The Casanova Code
Authors: Donna MacMeans
“Donna MacMeans’s . . . books will keep you turning the pages late into the night.”*
P
RAISE
FOR
D
ONNA
M
AC
M
EANS
AND
HER
NOVELS
“Be ready to laugh and cry. I can’t wait for other books from this author.” —Karen Harper,
New York Times
bestselling author
“MacMeans writes with grace and wit.” —
Booklist
“[A] sweet, sexy, and smartly told Victorian romance.” —
Publishers Weekly
“Wonderfully wicked and deliciously sensual.” —
Romance Junkies
“Donna MacMeans writes with intelligence and panache . . . An author for your ‘must-have’ list. Don’t miss this one.” —*
TwoLips Reviews
“[MacMeans] grabs the reader from the onset and takes her on an unforgettable ride.” —
Affaire de Coeur
(5 stars)
“A fun Victorian romance with a touch of fantasy.” —
Genre Go Round
Reviews
“Oh, what a joy to read! Truly humorous . . . Wonderful writing.” —
The Romance Readers Connection
“Original and charming.” —
A Romance Review
“A fun and fascinating tale that readers are sure to enjoy.” —
Historical Romance Writers
“[MacMeans] knows how to make the pages sizzle and play on readers’ fantasies.” —
Romantic Times
Berkley Sensation Books by Donna MacMeans
THE EDUCATION OF MRS. BRIMLEY
THE TROUBLE WITH MOONLIGHT
THE SEDUCTION OF A DUKE
REDEEMING THE ROGUE
THE CASANOVA CODE
T
HE
Casanova Code
D
ONNA
M
AC
M
EANS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE CASANOVA CODE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Donna MacMeans.
Excerpt from
A Lady Never Lies
by Juliana Gray copyright © 2012 by Juliana Thomas.
Cover design by George Long.
Cover art by Aleta Rafton.
Cover hand lettering by Ron Zinn.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-56909-2
BERKLEY SENSATION
®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION
®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Stephen King once described story ideas as being buried in the ground. All the writer had to do was dig the ideas up. If that’s the case, there were many hands on that shovel. I’d like to thank a few.
Thank you to Libby McCord and the MR-Debuts group for finding a
New York Times
article on Victorian personal ads. It was that article that initially got the creative juices flowing.
I took that article to Cassondra Murray, Jeanne Adams, and Nancy Northcott and said, “I think I can do something with this.” They helped me flesh out the series concept and pushed me over some plot hurdles. Special kudos go to Nancy, who late one night uttered the words “Rake Patrol.” That “sealed the deal” and provided a name for the series.
A special thank-you goes to Rene Michaels. She suggested the idea of cryptograms when I despaired that crossword puzzles hadn’t been invented in my time period. As it turns out, codes and ciphers became the backbone of the story, all because of her Facebook suggestion. Serendipity works that way sometimes, adding a magical element to the process of writing. I hope you like what I did with your suggestion, Rene.
Thank you to the Romance Bandits. I couldn’t ask for more supportive friends.
Finally, as always, thank you to my understanding and supportive family. It is your love that allows me to indulge in my passion.
P
ATTERNS
. E
DWINA
H
ARGROVE
NOTICED
THEM
everywhere, in the design of the teacup on the table before her, in the ebb and flow of voices at the Crescent Coffee Palace, even in the grain of the wood beneath her feet. The order and predictability of those patterns formed the framework of her rather tedious life. When those sequences were broken, yielding new patterns requiring interpretation—Edwina smiled as she retrieved her brother’s encrypted letter from her reticule—that’s when adventures began.
Smoothing the folded stationery on the table amid the chatter of patrons, Edwina savored the thought of leaving her predictable surroundings behind, if only for a mental excursion—to unlock the secrets from the coded letter.
She had her own patterns for transcribing the code. Her journal sat to the left; a red grosgrain ribbon used to contain the overstuffed book was loosened and buried beneath the clutter. The book lay open to a page with the alphabet already inked down the side in anticipation of the coded text. The opposite page remained blank, waiting for the transcription. Fragrant steam rose from her teacup on her right, and in the middle, she’d placed her copy of
Treasure Island
, just as she did every time her brothers sent her a letter. The pirate adventure, a favored novel of both her brothers and herself, provided the key to their code.
The transcription process required concentration, the sort one would not expect in such a public setting. Nevertheless she paused, letting the ring of spoons tapping fragile porcelain and the blended voices of the Crescent patrons dissolve into the distant cry of seabirds and the thunder of the Caribbean ocean pounding a white sand beach. She mentally transformed the lingering scent of wood and aged spirits from the once popular gin palace, now a ward of the Temperance group Women for a Sober Society, into that of imagined casks of pirate’s rum. Even the current generated by the sway of a passing skirt became a gentle island breeze. Thus solidly engrained in the world of the book, and isolated from familiar reality, she bent to the task of transcribing the letter’s nonsense patterns into meaningful discourse.
Soon she was lost in the tale of her brother’s recent trip to a Caribbean sugar plantation. She scribbled out the English words almost as if her brother whispered in her ear. A sigh of yearning passed her lips. How wonderful it must be to see such things, to know a little of the world outside of London, to have unlimited possibilities for future adventures . . .
“Another letter from your brother?” Faith Huddleston peered down a moment before slipping into the chair next to Edwina’s. “It would be so much easier if they used the King’s English. I just don’t understand why they make you decipher everything.”
There was no explaining the unleashed joy of solving the mystery behind the coded letters, so she didn’t try. She’d encountered similar skepticism and annoyance from her friends before. Reluctantly, she closed her journal, then slipped the letter into the relevant pages of
Treasure Island
. She’d finish it later when she was alone. For now, she set it aside, ready to turn her attentions to her friend.
Faith tossed a copy of the
Mayfair Messenger
on the table. “The publisher didn’t run Sarah’s article on the number of birds killed for women’s hats.” Faith pulled off her gloves. “She won’t be pleased.”
A cup and saucer rattled loudly as one of the Crescent’s former barmaids placed it by Faith’s elbow. The renovation of the former gin palace into a tea-toting coffeehouse required more than just changing the gilt lettering on the windows. The barmaids had to take the Temperance pledge as well. The change had been more difficult for some than others. Faith smiled up into the woman’s lined face. “The chamomile, please.” The barmaid nodded and left.
Edwina quickly shifted through the
Messenger
’s pages, confirming the absence of Sarah’s contribution, and leaving her own black smudge on each page of newsprint.
Drat!
One of these days she’d manage to use that fountain pen without getting ink on her fingers. Filling the pen with an eyedropper each morning was a nuisance, and the pen sometimes leaked, but still this modern miracle made it possible to write without a vial of ink and for that she was grateful.
While they waited for the rest of their group, she turned to the “Personal & Misc” listings in the classified advertisements. Coded messages often lurked among the forthright and sometimes humorous ads. Men sought women, women sought men, secret arrangements were established for illicit rendezvous, and star-crossed lovers exchanged messages of longing, all on the very public pages of the
Mayfair Messenger
. Edwina scanned the column for snippets of an awkward construction, or the use of numbers instead of letters, all signs of a hidden meaning. Breaking a code was as close to adventurous as her dull life got—would ever get, she supposed. Her brothers got to experience some of the world’s excitement, but she had to stay behind in dreary London. A weary sigh escaped her lips.
“At least he ran Sarah’s column on the Abington party,” Faith continued, her eyes wistful. “She’s so lucky that she’s allowed to attend those upper-class affairs. The ladies must be something to see with their beautiful gowns and jewelry.”
“She’s not exactly invited,” Edwina reminded her. “She goes as a reporter, and an undervalued one at that. She could write circles around the men reporters if old Morrison wasn’t so set in his conservative ways.” But she had to agree with Faith’s envy. Years had passed since Edwina had last visited the world of the truly wealthy. Revisiting such opulence would be an adventure, even if viewed as an outsider.
Faith pursed her lips. “I’d still like to attend just once. Even if I were to go as —”
“Look at this!” Edwina stabbed the newsprint with her finger. “It’s in code. If you ignore every other word, the message really says: ‘Husband suspects. Not tomorrow. Watch ads.’” She looked up, pleased with her accomplishment. “She’s canceling a tryst.”
“Let me see.” Faith bent her nose toward the column. “How do you know to do that? The listing looks perfectly normal to me.” Astonishment registered in her friend’s eyes. “Why would you even consider looking at every other word?”
Edwina smiled, triumphant. “Patterns.” She shrugged. “It’s such a simple code, I’m surprised they bothered. Still, I wonder who sent it?” A smile curved her lips. “Do you think Sarah would know? Whoever placed the ad must have done so through Sarah’s station at the
Messenger
.”
The bell tacked over the Crescent entrance jangled with a discordant tone. Sarah barreled into the renovated drinking parlor like a steam engine puffing out of Victoria Station. Just as a steam engine is unmindful of the cars behind, Sarah took no notice of the fourth member of their party, Claire, who followed silently in her wake.
Sarah dropped her satchel onto an empty chair before she slipped into another. “Mr. Morrison doesn’t believe anyone would be interested in the vast quantities of birds sacrificed for women’s fashion.”
“I’m so sorry.” Faith patted her friend’s arm. “After all your research . . .”
“It’s only because you’re a woman,” Claire insisted, moving Faith’s satchel to the floor before she lowered herself into the seat. “One of these days, old man Morrison will recognize your value and remove you from the agonies.”
“You know, I dislike that reference,” Sarah scolded. “There’s more to the personal column than sad lovelorn ads and letters written in torment.” She smiled weakly, then adjusted her glasses. “However, I hope you’re right.”
“But in the meantime . . .” Edwina hesitated. “Do you know who placed this ad?” She turned the paper so both Sarah and Faith could see.
“‘For my darling husband,’” Sarah read. “‘Who suspects tenderness not neglect, tomorrow awaits. Watch praising ads multiply.’” Sarah grimaced and released the newsprint. “It’s not as well written as Faith’s poetry, but Mrs. Bottomsly wanted a tribute to her husband.”
Edwina exchanged a satisfied look with Faith, who retrieved the paper from the table.
“What?” Sarah asked, looking from one to the other. “We just print what we’re paid to print. We don’t edit the personal ads for content.” She poured some tea from Faith’s pot into the empty cup that appeared by her wrist. “No one wants to pay a few pence more for extra words even if urgently needed.”
“Look at this one. It’s so sweet.” Faith sighed, then smirked at Edwina. “And it’s not in code.” She read it alone for the benefit of all.
A refined gentleman, age 25, of wealth and education, seeks the acquaintance, with a view to matrimony, of a high-minded, kindhearted lady who prefers an evening of quiet conversation and a good book to the lively demands of society. Address box 8 at
The Mayfair Messenger.
“He’s not a gentleman.” Sarah scowled and sipped her tea. “Refined or otherwise.”
“You know who placed this ad?” Faith asked, her eyes widened.
Sarah looked about the room as if she were about to share the Queen’s secrets. “Ashton Carswell Trewelyn the Third.”
The collective resulting gasp turned the heads of the other patrons.
“Casanova . . .” Claire whispered with disdain.
“You saw him?” Faith asked, awe in her voice. “Was he as handsome as they say?”
Sarah nodded. “I can understand the attraction. He has these high cheekbones with hollows beneath and intense dark eyes and lips that . . .” She blew out a breath that lifted the loose hairs framing her face. “I can understand the attraction.”
“That man knows no restraint.” Claire bent her head closer to the others. “I’ve heard that because of him, five otherwise decent women have been unexpectedly bundled off to the Continent for an extended stay.” She hesitated. “All within two months of each other.”
Everyone gasped.
“My brothers told me that he was tossed out of every school in England on moral grounds,” Edwina murmured, though she had no knowledge what moral grounds those had been. At the time she had difficulty accepting that news. His name, Trewelyn, so resembled the name of the noble squire from
Treasure Island
that she had trouble separating the two. Even today, she felt as if someone had slowly stroked a feather down the inside of her arm just at the mention of his name.
“Didn’t he leave the country?” Faith asked, pulling Edwina from her reverie.
“I thought my brothers said he joined the King’s Royal Rifles,” Edwina offered.
“He’s returned, and he’s even more handsome than before,” Sarah said. “His years away have given him a harder edge, a sort of dangerous quality that . . . well, I don’t recall before.” She leaned forward. “Lately when I go to those dinners and dances on behalf of the
Messenger
, the question is always if Casanova will make an appearance. All the single women hope he’ll be in attendance. Some of the married ones too.”
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.