Page 1 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

Whilst Miss Vivian Henry’s mind was busy plotting how best to steal the Crown Jewels, she fried a pan of bubble and squeak with her left hand, pulled down cups and saucers with her right hand, knocked the silverware drawer shut with her left hip, and kicked her cousin’s round leather football out of the kitchen with a well-practiced swing of her right boot.

In other words, it was an utterly ordinary Sunday.

“Breakfast is ready,” Viv yelled as she set the table.

“Coming!” came her cousin’s muffled voice through the thin walls. “Have you seen my daggers?”

“On the mantel, between your faux spectacles and the pile of rope,” she called back, refraining from additional comment.

The long-running jest that Viv was the only one who learned anything from Quentin’s special-interest tutors had stopped being funny for both of them. Perhaps today was the day her cousin would finally practice. She hoped he didn’t hurt himself.

“Aha!” came Quentin’s triumphant shout. “Found you.”

Someone brown, furry, and impatient darted beneath Viv’s skirts and between her legs.

“Not now, Rufus, you roly-poly glutton,” Viv scolded him as she served bubble and squeak onto two porcelain plates.

It wasn’t how she’d broken her fast when she lived in Demerara, but it would do.

Even Rufus thought it smelled tasty. She rubbed his furry head with her toe.

“Sorry, sugar. You must wait until supper for more.”

Quentin darted into the room. He flung his arms wide with dramatic flair. “What do you think?”

Viv kicked a chair in his direction as she poured the tea. “What the devil is in your hair?”

“Chalk,” he answered happily. “It’s to make me look older.”

“It makes you look ridiculous. Do you know how long it took me to set all those twists in your hair just so?”

“Hours,” he replied with feeling. “I was there.”

“Then why would you spoil all of my effort with powdered chalk?”

“I’m Godfather Wynchester today,” he explained. “The white hair is to make me look distinguished.”

Quentin looked like an eighteen-year-old itinerant with powdered sugar in his curly black twists and inexpertly drawn “wrinkles” on his golden-brown forehead.

Nonetheless, Viv knew from experience that if she voiced such observations, she would be the one tasked with improving the disguise.

This morning, she simply had no time to spare.

“Eat,” she commanded her cousin. “Grandfather Wynchester can’t save the day if he passes out from malnutrition.”

“Godfather,” Quentin corrected her with his mouth full. “You could be Grandmother Wynchester.”

“I’m ten years older than you, not fifty.” Though sometimes eight-and-twenty did feel like a lifetime.

Her young cousin pointed to his head. “Try chalk dust.”

“Try again. I refuse to have anything to do with that family. As should you. Won’t you please let the Wynchesters perform their own skullduggery?”

Quentin flashed hurt eyes at her. “I’ve told you a hundred times; my secret club and I have sworn a solemn oath to help them.”

And Viv had pointed out a hundred times that the real Wynchesters had no idea Quentin and his costumed friends existed. Not that inconvenient facts had ever stopped her cousin from spending his days in search of adventure.

“Please remember to say ‘friends,’ not ‘secret club,’” she reminded him. “The newest Seditious Meetings Act explicitly forbids secret societies. No solemn oath will save you from the noose.”

“We’re being careful,” he promised her. “That’s why we use false names and disguises, just like the Wynchesters.”

“That’s not enough protection. Do you have a powerful duke for a brother-in-law, like they do? Or access to the Wynchesters’ lawyers and endless piles of gold?”

Quentin shoved eggs into his mouth rather than respond.

As Viv turned back to the sink, Rufus burrowed between her skirts again. She hiked her hem up to her shins. “Summon your creature. He’s in my way.”

“Maybe he wants you to sit down, too. Eat something. You’re always doing a thousand things at once.”

“If I don’t do them all, who will?” she pointed out.

But Viv’s belly chose that moment to let out a lusty growl. In surrender, she set the pans she was scouring aside and took her seat at the breakfast table.

Rufus immediately tried and failed to hop up into her lap.

“By all that’s holy, Quentin, if you do not call your creature away from me—”

“He’s not mine anymore and you know it. Anyone can see he’s adopted you. You’re his pet now.”

“Did I ask to be anyone’s pet?” She nudged the toast and blackberry preserves toward her cousin.

“Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about the matter,” Quentin said peevishly. “Rufus hates me, just like Sally does.”

“You can’t keep acquiring animals and pawning them off on me,” Viv began.

“I’ll raise your pin money,” he interrupted, chewing with his mouth open. “Sally feeds herself anyway. I’m too busy fighting crimes.”

As far as Viv was concerned, the worst crime was the horror Quentin had committed against his hair. She would be the one spending her evening washing and restyling it instead of penning Act Two of her play, in which her villain du jour made an attempt upon the Crown Jewels.

Perhaps if she could finish this bloody script, she could earn enough income not to need to siphon any pin money from her younger cousin’s limited quarterly trust.

“Oof.” Quentin slumped backward in his seat and patted his nonexistent belly. “That was good.”

Viv scooped up the dishes and headed for the sink. “Can you see if the newspaper has arrived?”

He brightened. “Perhaps there are more articles about the Wynchesters!”

“What is left to say about them? Six orphans adopted by a rich foreign baron, who had nothing better to do than spoil them rotten—”

“—and instill lifelong values of empathy and philanthropy. He gave them a purpose in life: helping those who have nowhere else to turn. Of course they’re mentioned in every newspaper!

Everyone loves to read about the powerless beating the powerful, and the oppressed triumphing over their oppressors. ”

Viv couldn’t argue with the last part. Many of her plays featured unlikely protagonists rising out of hopeless circumstances. She swung a heavy pot filled with simmering water from the stove to the sink, so she could soak the soiled dishes and scour them clean.

Her cousin soon returned with the newspaper and a stack of correspondence.

“More post than usual today,” Quentin said cheerily, then waggled his eyebrows. “Are you receiving love letters from your adoring fans?”

“I’m not known for my sweet and warm personality. Lately, it’s been mostly comedians and a few nutcakes wanting help with their crimes. No one adores me but you.”

“Someone out there will appreciate your sharp edges,” Quentin assured her. “And isn’t your reputation the newspaper’s fault, anyway? They specifically asked you to be harsh and direct, because it generates bigger reactions from subscribers.”

“They didn’t have to ask,” she said dryly. “Plain-spoken and brutally honest is the only way I know how to be.”

This was also one of the many reasons why a suitor was not in Viv’s foreseeable future.

Her minimum requirements were high. If a man did not meet her qualifications, she would not waste either of their time with a prolonged courtship.

Telling him he didn’t suit would be the first words out of her mouth.

Which unfortunately meant, she didn’t meet the average gentleman’s minimum requirements, either.

It didn’t matter. Viv didn’t want average . She expected more from a partner, and from herself. Besides, she was far too busy managing her own affairs to worry about an alleged phenomenon as unlikely as true love.

Quentin glanced up from the newspaper with a sour expression. “Only a tiny little paragraph on the front page today. What a travesty. Their successes are so inspiring.”

Viv said gently, “I admire your big heart, and your friends’ unflagging compassion, but living the same lives as the rich and well-connected isn’t an attainable goal.”

“They’re role models,” Quentin said stubbornly. “And they’re mostly not aristocrats. Many started out poor. Several are Black, like us, or have other characteristics that society spurns. But they made a name and a place for themselves anyway! They’re respected . They have value.”

That was his usual response to any criticism against his idols, but something was different today. There was an unusual tenseness in his shoulders. A vein she’d never seen before pulsed at his temple. As if whatever they were talking about was no longer just about the Wynchesters.

“I respect you,” she said hastily. “You have value.”

Exasperation flickered in his eyes. “We’re not talking about you and me.”

Weren’t they? Then what? Viv prided herself on always knowing exactly what was going on around her.

Quentin had never kept anything from her before—or even possessed any secrets to keep.

When dissatisfied, her well-meaning cousin was no stranger to rash actions.

For the first time in her life, she hoped she was reading someone wrong.

He was also a good lad, she reminded herself. Whatever he was not yet ready to confide wouldn’t turn out to be anything major. There was no sense getting worked up over nothing. Especially when there were real dangers afoot.

“The Wynchester family criminally disregards the auxiliary effects of their privilege,” she said.

“They not only instill the false belief that it’s easy to be just like them, but also perpetuate an impossible standard for the less privileged.

The upper classes can point at them and say, ‘ They came from humble origins and became educated and wealthy. If the lower classes are poor and disadvantaged, it’s their own lazy fault, and not a problem we need to address. ’”

Quentin crossed his arms. “I don’t care about the upper classes. The world needs more Wynchesters.”