Page 24 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

The next morning, Viv sat alone in her silent, empty kitchen in her equally silent, empty house, slowly—make that rapidly—spiraling into a vortex of panic and preemptive grief.

Quentin still hadn’t come home. What if he were never found? Or turned up dead? What if the last words they ever exchanged weren’t their usual I love you s, but a stupid argument for which she would never be able to beg forgiveness?

When the knock came at her door, she flew out of her seat and across the kitchen in hope and eagerness, before remembering that Quentin would have no reason to knock at his own door. A knock meant bad news, not good. An administrator from a hospital. A mortician.

The door opened to reveal… Jacob Wynchester.

She nearly tumbled boneless into his warm chest in relief. Only by sheer will did she remain standing on her own two feet.

“No word?” she said dully.

“I do bring word,” he said with a smile. “Wonderful words.”

Scratch that. She was absolutely going to be a sobbing mess. But into Quentin’s cravat, not Jacob’s.

She pushed him aside in order to lay starving eyes on her cousin.

No one was there.

“Where is he?” she demanded. “Take me to him!”

“Moderately positive words,” Jacob amended, cupping her shoulders gently. “I don’t have your cousin’s precise location quite yet, but we do have proof of his safety.”

Disappointment clawed at her throat. “You mean, someone claims Quentin is safe and sound. Just whose word are you so confident about taking at face value?”

Jacob smiled. “Quentin’s.”

He placed a folded letter into her hands.

She blinked at it in confusion.

“We found Newt,” Jacob explained. “Graham wanted to conduct the interview himself, but we’ve been spread so thin… It doesn’t matter. We have our answer. Newt is actually a lad called Isaac Newton Blythe, named after a distant relative.”

“ The Isaac Newton?”

“The very one. The family does their best to capitalize on this tenuous connection, which is how Graham’s network was able to follow it to the lad. During the interview, Newt reluctantly divulged that Quentin has been gathering secret intelligence.”

“There’s no cause for alarm, because my cousin is off… acting as a spy?”

“Let’s go inside,” Jacob coaxed. “Why don’t you sit down and read his words for yourself?”

She allowed him to lead her back into her silent, empty kitchen. It felt better now that Jacob was here. Warmer. Safer.

Viv settled in her usual chair. Rufus nudged at her skirts, and she absently reached down to scratch behind his ears. The house hadn’t truly been empty all this time, she realized. It simply felt that way without Quentin. Like she was missing one of her lungs, and the biggest part of her heart.

She unfolded the letter.

N—

I’m gone to gather evidence on Lord S. Although we’re not to write down any details of our missions, my cousin will be terrified if I’m gone for more than one night.

Since I don’t know whether I’ll be able to send word from the Isle, or how long I might be gone, please contact Viv if you don’t hear from me within twenty-four hours, so that she doesn’t worry.

Tell her I’ll be home in a fortnight or so, that I love her very much, and that I’m in no danger. Say I swear on our mothers.

If she still looks worried, tell her I bragged to everyone we know that I’d beat her at cards when I return. That’ll tweak her ear. Viv never remembers to be scared when she’s feeling angry or righteous.

Also, don’t you dare touch my tobacco. I expect my snuffbox to be just as full when I return to headquarters!

Yours &tc,

Q

Viv’s mouth fell open. “The unbelievable gall of that bounder!”

“It’s definitely his handwriting?”

“His handwriting, his voice, his shameless admission of snorting tobacco! He promised me he would never take up such a disgusting habit.”

Jacob stared at her, then burst out laughing.

She glared at him. “What?”

“Quentin was right,” he said, still chuckling. “You do forget to be scared when you’re feeling angry or righteous.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she rolled her eyes—at herself, as much as at Quentin.

“He knows me too well, the rascal. Who’s the ‘Lord S’ he’s spying on?”

“No idea,” Jacob admitted. “Some sort of code to avoid writing a subject’s true name, obviously, but Newt couldn’t recall what it stood for in this case.”

“What ‘isle’ did Quentin go off to?” Viv asked, then answered her own question. “The Isle of Wight, I presume, since it’s only a hundred miles from London.”

“Newt couldn’t remember that, either, I’m afraid. First he thought the Isle of Skye, then the Isle of Man. Then he remembered someone mentioning the Isle of Bute, or was it the Isle of Mull?”

“How old is this Newt?” she asked suspiciously.

“Sixteen.”

“Obviously,” she muttered.

Jacob’s expression was sympathetic. “There’s also a possibility that the reference isn’t to an actual isle, but rather another code for an unnamed location.”

“So, Quentin could be… literally anywhere?” Viv expected to feel the yawning emptiness return in a tidal wave, but the familiar handwriting in her hand kept the panic at bay.

Tell her I love her very much, and that I’m in no danger.

She would box his ears for this because she loved him, but she knew Quentin as well as she knew herself.

As well as he knew her. Which meant, whatever and wherever this so-called mission was, he absolutely would stay safe.

Perhaps he wasn’t mature enough to confess his actions to her face—or, being charitable, he didn’t trust her reaction enough to confide in advance—but he loved her enough not to risk getting himself killed.

Tell her I swear on our mothers.

There could be no stronger vow.

She read the letter again, then frowned at Jacob. “It’s been well over twenty-four hours, and this Newt didn’t tell me a bloody thing. Don’t tell me he forgot about that request, too?”

Jacob grimaced. “He forgot to read the letter. Our informant said it was mixed in a pile of other unread correspondence. Newt broke the seal right in front of him.”

Viv narrowed her eyes. “Newt ‘forgot’ to read Quentin’s instructions… or he suspected the contents prohibited him from taking Quentin’s snuff?”

Jacob grinned and placed an empty snuffbox on the table. “You are terrifyingly good at reading people.”

“I have to be.” She sent a despairing glance at her own pile of unread correspondence. “It’s the only way I have to earn money.”

“Until you sell a play. Which will happen.”

“I know.” She rubbed her face. “If only I could make Fate faster. Speaking of speed, how quickly do you think—”

“As soon as we can,” he replied. “Graham doesn’t have local spies on the British Isles, but he’s sent word to everyone in the vicinities.

He’s also sent sketches to any coastal towns with an aristocrat in residence.

” He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“We’ll find your cousin and bring him home. I promise.”

She returned the tender squeeze reflexively, then stared in disbelief at their enjoined hands as a new suspicion formed in her gut.

Quentin had asked his friend to allay her fears if he hadn’t returned home in twenty-four hours… but the brat well knew she’d be worried sick the moment he failed to show up at the dinner table in time for supper.

Had the rascal been hoping to send her straight to the Wynchesters all along? Had she played right into her cousin’s hands? Was he back from the Isle and biding his time somewhere in London, refusing to return home until he was certain she’d given the Wynchesters a fair chance?

No. Quentin wouldn’t stop there.

He’d refuse to show his face until he was certain she adored this family of do-good scoundrels as much as he did.

Her besotted cousin would voluntarily dangle from the side of a cliff by his fingertips for days on end if it meant Viv warming up to the family she’d vowed to hate.

If he was nearby—or had a confederate passing him intelligence—Quentin would be over the moon to know Viv’s fingers currently rested inside Jacob Wynchester’s warm hands.

Jacob’s fingers tightened. “What is it?”

“Me, hating my talent for reading people,” she muttered, and pulled her hands back to her lap.

They felt cold without the warmth of his flesh. Bereft.

Damn you, Quentin.

“Are you all right?” Jacob asked with concern.

Was she? Viv rubbed her aching temples. “I won’t be well until Quentin is back home. He may be having the time of his life, but I need to confirm his well-being with my own eyes.”

Although her manipulative cousin was fine—for now—she needed to find him and shake some sense into him for his own safety.

Perhaps Quentin didn’t fully comprehend that Viv’s objection to the Wynchesters wasn’t their rule-breaking per se. She herself had blatantly attempted to circumvent cruel and unethical property laws. The problem was that her mother died for her bravery, and Viv would have been killed, too.

She couldn’t let Quentin suffer the same fate.

It wasn’t safe for ordinary people to act outside the law.

The impervious, carefree Wynchesters made impressionable young people like Quentin believe consequences weren’t real.

He and his friends thought that because these orphans had achieved the impossible, fame and fortune and privilege and power were as easy as wanting them hard enough.

That society would accept everyone. That the authorities would react with good humor to discover an eighteen-year-old spying on an aristocrat, no prison sentence necessary.

“We’ll find your cousin before you know it.

” Jacob took her hands in his. “I want to be clear that your cousin absolutely is a person of worth. When Graham said he keeps journals on people of note, he did not mean to imply that Quentin matters any less. It’s simply not possible to collect a detailed biography about every human in England, no matter how worthy. ”