine it’s important to you and the men who use that particular rifle.”

  Ashton nodded, wondering what this discussion was leading to.

  “And as those men who use the Martini-Henry rifle are important to the Crown, I’d like to extend a contract to purchase sufficient quantities of these new rifle scope mounts.”

  Ashton thought his jaw might hit the floor. Harris had one prototype rifle scope mount. One. “What exactly do you mean by sufficient quantities?”

  “I’d like to outfit every Martini-Henry rifle with one of these mounts. Your father is knowledgeable about the delivery of mass quantities. Harris is knowledgeable about the optics and can help you with the production. All you need to do is set up a facility to produce the product.” Rothwell frowned. “That is unless you’re adverse to being in trade.”