The Casanova Code (6 page)

She was tempted to believe him, if only for the humor in his eyes. But his words didn’t explain the reason for this evening’s venture. “What about the Guardians?” she asked. “Why did you call them to a meeting this evening?”

“The Guardians?” His brows lowered. “What are you talking about?”

“A coded message appeared in the
Mayfair Messenger
that announced a meeting on this very night in this very house.”

“Coded?”

He certainly appeared flummoxed, but it could be more of his cat and mouse game. “It wasn’t a particularly difficult code to break.” It was her turn to sneer. “If you don’t want strangers to read your secret invitations, you should use a more complex coding methodology.”

He looked at her as if she spoke in scrambled text. “I didn’t place a coded message in the
Messenger
.”

“There was no mistaking the address,” she insisted. “The Guardians are to meet here at—”

They both heard men’s voices in the hallway. Panicked, she glanced at Trewelyn. He immediately ran his fingers along the top of a series of books on a shelf far to her left. “Good. It’s still here,” he murmured.

His fingers tugged on one of the books and an entire section of the wall with bookshelves swung forward. A hidden door. Just like those she’d read about in adventure novels. Curiosity tingled down her backbone, but with it a cautious uncertainty.

“You can’t be discovered here.” He grasped her arm and tugged her toward the door. “You’ll be safe inside.”

“But—”

He didn’t listen to her protest, but pushed her through the opening. He followed and once on the other side, he pulled the bookcase door behind him.

The space was devoid of light, but she could sense his presence even without seeing him. It was as if he extracted the air from what she envisioned to be little more than a pantry. She backed up slowly, attempting to put distance between them. Confined in a dark closet with a man known as Casanova, with only a parasol for protection. How did she go from protecting vulnerable women to becoming one herself?

Her bustle bumped something that rattled.

“Be still,” he rasped. “This is not an empty room. I wouldn’t wish you injured.”

She heard the click of a second latch. “There,” he said. “They can’t hear us or see a light with both doors closed.”

“What is this place?” she whispered.

“It’s a place you shouldn’t be,” he stated. His harshly spoken words, combined with the total darkness, lifted gooseflesh on her arms. After a moment, she heard a resigned sigh. “Miss Hargrove, I would not have brought you here if there had been another option. You understand that, don’t you? Your reputation would suffer greatly if you were to be discovered alone with me at this time of the evening.”

“Yes. I understand, but—”

“Since I’m not certain how long we will be detained here, I’m going to light the gas jet so we might safely negotiate the limited space. But in all fairness I must issue a warning.”

“A warning?” Alarm rattled her already jittery insides. Had she escaped the stewpot only to be sacrificed in the fire? She slipped her hands behind her to investigate what she had backed into. She discovered what felt like chess pieces that wobbled and fell to the floor. She withdrew her hands before she did more damage. “What kind of warning?”

“If you value your innocence”—he struck a match that flared a moment, casting his face in stark, somber shadow—“keep your eyes tightly closed.”

E
DWINA
STRAIGHTENED
HER
SPINE
. “I’
M
A
MODERN
woman, sir, and in no need of your condescending platitudes.” Insulted by his guileless inference that she was little more than a schoolgirl and not a full-grown woman, she lectured his back as he fumbled with the screw for the jet. “I cannot believe there is anything in this servants’ closet that requires . . .”

The fumes ignited and the room opened before her. Far more than a pantry or a closet, the long narrow space in which they stood approximated the size of her parents’ bedroom. In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, a mattress lined the far wall. Her breath caught. Dear heavens above, had she erred in her assumption that Trewelyn was not the rakehell her friends believed him to be? Was she truly trapped in the debaucher’s den? She attempted to swallow the rising lump in her throat and gripped her parasol tightly. Perhaps it would serve as a weapon yet.

“If you plan to ravish me,” she said stiffly, her gaze glued to the mattress, “I will fight you tooth and nail.” No need to mention that her tendency to chew her fingernails had rendered them useless as weapons. “My eyes shall be open the entire time, and you shall witness in them my utter repugnance to your actions.”

Trewelyn followed the direction of her gaze, then chuckled. The low sound rattled her more than the sight of the bed.

“My dear Miss Hargrove.” His warm breath and soft seductive voice managed to titillate her breasts by way of her ear. Was there no part of her that wasn’t receptive to his charms? She pressed her lips together to block an escaping sigh. “Fisticuffs will not be necessary. I assure you, I pose no threat.”

If he believed that, then it must have been a long time since he looked in a mirror. She watched him move toward the gas jet in the back of the room.

“This is my father’s gallery, where he keeps his art collection of shunga woodcut prints.” He tilted his chin toward the opposite wall. “It’s the nature of the collection that required a warning.”

Curious, and strangely disappointed, Edwina allowed her racing heart a moment to settle before further investigation. As soon as she moved, the shelves behind her shook again, causing the additional tumbling of tiny objects. Something hit the floor and rolled. She glanced behind her. A series of shelves, the sort her mother used to display her delicate Parisian snuffbox collection, lined this portion of the wall. These shelves, however, held tiny carved wood and ivory figurines, the sort that normally would require close scrutiny. But she gave them little more than passing notice. She was far more interested in this shunga about which she’d been warned. She stepped toward a better angle from which to view the prints.

Initially she saw no reason for his concern. A series of bold prints adorned the walls, while small boxlike compartments rose from the floor to knee height. The compartments were filled to overflowing with bound papers. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The prints on the wall were Japanese, judging by the pattern-draped figures with slanted eyes and unique hair arrangements. She recalled the pattern of intricate letter characters raining from the top of the print in parallel lines from an exhibition of Japanese art and industry at the Crystal Palace. Unlike the European paintings that decorated most households and museums, these Japanese prints had no depth, no subtle shadings to denote distance or rounded curves. The renderings appeared to be pen and ink drawings with bold swatches of color. She moved in front of the first print, a man hovering over a woman reclined on steps, and gasped.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Yes.” Trewelyn stepped behind her. She imagined even there he could sense the heat burning her cheeks. “Now you understand why I suggested you keep your eyes closed.”

The print contained detailed depictions of a man’s genitals. She should look away. She should verbalize her shock and disgust, but her eyes wouldn’t move. Surely the print was not realistic. This man’s huge member was easily the length and thickness of Faith’s parasol. While Edwina knew something of a man’s physique—she had, after all, accidentally spied on her brothers jumping into a stream—she had no idea that a man could be so gigantic. His female companion’s delicate hand could barely circle the appendage.
A woman’s hand? Why would a woman have her hand just there?
A lump formed in her throat at the prospect of being introduced to such a . . . weapon on her wedding night. How could men hide such an encumbrance in their trousers? How could Walter? She fought the urge to look behind her at the junction of Trewelyn’s trousers. To do so would expose a lack of knowledge that she supposed a modern woman would have in abundance. Just knowing, however, that Trewelyn stood behind her with an encumbrance of his own . . .

She swallowed, hard. “The man is so . . .”

“Exaggerated?”

Relief flooded her body, easing tension from her shoulders that she hadn’t realized existed. Knowing he couldn’t see her face, she closed her eyes and said a quick prayer of gratitude that this massive instrument would play no part in her future. She smiled to herself. “Yes . . . exaggerated.”

“The purpose of shunga is to show the pleasure of a natural union.” The hesitancy in his speech caused her to question if he was experiencing a difficulty articulating. She knew she was. “The prints illustrate the many ways gratification can be achieved. Thus the artist . . . embellishes . . . both the male and female for instructional purposes.”

Female? The prints illustrate female anatomy?
She followed the direction of the bulbous tip of the man’s member, but the drape of a flowing sleeve obscured its intended destination. “Instructional?” Her voice sounded strangled even to her ears. Now that she could look at other aspects of the print beyond the obvious fat sausage punching the air, she noticed the bodies in the print were flat and nonproportional. “I don’t think such positioning is even possible.” She glanced over her shoulder toward him. “For what purposes could one call this instructional?”

That was a mistake. She could clearly see his tantalizing eyes crinkle with humor, causing her to feel silly and ignorant. Perhaps she was in this particular area, but she didn’t wish to be so obvious. Her cheeks heated. His lips parted as if to say something, but he caught her gaze and coughed into his fist instead. All traces of humor had vanished when he looked at her again. He led her to the next print.

“The prints were often contained in a ‘pillow book,’ as you can see here.”

Following on his heels, eager to leave the intimidating illustration in front of her, she focused on his words, hoping to ignore her embarrassment. “The pillow book provided guidance to a new bride as to what would be expected within the marriage. The books also provided inspiration and ideas for experimentation for couples. You can see this couple consulting such a book.”

Though tempted to ask what he meant by inspiration and experimentation, she remembered his attempt to hide his laughter at her last question, so she remained mum. Turning her face toward the woodblock print, she noted several square books on the floor surrounding the couple. A fully clothed man intensively studied an illustration, while the woman looked discreetly down at the blurred page. Curiosity led Edwina to twist her head to see if she could make sense of the contorted couple depicted in the pillow book, but the details escaped her. As there were no exposed genitals in this print, just beautiful flowing robes of multiple patterns on both of the participants, she relaxed a small bit—as much as an inexperienced woman could relax when surrounded by explicit depictions of copulation.

The man, propped up on his elbow, had his back to the viewer. His gown, a dark blue with a sensuous swirl of light blue and white dots, left his legs exposed. The subject was so finely rendered that she could count each toe on his feet. Though the woman’s mouth was hidden by an equally impressive printed cloth, something about her expression as she gazed at the pillow book gave Edwina the impression that she was hiding a smile. The blues and grays of her clothing worked well with the open sky of the background and with the intricate pattern on a nearby tray of food. It was a very pleasing nonthreatening print, and she supposed she must have studied it overlong.

“You seem enthralled with the pillow book,” Trewelyn observed. “My father has several such books in his collection that you could study in some detail.” He pointed to the overflowing cubbyholes below. His voice took on a hint of disdain. “But then, I’m sure you’re well aware of what to expect, as a soon-to-be bride yourself.”

She kept her focus on the print. “Mr. Thomas likes to suggest we are engaged, but we are not. I have not given my consent.”

“No?” He sounded surprised. After a moment of hesitation, he continued. “You are a rare woman indeed, Miss Hargrove. The one woman in all of London, in fact, who doesn’t rush for the promise of security that comes with marriage. Why is that?”

She glanced toward the secret door, hoping to avoid his question. Surely they’d been trapped a sufficient time. He followed her gaze.

“Don’t worry. My father has been known to meet with industrialists to discuss business issues,” he said. “I imagine those are the men who interrupted our conversation in the library. Hardily a secretive society—”

“I know what I read,” she insisted. “How else would I know those men would gather here this evening?” He did not appear convinced. “Did you think my appearance on the same night as them is a coincidence?”

His lips pursed as if in consideration. “I’m certain you will agree that nothing good would result from exposing your presence in this room. I’ll look into this matter of . . . Guardians, if you will, after you have safely left the premises. However, the gentlemen”—he nodded toward the door—“have barely begun their discussions. We’ve time yet to wait.” He motioned toward the next print. “Shall we continue?”

She followed his lead, though she thought they had less time than Trewelyn imagined. How long would Faith wait before she called the police? Would they discover this chamber and her presence when they came? How embarrassing that would be. She almost wished she hadn’t made the suggestion that Faith involve the police. Her thoughts left her unfocused even as they moved toward the next print. She harnessed her wayward thoughts to concentrate on the print before her, when the images registered with a jolt to her senses.

The man in the picture used his hand to explore the woman’s “embellished” parts, thus coaxing some sort of liquid from them. The woman showed no form of protest; in fact, one would think she enjoyed this strange probing.

Trewelyn’s voice warmed her ear and, truth be told, other parts hidden from his view. “This print shows there’s more than one way to coax ying from a female.”

“Ying?” She stared at the depiction of a woman’s privates. Dear heaven, what manner of art was this? When the Rake Patrol thought Casanova was abusing innocents, they hadn’t considered he was doing it by means of a secret art gallery. She attempted to swallow her surprise and maintain her composure. She needed her wits about her, that much was certain.

Taking a calming breath, she looked at the print anew. Was that how all women looked in that area hidden from inspection? Or was this unique to Japanese women? European paintings suggested a woman was devoid of tresses in the nether regions. She knew from her own ringlets that those depictions were not correct. While she hoped she didn’t resemble this gaping orifice surrounded by tufts of black hair, she suspected that the Japanese print was the more honest. If that were true, was the depiction of pleasure at the act of probing true as well? While the two caricatures were crass and common in their actions, they still remained somehow fascinating.

Trewelyn nodded beside her. “The Japanese believe that a balance of ying and yang is necessary for the health and longevity of both genders. The more they can collect, the better. A woman produces ying in her body fluids, a man produces yang. A man can obtain ying through sexual congress or”—he pointed his chin to the print—“in a more direct fashion straight from the heavenly gate.”

There was nothing heavenly or even angelic in this depiction of a woman, but the term was less embarrassing than some of the other words she’d heard used for that particular area. “I suppose that woman in the first print holding the man’s . . .”

“Jade stalk?” he offered.

Edwina tried unsuccessfully to keep from smiling. “She was collecting yang?”

He turned toward her, a devilish lift to his lips. “I believe she was priming the well to receive yang in the more traditional approach.”

Why had she considered this room large? It seemed to be shrinking at a precarious rate. She glanced about, looking for windows. Anything that could bring relief to the heated air. But there were no windows. That surprised her. Normally, just being in a room without windows would be terrifying in itself, but Trewelyn’s presence made her fear dissipate.

“Is something wrong, Miss Hargrove?”

She shook her head. “How do you know so much about this aspect of the Japanese culture?” She had attended some of the popular Japanese exhibitions with her mother, but the sort of information of which Trewelyn spoke had not been presented. That he should be so knowledgeable about the intimacies of a foreign land intrigued her.