The Casanova Code (22 page)

“Cultures?”

“Trewelyn, Sr. was involved in his father’s shipping business and thus had traveled the world over by the age of eighteen. He married a young woman who brought money and connections into the family business, according to the wishes of his parents.” She turned and stuffed the envelopes into a wall of cubbyholes. “You’re aware that she died giving birth to Ashton.”

That information solidified in a lump in Edwina’s throat. “No . . . I didn’t know that.” Poor Ashton. He never knew his real mother, never experienced that deep abiding love a mother feels for her newborn. “I knew she’d died of course,” Edwina managed somewhat awkwardly. “But I didn’t know of the circumstances.”

“Of course, after she was gone, his father retained a series of nannies, nursemaids, and governesses—”

“Was one of them Japanese?” Edwina asked on a hunch.

Sarah stopped her envelope sorting and turned toward Edwina. “How did you know?” She peered over her glasses. “That’s where the scandal comes in. It’s the main reason Mrs. Morrison remembers Trewelyn.”

“Scandal?”

Sarah put the envelopes down and leaned on the counter, lowering her voice. “When he returned from a shipping venture to the Orient, he brought a woman with him and installed her in his house. Can you imagine? It was said she had full authority over the child and the servants, even though she rarely spoke and knew only a little English.”

Edwina could imagine very well. The Japanese artifacts scattered throughout the house had to be the result of someone who appreciated the culture, and to appreciate such a thing, one must have had some sort of strong influence. The secret gallery was most likely an indication of the type of influence.

Sarah returned to filing her envelopes. “She would have been a most irregular woman to hire to care for his son, yet he did just that. To make matters worse, he even tried to introduce the woman in society. He took her to plays and refused house parties that would not include her as a guest. One wouldn’t attempt that with an English governess much less a Japanese one.”

“There were repercussions?” Edwina wasn’t certain which shocked Sarah more, that the governess was Japanese or that Ashton’s father attempted to elevate her position.

“Of course! His father, Ashton’s grandfather, cut his son off from the shipping business. That’s how the freight business began. Mrs. Morrison wasn’t exactly certain what led to the decision to replace the governess. She seemed to recall some incident at a dinner party where Trewelyn, Sr. brought the woman. Soon after, she left his employ and London, it seems. Mrs. Morrison thought she recalled the girl got mixed up with someone else in the freight trade, but she wasn’t certain. She only remembered that the girl refused to adopt proper attire. She insisted on wearing those silk robes wherever she went. That’s what made the whole affair so memorable.”

“Did she remember the woman’s name?”

Before Sarah could answer, the bells above the door jangled again and Edwina reluctantly moved to the back of the room.
Christopher!
These interruptions might be necessary but must they occur at such critical junctures? The patron bent over the counter to write a message on a form. Sarah glanced over the man’s head toward Edwina, then silently shook her head in answer. Edwina would have been tempted to bet her journal that the woman’s name began with an “S.”

It all made a sort of sense. As she decoded the letter last night, she was struck by the expressions of dedication and devotion. Trewelyn, Sr. and the mysterious “S” shared an intimate connection that had survived years. The thought made her smile, thinking of the range of emotions Ashton’s letters had brought her. The edgy anticipation whenever the postman made his rounds, the intense pleasure of opening the envelope and reading Ashton’s words, the disappointment and longing when the reading was complete. Did those emotions lessen with the passage of time? She suspected the answer was no, placing the correspondents in a heaven and hellish existence. She felt sympathy and a sudden appreciation of Ashton’s father that she hadn’t felt before. Would Ashton feel the same?

But why were the letters sent in code? Perhaps the answer lay in Mrs. Morrison’s comment of a competitor in the freight industry. Certainly the coded messages she read in the
Messenger
spoke of entangled relationships where one or both were married. It was sad, really. That two people who so obviously loved each other would be separated by more than distance.

The jangle of the door bell pulled her from her thoughts. With the customer gone, Edwina returned to the counter.

“Did Mrs. Morrison mention anything about Calcutta?” It was the puzzle piece Edwina had not yet fitted into the pattern.

“No,” Sarah said. “But she did invite me to return for a visit sometime. She was a fascinating woman, and very proud of her grandson, I might add.”

From the look on Sarah’s face, Edwina imagined that the grandmother wasn’t the only one proud of Mr. Morrison’s accomplishments.

“So . . .” Edwina’s lips tilted in a mischievous smile. “Have you spoken to Mr. Morrison?”

The arrival of another customer brought their meeting to a close. Edwina thanked Sarah for her information and exited from the office. She glanced at her locket watch once she reached the bustling street. It was time to meet with Ashton at the park to tell him of the letter’s contents. Even the darkening clouds building in the sky could not lessen her soaring spirits. She waved her handkerchief to signal a hansom. A bicycle could not take her to her love fast enough.

T
HE
TIGER
CAGE
AT
THE
ZOOLOGICAL
GARDENS
IN
Regent’s Park had always been popular among gray-attired governesses and their noisy young charges, so it was hardly surprising that a crowd had gathered in front of the striped Bengal tiger that paced relentlessly behind thick iron bars. The unruly children were silenced, however, when of all the peering faces that day, of all the gesturing hands and awed stares, the tiger stopped its constant movement and fixated its goldenrod stare on none other than Edwina. Without so much as a growl, the beast sat and narrowed its gaze of pure desperation toward her, toward someone who was once a kindred spirit.

Edwina understood how it felt to be trapped, though her bars weren’t visible to any but herself. Bars that were slowly lowering, boxing her into a future she hadn’t chosen for herself. Bars that would lock in place once her father announced her engagement to Walter. Her dreams of exploring the world would be given as much consideration as her childhood aspirations to be a pirate.

But loving Ashton had changed all that. She laughed to herself, feeling that she had by her very actions flung the door to her own cage wide open. Ashton accepted her for who she was. He understood her desire for adventure. His letters told her as much. Fabulous letters, wonderful letters that she could read and reread when the house was quiet and settled. Each time she found she fell in love with the man once known as Casanova all over again.

She watched couples stroll by. Nannies pushed perambulators. A man pushed a broom to clear the sidewalk of discarded papers from the costermongers selling treats from pushcarts. No one would think twice about a woman resting on the bench in front of the tiger cage. There was another bench that she’d come to think of as “their bench.” The one she’d shared with Ashton the day Matthew had slipped into the stream. But that spot would be too secluded for a single woman to wait alone. This public venue was a much better choice.

Granted, Ashton hadn’t offered for her hand or even expressed the possibility of such, but she had his letters and she could read in them a connection she’d not shared with another. In time, perhaps Ashton would choose to make that connection permanent. Certainly when he read the decoded letter she was bringing to him, the one between “S” and his father, he would eventually recognize the power of such a connection. She certainly didn’t want to be writing coded letters to Ashton years from now, just as she was certain he wouldn’t want to experience that kind of agony. As long as she was patient, Ashton would come to claim her. Edwina smiled ruefully at the tiger and slowly shook her head. She wouldn’t be confined to a cage of bars, watching life pass by without taking part.

So she waited, watching the shifting pattern of tiger stripes against the vertical bars. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She checked her locket watch. He was only fifteen minutes late. It felt longer, as she’d arrived early. Ashton would arrive shortly, an event that she anxiously anticipated. Meanwhile, she’d entertain herself with memories of their last night together, of the way he made her body feel alive and made her feel important.
The next time, I promise, it will be better.

Just knowing that there would be a next time made her feel as weightless as the birds in the aviary. She wasn’t certain how such a rendezvous would be arranged, but as Ashton was experienced in this regard, she was certain there would be a next time.

A baby cried in a passing pram, reminding Edwina of her earlier conversation with Sarah. Did the mysterious “S” push Ashton as a baby in such a contraption? She tried to imagine.

She searched the faces beneath the tall hats of the passersby, watching to see the smile she loved, the soft twinkling eyes that populated her dreams. She listened for the distinct pattern of his stick on the walk, but time passed and Ashton wasn’t among the many people that passed her bench. The skies darkened and the wind increased. The number of passersby dwindled. A copy of the
Messenger
skittered across the walkway, buoyed by a sudden breeze. She caught the paper as it flitted by her bench. The storm will blow over, she thought, wishing she’d brought an umbrella. Perhaps Ashton would have one hidden away in a cane. The thought made her smile. Nevertheless, she shifted her position on the bench to place herself under the protection of a tree. Hopefully, Ashton would arrive before the rain threatened. Though she enjoyed the thought of them trapped together in a shelter while a storm kept others away.

She glanced at the
Messenger
, noting the personal ads on the front page. She quickly scanned the column, noting two that were written in a basic code. Suddenly, decoding the ads was not the amusing game she had once considered it to be. The emotional toll of not being with a loved one and keeping it secret must truly be wretched. Claire once referred to the personal ads as “the agonies.” She wondered if Claire truly understood the misery and suffering encapsulated in those ads.

But there was no need for her to feel the torture expressed by others because Ashton, although late—she checked her locket watch—a little over an hour late, would eventually join her at the park to learn the contents of his father’s note.

He couldn’t have forgotten, could he? No, she reassured herself. The decoded note was too important. She was too important, wasn’t she? After what they had shared? Yet a small doubt registered in the back of her mind.

The first raindrop struck her lap, earning her attention. The dull plop of water droplets striking surrounding leaves intensified around her. Thunder rumbled overhead. The few people remaining in the park hid beneath their umbrellas and scurried toward the more substantial shelter of their carriages or home. Even the tiger found shelter beneath an overhang created for that purpose. He stared at her as if she were the most foolish person alive, and at that moment she wondered if she was.

Holding the
Messenger
overhead, she ran to a nearby wooden structure, a maintenance shed of some sort. If she stood beneath the eaves she might stay reasonably dry while remaining in sight of the bench. Ashton would appear at any minute beneath an umbrella large enough to cover them both. Even the animals retreated to the backs of their cages, seeking cover from the downpour. The rich green scent of foliage surrounded her as damp circles grew on her new gown, causing her a chill. While she hoped Ashton hadn’t been similarly caught in the rain, as the park emptied and lightning flashed overhead, she had to accept that Ashton was not coming. She watched the empty bench, the walkway that passed the cages, and all was vacant. Just the hard driving rain filled the park. She stood alone beneath the leaky eaves of the shack, her new hat, saturated with the downpour, drooped in front of her, the lovely embellishments of flowers and feathers flattened about her ears.

“You best go ’ome now, miss,” a man’s voice said.

She turned to see the man with the broom. Rain dripped off his hood and ran in rivulets down his mackintosh. The same rain that soaked through the lace on her dress, causing it to stick to her skin. Even her corset, thick with layers and boning, couldn’t keep the rain from soaking clear through to her skin. Fortunately, she’d kept her journal and its precious contents behind her back, away from the elements. The coded letter and her translation were bound to be the only dry things on her person.

“It’ll be getting dark soon and this don’t look to let up. Go on ’ome, miss. I’m going to lock up.”

While the shelter was minimal, it was better than no shelter at all. The
Messenger
she’d held earlier had absorbed so much water as to be worthless. Perhaps he saw hesitancy in her eyes, though with water dripping from her once jaunty brim onto her lashes, she wasn’t certain how he could see anything. She was certainly having difficulty.

“You been ’ere before, ’aven’t ye? I’ve seen you on one of those bicycles.” His eyes narrowed. “Take this.” He shoved an old black umbrella in her hands. “I got me mac. You can bring the brolly back next time.”

“Thank you, sir,” she managed, blinking the water from her lashes. She pushed the sticky ring to open the umbrella. Two panels sagged from broken spokes, but the others carved out a small dry oasis. “You’re very generous.”

He grinned and bobbed his head. “I’ll take this for ye,” he said, taking the soggy
Messenger
from her hand. “Off with ye, now.”

She had to remove her hat to see where she was going. By carefully positioning the dips in the waterproof fabric, she managed to keep the bag that carried her journal dry. Thus she stoically walked away from the park, carrying her pride and dragging her wounded heart.

She should have gone home as the kind man had insisted. It was painfully obvious that Ashton was not coming to meet her as promised. In spite of the pain that wound caused, she held her head high and straightened her spine, then walked to the Trewelyn residence. She wanted—no, needed—to know why he hadn’t kept his promise. Why had he left her out in the rain with no explanation like day-old rubbish? Sarah’s words haunted her with each step.
He’ll run off and leave you. A man like that can’t be trusted. Don’t, Edwina. Just don’t.
While Sarah appeared correct in her predictions, Edwina needed confirmation, no matter how painful the knowing would be.

She stood in front of the Trewelyn residence, looking for all intents and purposes like her kitten Isabella when she’d been out in the rain, ready to shake her fur dry. Her mother would disapprove of her desire to confront Ashton. Proper young ladies did not walk bald-faced up to a gentleman’s residence. But when one was soaked to the skin, one did not give a fig about propriety.

With her head held high, she knocked on the door. Hastings took one look at her sodden clothes and broken umbrella and rudely gestured to the service entrance set below the pavement. Edwina refused. “Please inform Mr. Ashton Trewelyn that Miss Edwina Hargrove is here to speak with him.”

Hastings looked down his rather long nose at her. “Mr. Ashton is not in.”

Was that truly the case? Or had Hastings been given orders to lie? The umbrella must have turned at that moment, as a rivulet of water ran directly onto the back of her neck, sending a fresh chill down her back.

“May I wait in the foyer? As you can see, it’s very wet out here.”

He stared at her, undoubtedly imagining massive puddles on the floor and carpets caused by her sopping clothes. “Mr. Ashton is not in, miss. Perhaps you should come back when it is not raining.”

“And will Mr. Ashton be available once the rain ceases?” Edwina said, unable to keep sarcasm from her voice.

“I wouldn’t know, miss. He is not in at present.”

“Is there a difficulty, Hastings?” a woman’s voice interceded.

“A Miss Hargrove wishes to see Mr. Ashton. I have explained that Mr. Ashton is not available.”

“Miss Hargrove?” There was a long pause. She imagined the propriety issue was being weighed against curiosity. Curiosity won. “Don’t make the poor girl stand out in the rain, Hastings. Let her in.”

The door opened sufficiently for Edwina to step inside, though she felt rather the poor cousin dripping all over the carpet. She placed the mangled umbrella and her ruined hat in Hasting’s waiting hand.

“She’ll need a towel. Several of them, I should think.” Mrs. Trewelyn regarded her with a cold eye, or perhaps it just felt that way, as Edwina was already chilled to the bone. “Send tea to the drawing room. She’s going to need something hot.”

“I didn’t wish to interrupt your afternoon, Mrs. Trewelyn, and while I welcome your hospitality, I have an important message for your stepson.”

“You do, do you?” Her lips curled, giving Edwina the impression that she actually enjoyed seeing her in this plight. “As Hastings has informed you, Ashton is not here. However, we can speak privately about it in the drawing room. This way.”

Edwina followed, leaving a trail of moisture in her wake. “I know mine is an unusual request—”

“On the contrary,” her host interrupted. Hastings entered with a stack of linen towels. Mrs. Trewelyn handed Edwina one and placed the rest on a table. “Your request is not unusual at all. In fact, it is all too common.”

Edwina paused in the mopping of her face and neck, suspecting she’d just been insulted, something about hidden meanings buried in pleasant-sounding words. She let the sting of the comment fade, then rubbed her arms briskly.

A maid entered with a laden silver tea tray. An English styling, Edwina noted, not Japanese. So the current Mrs. Trewelyn did not share her husband’s passion in that area. In fact, she looked about the room and thought she could have found a similarly furnished room in any well-appointed home in Mayfair. The china was hand-painted, and imported from India, she suspected. Exotic creatures, little brown monkeys and colorful birds frolicked across the porcelain. The pattern reminded her of Ashton and his days spent in such a setting. The maid left, closing the doors to the room with a gentle click. Mrs. Trewelyn placed a towel on a settee and indicated that Edwina should sit. “It’s time you and I exchanged confidences.”