Page 17 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

Viv hated how much she loved the Planning Parlor.

She’d long despised people who floated through life, blissfully exempt from the rules and punishments designed to keep people like Viv in her place—or eradicate people like her completely. Therefore, she’d fully expected to hold everything the Wynchesters had or did in equal contempt.

But she hadn’t known about the Planning Parlor. Quentin didn’t know such a location existed either, which was the main reason Viv had been unawares. He would absolutely lose his mind to know she had glimpsed their secret lair firsthand.

Quentin : They have a WHAT?

Vivian : Planning Parlor. A special room dedicated to strategizing their missions.

Quentin : What’s so special about it?

Vivian : The walls eliminate even the slightest sound from the outside world—

Quentin : WHAT

Vivian : Which means even a servant standing on the other side of the door would not be able to overhear what goes on inside.

Quentin : Do their servants eavesdrop?!?

Vivian : [begrudgingly] I doubt it. The staff is unflaggingly respectful and seem improbably content.

Quentin : [slyly] As if perhaps the Wynchesters are nice people?

Vivian : Rich people, anyway. The table in the Planning Parlor is the size of our entire kitchen.

Quentin : Well, there are a lot of Wynchesters, and they’d need some sort of stable surface upon which to take notes.

Vivian : Actually, they use the floor for that.

Quentin : WHAT

Vivian : And the walls.

Quentin : WHAT

Vivian : For example, the floor is made of black slate and is full of white chalk outlines and plans for current missions.

Quentin : And the walls?!?

Vivian : Covered in bookshelves, maps, lists, sketches…

Quentin : None of them keep an ordinary logbook?

Vivian : Graham keeps extraordinary ones.

Half of the overstuffed shelves contain journals of intelligence he’s gathered on everyone he deems important enough to surveil.

And Jacob always carries a journal, though he never lets his out of sight.

It’s as likely to contain unpublished poetry as mission notes.

Quentin : You don’t know what’s in his book? You hate not knowing things. His secrets must be killing you!

Vivian : I don’t give two figs about Jacob Wynchester.

Viv would actually give her left boot for a single peek inside that journal, and these were her favorite shoes.

Her only shoes.

But limping along with one bare foot for the next year would be worth the pain if it meant having answers to her questions.

What did Jacob pen in that journal? Case notes, revealing a mind far more clever than the “I live in a barn” external persona he attempted to portray?

Poetry so poorly written it had made every publisher’s eyes bleed from here to Scotland?

Or poems so hauntingly beautiful the greatest crime this Wynchester committed against the world was refusing to share his brilliance with others?

“Over here.” Jacob motioned to Viv. “You can sit next to me, if you like.”

The armchair he patted was on the opposite side to the pocket where he kept his journal.

Not that Viv had experienced many opportunities to practice pickpocketing skills.

White women like Chloe Wynchester—even before she became a duchess—could get away with a giggled “oh dear, how clumsy of me” if caught in the act.

Whereas someone like Viv only had to be in eyesight of the upper class to receive suspicious looks, as though she were permanently on the cusp of committing a horrendous crime.

“You may wish to remain silent and observe,” Jacob murmured as she settled into the chair beside his. “Our methods can be… chaotic.”

She scowled at him. The only thing she hated worse than not knowing was not talking .

It was why she was a writer. The only way to unclutter her constantly busy mind was by sharing with others.

So she wrote plays and lists and correspondence and diary entries and answered the letters sent to her advice column, no matter how corkbrained the question.

Viv loved to be useful. To be clever . She would never forgive Jacob for presuming her presence worthless, her mind incapable of adding any value to the discussion.

She also declined to forgive him for wearing whatever subtle cologne currently wafted to her nostrils while she was seated right next to him.

He smelled like holiday spices and deep forest. Dark and inviting, all at once.

A barely there scent designed to tempt innocent women into crawling onto his lap and wrapping their limbs about his hard, muscular body in an attempt to get closer to that divine perfume.

Or maybe that was how Jacob naturally smelled. Viv wouldn’t put it past him. Wynchesters were devious like that.

Marjorie clapped her hands loudly. “Before we begin, Adrian and I have a ray of sunshine of our own.”

Kuni gasped. “Are you also—”

“No! Not yet, at least.” Marjorie’s face flushed bright red.

“Our news is about our other baby,” Adrian explained. “The art studio. Our second annual exposition showcasing the works of past students.”

Marjorie nodded. “It won’t take place for another month, but we’re starting to plan the festivities now. If any of you would like to help—”

“Who has time to help?” murmured Tommy. “We can’t go five minutes anymore without something else looming over us.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and paled. “Kuni and Graham, I don’t mean your baby! That’s marvelous news! And so are your and Adrian’s achievements, Marjorie. I meant… I was only…”

Against her will, Viv felt a pang of sympathy for Tommy. Loved ones growing up and doing positive adult things sometimes did feel like a disaster for those around them. Especially when one’s time and mental fortitude were already stretched well past the breaking point.

“Maybe it was the wrong time to bring up the exposition.” Marjorie exchanged a nervous glance with her husband. “It’s just that… Jacob, I would love if you would say a few words and give the official toast.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

“It doesn’t have to rhyme,” she said quickly. “But if you’d like to throw in a poem or two for good measure—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

She tilted her head. “No to which part? The toast, or the rhyming?”

“All of it. Give your own speech. It’s your party.”

“But this would give you a public platform to—”

“Being privately rejected by some publisher’s secretary stings quite enough. I don’t need to be mocked or judged by a hundred artistes.”

“Two hundred,” Adrian murmured. “It’s a big party.”

“Jacob—” began Marjorie.

“He said no,” Kuni said firmly. “Which you should respect. After all, don’t you have a secret project you don’t want anyone looking at until you’re ready?”

Marjorie bit her lip.

“She does indeed,” agreed Graham. “There’s an entire wall of easels whose canvases she keeps covered in burlap to prevent us from peeking.”

“All right, all right,” Marjorie muttered. “Jacob, if you change your mind, the master of ceremonies position is yours.”

“It’s already gone from ‘make a brief toast’ to ‘master of ceremonies’?” Jacob’s entire form radiated tenseness. “Should I flee now before you start expecting me to run for speaker of the House of Commons?”

“Olivebury is the most likely contender for that role,” said Graham. “Which brings us back to…”

As he talked, Jacob made several strange hand gestures across the room.

Viv blinked at him. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Arguing with my sisters,” he muttered.

Belatedly, Viv remembered Marjorie was deaf in one ear. “Sign language,” she said in sudden understanding.

He nodded distractedly. “We can teach you later.”

Viv was too embarrassed to admit it hadn’t occurred to her that he would speak it. Yet the impulse to communicate silently had been second nature to him.

Of course she’d known Marjorie Wynchester was hard of hearing, but in Viv’s experience, the needs of one person did not generally inspire those around them to go out of their way to provide accommodations.

If she’d been forced to guess, Viv would have predicted the onus would be on Marjorie to learn to read lips, or to say Could you repeat that a little louder? a thousand times a day. Or just to live her life in constant confusion.

The discovery that the entire Wynchester family had learned sign language in order to communicate with their sister meant Viv was forced to reevaluate her opinion of them. Again.

Maybe the line between Good People and Bad People wasn’t always as clear as she’d believed.

“Think back to Quentin’s state of mind the day he didn’t come home,” Graham said. “Did he voice any particular goals?”

Viv stared at him. How could these geniuses interview even a fraction of Quentin’s friends without realizing their one and only goal was to become a Wynchester? Did he just want to force her to say it aloud for his own amusement?

“Besides training to join the world’s greatest investigative philanthropists?” she replied icily, then realized of course Graham must be asking about hints of any conflict outside of the obvious. “Oh, you mean our argument. I’d told you Quentin and I parted on bad terms.”

Tommy nodded. “Jacob said your cousin and his friends were Good Samaritans. I think it’s noble.”

Of course she would. Wealthy white women didn’t die for being noble. Especially ones who could pass for wealthy white men .

People like Viv’s mother on the other hand… People like Viv and her young cousin…

The Wynchesters either didn’t understand or didn’t remember what life was like for ordinary people.

Worse, Quentin already had a family. Viv was family. She kept him fed and clothed and comfortable. He didn’t realize how much it hurt for her not to be enough. Even at home, in the house she maintained no matter the ache in her back or the toll of never getting sufficient sleep.