The Casanova Code Page 2

  Claire scowled, then turned the paper around so she could read the ad. “Why would London’s most notorious rake advertise for a kindhearted lady who prefers quiet conversation—”

  “And enjoyment of a good book,” Faith added with a wistful gleam in her eye.

  “—over the lively demands of society?” Edwina finished, a bit envious. Such a notorious rake must live an exciting life, much more so than her own dull routine.

  “I can think of only one reason,” Sarah said, shifting to the back of her chair. Her sober face studied each of them in turn. “Debauchery.”

  “Sarah!” Edwina straightened, drawn back into the conversation. Faith merely mouthed the sinful word without giving it voice. “You don’t know that.”

  “Think of it,” Sarah insisted. “Gentle women, quiet women, respond to his ad in pursuit of love and affection. He lures them to his lecherous lair and seduces them into trading their innocence for a life of scandal and degradation.” Sarah rummaged through her reticule for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “That’s how it happened with my sister.”

  “Ashton Carswell Trewelyn the Third?” Faith’s jaw dropped.

  “No, not him,” Sarah said with a shake of her head. “But someone like him. He got her in the family way and then abandoned her. My dear sister didn’t live long enough to hold little Nan in her arms.”

  They all knew the sad story. Sarah was raising her niece as her own child and had sought her current position at the Messenger as a means for her support. As much as they derided Morrison for failing to publish Sarah’s serious articles, they were grateful he’d offered her employment in her time of need. The friends sat in silence to allow Sarah time to gather her composure.

  Ashton Carswell Trewelyn the Third. Edwina remembered him from her own two failed seasons years ago, before she gave up the illusion of a man falling at her feet and pleading his undying devotion. Trewelyn had been dashing back then, debonair in his evening tails, and desired by all the young women. He had smiled at her once, but she hadn’t the coquettish looks, or the charm, or the connections to draw men like honey to her side. She certainly hadn’t the allure to attract Casanova. After that brief moment, he returned to his wealthy friends . . . and one beautiful woman in particular . . . what was her name? She remembered watching them on the dance floor; they had moved so eloquently, so full of grace as if they were one person. Edwina recalled the woman had the smallest waistline she’d ever seen, and a strange sort of laugh. Trewelyn hadn’t glanced Edwina’s way again. He’d ignored her, just like so many others.

  “I wrote a poem about him once,” Faith admitted. “I fancied him an angel cast to earth.”

  “From hell, more likely,” Sarah grumbled.

  “We can’t let this occur,” Claire insisted. “We can’t let him take advantage of innocent women.” Ever since Claire had become involved with Women for a Sober Society, Edwina had noticed her passion for platforms. Sometimes the cause didn’t matter, just the related call to action.

  “How can we stop him?” Sarah asked. “I had to run the ad even though I suspected it was a deception. I have Nan to consider.”

  Faith patted her hand in sympathy. “Casanova’s lecherous actions are not your fault.”

  “Surely we can use your connections to the Messenger to thwart his scheme of seduction,” Claire said, gathering a head of steam. “Think, ladies.”

  “Will you see the responses to his ad?” Edwina asked.

  “Only the envelopes,” Sarah replied. “I’m not allowed to open them. I could lose my position.”

  “Some of those envelopes will have the return address on the back,” Faith said. “We could at least warn those women.”

  “He may not have set his sights on all the replies,” Edwina said thoughtfully. “It would be better if we knew which responses interested him the most, then concentrated our efforts there.”

  “And how are we to do that?” Faith asked. “It’s not as if we can sneak into his residence and see which responses he favors. We might as well follow him about London to see whom he meets.” Faith laughed at the absurdity of her suggestion.

  Follow Casanova about London? Edwina brightened at the thought. While she wasn’t as convinced as Sarah that the ad was for evil intent, the diversion of following a rake about London had an appeal. Surely this would pose an adventure more stimulating than simply transcribing her brothers’ exploits. “I’ll do it,” Edwina stated. “I’ll follow him.”

  “You can’t follow Trewelyn around London!” Sarah exclaimed. “What would your family think?”

  “I can,” Edwina protested. By far this would be the most daring feat she’d ever attempted. Jim Hawkins from Treasure Island must have felt a similar twinge of anticipation before boarding that ship. The lure of adventure was just too tempting to resist. “My father is so involved with the Perkins case, he won’t know that I’m not about. My mother is barely home as it is with all her clubs and organizations. I could be Trewelyn’s shadow, and he won’t even know I’m there.” Given that she escaped his notice at the ball two years ago, she could state this last with an air of confidence.

  “What about your Mr. Thomas?” Faith asked. “Won’t he disapprove?”

  “I don’t know,” Edwina replied, defiance in her voice. But she did know. Walter would not approve of anything that involved risk or adventure. Handpicked by her father from among his employees to squire her around town, he thought of himself as her beau. And why not? She hadn’t a host of other men competing for her attention. If it weren’t for the fact that being in Walter’s company allowed her a certain measure of freedom, she would have ended their relationship. “I do know that Mr. Thomas has binoculars that he uses to watch birds. I’m certain he will let me borrow them.”

  Sarah’s skepticism showed in her eyes.

  “I’ll watch him from afar, Sarah. No harm will come of it.”

  “She could try,” Faith said. “What is there to lose?”

  “I don’t know, Edwina.” Sarah gave voice to her uncertainty. “I’m not certain this will work, and it could prove dangerous. Besides, your actions could anger Mr. Thomas. While you may not appreciate it now, a potential husband is nothing to gamble away. One never appreciates security until they have none.”

  Edwina took her hand. “If we save one woman from the fate of your sister, it would be worth the risk.” Admittedly she had her doubts that her secret observations would lead to such results, but if they did, London would most assuredly be a safer place. Still, reluctance registered in Sarah’s eyes. “I won’t do anything foolish, Sarah. I promise.”

  Edwina held her friend’s gaze until skepticism reluctantly turned to acceptance.

  “And if we’re successful, as I’m certain we will be,” Claire said, “we can do this for other questionable personal ads as well. We’ll protect innocent women.”

  “We’ll be the Rake Patrol,” Faith whispered.

  “The Rake Patrol,” Sarah said softly, testing the sound.

  Edwina lifted her teacup, inviting the others to do the same. “To the Rake Patrol.”

  The four carefully clinked their cups, then grinned as their pact was formed. After each took a dutiful sip of the cold tea, Edwina replaced her cup on the saucer. “Now, ladies, let us plan how this is to be done . . .”

  • • •

  THE BASE OF HIS NECK TINGLED, A WARNING NOT FELT since his service with the fourth battalion of the King’s Rifles. Ashton looked about the stark environs of the Mayfair Messenger’s office. He suspected he was under unfriendly scrutiny, and by someone in addition to the woman clerk behind the wooden counter, who kept glancing his way when she thought he wouldn’t notice. He remembered her from when he’d initially placed the ad. Based on her reaction to his appearance then, one would have thought that he crawled unbathed from a sewer to place an
advertisement in the newspaper. Under the circumstances, he decided to wait patiently for a well-attired young lady to conclude her business before he subjected himself again to the clerk’s overt disapproval. The Mayfair Messenger had become known for its personal ads, just as the Pall Mall Gazette was known for its coverage of social issues, or The Illustrated London News for its woodcuts. They each had their specialty, but Ashton had to admit, the Messenger’s niche appeared to be a lucrative one.

  The young woman turned away from the counter. The instant she’d spotted him near the door, her cheeks had flushed an attractive pink. After a moment’s hesitation, she’d patted her hair and issued a seductive smile. Ashton opened the door, then tipped his hat as she passed by, just as any gentleman would. Yet she paused, issuing a brazen unspoken invitation with her eyes. He remembered a time when he would have led the lady to a less public location to explore the pleasures her gaze requested. But today he slowly shook his head. She nodded and continued on her way. Though he never understood why his appearance managed to elicit that almost universal reaction, it was what it was and he’d become accustomed to it. He returned inside, removed his hat, then stepped up to the counter.

  “The replies in box eight, if you please.” He held the marker he’d been given to claim the responses to his search for a suitable companion for James, the man responsible for saving his life in Burma. Though finding a partner for a man disfigured by his courageous act seemed a small payment for his sacrifice, it allowed Ashton to utilize his one God-given gift, his ability to attract women, for the benefit of another. One far worthier than himself, truth be told. During those dark, pain-ridden nights when the two of them recuperated in a primitive hospital, Ashton had composed a long list of past wrongs that he planned to right, friendships he planned to mend, should God grant him the time and ability to do so. He would make a difference in the world, leave some value behind in case the next bullet struck a vital organ. He could start with this one kindness and work his way forward, so that he might be known for something other than his ability to dance and charm.

  “Your ad met with success.” The lady clerk smiled, an event so unexpected and transforming of her features that Ashton was taken aback. She stacked a small quantity of letters before him.

  Strange. This very same clerk wouldn’t spare him the time of day last week. Now she embodied the very symbol of cooperation. “Do you wish to continue your ad for another week?”

  “All this resulted from one ad?” There must be twenty letters in that pile. “I had anticipated only one or two responses.”

  “London is filled with honest women seeking companionship,” the clerk said, her eyes warm and helpful. He truly must have caught her on a bad day before. That, or the lady had a friendly twin. A particularly licentious memory from years ago brought a smile to his lips. He’d had some experience with twins.

  Did a flicker of disgust just flash in the clerk’s eyes? Or was that merely a reflection off the lenses of her spectacles? No matter. The clerk’s demure smile obscured any ill feelings. “Responses are bound to be plentiful when the ad is placed by a refined and educated man such as yourself.”

  “You recall the ad?” he said, surprised. “Given the number of advertisements that must slide across this very counter, you must possess a remarkable memory.”

  “It is a consequence of my position to associate the faces of the advertisers with the ads they place.” She hesitated a moment, then glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “I assume you intend to interview the respondents?”

  “That had been my initial intention, yes.” He ran his finger across the edges of the envelopes. “However, I hadn’t planned on so many replies.”

  She brightened. “You may find that some are unsuitable once you read their letters. The others . . .” She pushed her spectacles further up the bridge of her nose. “If I may be so bold, sir, have you given any thought as to where you intend to interview the others?”

  Ashton straightened. “I believe that’s a personal matter—”

  The clerk leaned forward. “I only meant to caution that an honest, respectable woman might have difficulty meeting a bachelor in his own quarters.”

  “That is true.” His lips quirked. He should’ve thought of that before.

  “So you might want to consider arranging a meeting in a public location. Are you familiar with the recently renovated Crescent Coffee Palace?”

  He frowned. “Coffee Palace? I thought the Crescent was known for . . . beverages of another nature.”

  “It has something of an illustrious past,” the clerk admitted. “However, Women for a Sober Society has renovated the building, and it now offers a variety of wholesome food and drinks of a more genteel nature.”

  Teetotalers. He winced. “Have you been to this new Crescent?”

  “I have, sir.” She smiled. “It is the reason I can recommend the location as perfect for your purposes.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. The clerk certainly would have more experience and knowledge of such matters than he. He supposed she dispensed this sort of advice with some regularity. Perhaps the Crescent would be best. He began to stuff the envelopes into his pocket.

  “And, of course, you’ll need a method to identify the woman,” the clerk continued.

  “Identify her?” Another detail he hadn’t considered. Who would have thought finding a woman for James would prove so difficult?

  “Of course, sir. There will be many women of quality at the Crescent. You should employ some method to distinguish the lady responding to your advertisement from the other patrons.”

  It had been Ashton’s experience that most women managed to recognize him immediately. Or, if an attractive, engaging woman had only recently arrived in London, he generally knew someone who could intercede with an introduction. This meeting of strange women was problematic.

  “Ask her to carry a rose,” the clerk said suddenly. “There’s a florist near the Crescent. Securing the flower would not be difficult.”

  “A rose . . .” It was a romantic notion worthy of one of those Austen books. He could place a bud in the buttonhole of his lapel. A woman with a single rose should be easy to spot. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  Delight spread across the clerk’s face, again transforming her into a much younger woman. Obviously she hadn’t experienced an easy life or she would not be employed in a newspaper office. Ashton briefly wondered if his own face carried the travails of his years in Burma. His aching leg certainly did.

  “Thank you,” he said, sweeping the last of the letters from the counter. He secured some in his inside pocket before stuffing others in his coat pocket. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  All should be fine as long as Constance did not discover the letters. He’d planned to meet with her and young Matthew in Regent’s Park after this stop at the Messenger. While two letters would have been easy to conceal, twenty or so might catch her attention. With her sharp tongue, she’d eviscerate any kind woman daring enough to respond to an ad. Constance knew a thing or two about “daring.”

  Ashton removed a few shillings from his pocket and placed them on the counter. “For your assistance.”

  Color bloomed in the clerk’s cheeks, but as he turned, he heard the scraping of metal across wood. As he suspected, times could be difficult. He left the office, leaning more heavily on his walking stick. A change of weather must be in the air.

  The prickling at his nape resumed even as he left the newspaper office. Pausing a moment, he searched for the unseen assailant. He’d foolishly thought he’d left combat behind when he departed the Royal Rifles with a bullet in his thigh. Instead, he’d returned to a household riddled with conflict. He hadn’t sorted out all the issues as yet. No one really spoke except young Matthew, and his governess hushed him at every opportunity. One didn’t need words to sense the powder keg of tension, or
the feeling that somehow he might be the match to ignite it all.

  Scanning the street, he noted nothing out of the ordinary, except a lovely young woman with hair the color of sunlight. She stood next to one of those safety bicycles that seemed to be the latest craze, angling her binoculars toward a copse of trees. What the devil was she studying there—pigeons? It was not as if the grays of London were disturbed with colorful birds like those of Burma. A smile tipped his lips with the memory. Some of Burma’s heat would be appreciated on this cool spring day. London may not have been the best choice for his recuperation, but at the time, he had thought it was the easiest. He’d been mistaken there as well.

  He glanced back at the girl. Surely a comely bird enthusiast posed no threat, especially one that should be the object of study rather than some feathered creature likely to end up on a dinner plate. He couldn’t imagine danger coming from that quarter. No, the warning must be something else. Something not visible, not yet.

  He patted his pocket, feeling the packet of envelopes tucked there, then climbed into his carriage. Constance and her son were waiting. He’d promised Matthew he’d show him the tigers, at least the ones behind bars. If nothing else, Matthew had been a delight in Ashton’s homecoming. Perhaps as the boy matured, Ashton would be able to teach him how to spot the predatory tigers who didn’t wear stripes to warn of their ferocity. Tigers that hid behind serene human faces but had the ability to carve out one’s heart with a single swipe. Tigers like Matthew’s mother.

  • Two •

  ONE MORE CUP OF TEA AND EDWINA WAS QUITE certain her skin would turn scaly and gills would form on her neck. Sarah had instructed her to watch for a woman carrying a rose. But as they weren’t certain when exactly the dashing Casanova would begin to interview women for his sordid affaires, the ladies of the Rake Patrol each took turns holding afternoon vigilance at the Crescent Coffee Palace. Today marked Edwina’s turn.