Page 15 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

“We are.” Her eyes narrowed. “ You sound surprised. Or skeptical.”

“These playwrights have never met you?”

“Impractical. They all live several days’ drive away. What is your point?”

“I just wondered if they understand who they’re writing to.”

“Do you mean respectable British playwrights might not wish to associate with a Black female immigrant?”

“I only note that Vivian is often a man’s name. And that most people find it difficult to determine accent and skin color from the shape of one’s handwriting.”

Viv clenched her fists. She did tend to sign her letters “Yours &c, Vivian,” but surely her initial correspondence had clearly stated she was Miss Vivian Henry.

If her handwriting had been messy that day, or if they’d skimmed her scrawl and assumed that of course she was a mister, well, that was their erroneous conclusion, not Viv’s lie.

“I will be certain to sign this letter as MISS VIVIAN, with all capitals,” she informed him. “And I will mention my personal connection to the themes in my play about Black female suffrage.”

“You may not wish to do that,” Jacob said. “What if they exclude you from the circle?”

“Then it is their loss,” she said firmly. “I shall never compromise my integrity. Only a coward hides behind a false name.”

He did not look appeased by this response. Viv didn’t care. No man would ever again tell her what to do.

“If you’re finished here, either go and look for my cousin, or worry about your own writing career. I’m sure you have poems to rhyme, or whatever it is you do.”

“I work on cases or with my animals,” he answered. “My poetry muse does not visit me nearly as often as I might like.”

She goggled at him. “Your poetry muse?”

“Inspiration,” he clarified. “Not an actual person.”

“I understood you the first time,” she bit out.

Good God, the Wynchesters were outside of enough. Handsome or not, she could not stand entitled men like Jacob who had never known a true day’s work, much less a lifetime of it.

“Only the most privileged of people have muses. The rest of us have to work, regardless of whether the whim strikes. Has your chambermaid ever said ‘Dear me, I cannot possibly empty any chamber pots today, I did not awaken inspired enough to bother’?”

He did not rise to her bait. “And the sideboard… Those are your plays?”

She let out her breath and tried to recover her calm. “Some are passion projects. Some were written because a theater manager or aficionado specifically said, ‘I wish we had more of this sort of thing.’ And a few are just silly, inspired by the less credible queries sent in to my column.”

“So you do respond to inspiration,” he murmured.

She glared at him.

He grinned back. “Show me one? I’d love to see the difference between an audience-demanded play and a script bringing some featherbrain’s letter to life.”

“Not as mad as you might think,” she said as she crossed to the sideboard. “Just the other day, the newspaper reported a bizarre robbery that had unfolded almost word-for-word the way I’d written it. Not that anyone should have had the pleasure of reading that manuscript.”

“Not even Quentin?”

“He doesn’t have much time for reading. He does handle all my post, ensuring my answers are sent to the paper, and my scripts shipped to appropriate venues. The silly ones don’t go anywhere. Usually. He seems to have misplaced the one about the burglary.”

Jacob pushed to his feet and joined her. “It’s missing?”

“Quentin occasionally mishandles the post.” She made an exasperated expression.

“He gets distracted, particularly by his antics with his friends. Or arguments with me. He might even have thought he was being extra efficient, just to please me. When I finish writing each script, I tie it up and tuck the original letter behind the twine to remind me why I’d written it. ”

“I don’t understand. Where would he have sent it?”

“Back to the paper, which is where all my real responses go,” Viv answered grimly. “The clerk would have forwarded the pages to the question-writer, along with their original letter.”

“Wait. What burglary? You cannot mean the robbery of Mr. Olivebury, the politician?”

She nodded grimly. “None other.”

“My siblings were discussing that incident at the breakfast table. Wasn’t there something odd about the manner in which it occurred?”

“Only creative use of balloons, shepherd’s pie, and a whooper swan. Just like I wrote it.”

He snorted. “No wonder they think we did it.”

She frowned. “Who thinks that?”

“The local magistrate, apparently. Which means now we’ve got to solve the Olivebury robbery, on top of everything else, before it derails all of our other cases. You’re saying you wrote a similar crime in your play?”

“The same crime. To the letter. The thief performed each stage direction brilliantly. I suppose it could have been worse. At least he only received that play, and not the ones about abduction and blackmail.”

Jacob looked startled. “May I see those?”

“I’m looking for them now. They were right here, with the others. I’m sure of it.” Heart thumping, Viv leafed through the piles a second time, then a third. Her throat was dry when she glanced back up at Jacob. “They’re not here.”

“Not here,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “Not here.”

“And we don’t know who you were corresponding with?”

“The system is anonymous,” she reminded him.

“No one who writes in shares their real names or addresses. Each correspondent is assigned a temporary number, and the query forwarded to me without any identifying characteristics. I send all my replies to the newspaper, who chooses which to publish and disperses the rest, returning the original letters in the process, ensuring complete anonymity.”

He appeared to think this over. “Do you think the more concerning queries came from multiple people?”

“I felt like it might be the same person.”

“Man or woman?”

“As you pointed out… that’s hard to say. If I had to guess, I’d say white, male, and British, but it really would be conjecture.” She swallowed. “You think the missing plays have something to do with Quentin’s disappearance?”

He shrugged. “We don’t know.”

“I can guess. That would be a good twist. I’d write it that way.”

“We don’t yet have reason to believe the letter-writer has been in contact with Quentin. It’s still more likely that your cousin is out adventuring and has no idea there’s been a mix-up with your plays.”

Viv desperately wanted Jacob to be right. For Quentin simply to be gallivanting around, sure to walk through the door at any moment.

But she suspected the surprises were just beginning.

Jacob’s pencil paused in his notebook, and he turned toward her slowly. “Just so I understand the timeline correctly… Both Quentin and the play that inspired a robbery disappeared at the same time?”

She folded her arms over her chest, her hackles rising. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the play was in your house, and now it’s not.

You’re saying the thief has the play. Therefore, someone in this household, either purposefully or inadvertently, put the missing play into the thief’s hands.

You have no servants, which means the culprit can only be you…

or Quentin. And only one of you is missing. Do I have the facts right?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone or your conclusions. For your information, I don’t know when the play disappeared. It might have happened weeks ago, not the day Quentin went missing.”

“And in that time, was there someone other than you or Quentin who might have had access to it?”

She glared at him. “You know there was not, but that doesn’t prove nefarious intent.”

He held up his hands. “I’m not claiming anyone in this household had nefarious intent. I’m looking at the facts the way a magistrate might. And we know the case is being investigated seriously.”

Viv’s blood drained. Jacob was right. Mr. Olivebury was a powerful MP. Rich, white, important to society. Her cousin was none of those things. It would be easy for the magistrate to point a finger at a boy like Quentin.

And the courts could sentence him to death.

Her limbs trembled in fear. Viv would never breathe another word of the play’s existence, much less Quentin’s proximity to it, but she might not have to.

If she was right, and Quentin had accidentally sent the pages to the question-writer via the newspaper, the clerk might remember Ask Vivian giving advice about whooper swans and robbery.

And if Viv was wrong about it being an accident, and Quentin had done something else with her script… Such as share it with some miscreant named Newt…

“I have to go.” Jacob snapped his notebook closed. “I need to share the latest developments with my family.”

She grabbed his arm before he could turn away.

“I’m coming with you,” she informed him grimly. “Until you find my cousin and clear his name, I am your shadow from this moment forward.”