Page 25 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

That was true. A book on every living person in the city would fill the Tower of London.

And yet, there was no denying the celebrated class system that permeated every aspect of life.

Had Viv been a wealthy white marchioness calling upon the Bow Street Runners, they would have fallen all over themselves to solve the mystery of her runaway poodle.

“To be honest,” Jacob continued, “Graham hasn’t added intelligence on anyone not directly related to an open case in over a year, because there hasn’t been time for anything but work.

Stephen keeps trying to make machines to ease the load, but short of the Wynchesters replicating ourselves like bunnies—and even that takes years—we don’t allow ourselves a full night’s sleep, much less have enough time to solve everyone else’s problems. We take on far more than we can competently manage, and even then, it’s never enough. ”

“I know none of you meant any offense,” she replied. “It’s just hard not to take one’s personal life… well, personally.”

Nonetheless, she understood Jacob’s perspective. While Quentin was not and could not reasonably be their sole priority, he was Viv’s. She’d spent days trying to find him and failed. Of course, she was no professional investigator, and had thus been acting alone.

Then again, despite their numbers and resources, it sounded like the Wynchesters themselves also often acted alone.

Not assigned to a single individual case, but juggling dozens of urgent mysteries to solve at the same time.

Each of which might have desperate clients just like Viv, for whom their open case was their sole and all-consuming priority.

“I do understand,” she said at last. “If I know anything, it’s what it is like to have more work and responsibilities than any human could possibly accomplish.”

But though she might sympathize, it did not ease her anxiety. Viv might be used to falling through the cracks, but she’d be damned if she let it happen to Quentin.

“Will you be all right here, by yourself?” Jacob asked.

Just the simple question was enough to bring the suffocating emptiness crashing back down around her. The house wasn’t a home without Quentin. It was an empty shell. A failure. The constant reminder that she’d driven her own cousin to lash back at her like this.

She wanted to make up, more than anything. Wanted to hug him, and slap him, and cry buckets of tears, and fix his hair, and let him win at cards.

Instead, all she had was a silent, empty house.

“I can take care of myself,” she managed, without meeting Jacob’s eyes.

“I know you can,” he replied. “I also know that if I had to spend night after night in my house without a single one of my siblings present, I would go batty as a banshee before the first sunrise.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his in surprise. He did understand.

“I’m already there,” she admitted. “One hundred percent banshee. When you knocked on the door, I was seconds away from screaming loud enough to break the glass of every window in Cheapside.”

“Stay with us,” he offered without hesitation. “I don’t even need to ask my siblings. They like you, and we have dozens of empty rooms.”

Of course he did. Whereas Viv and Quentin’s entire home consisted of exactly four small rooms.

“I can’t leave,” she said reluctantly. “There’s Sally and Rufus to care for… and what if Quentin returns home, only to find me gone?”

A niggling voice in the back of her mind whispered that Jacob’s kind offer was exactly what Quentin wanted. Her cousin would roll naked through a briar patch if it put Viv in closer contact with the Wynchesters.

“Then come during the day,” Jacob coaxed. “Once you’ve fed the animals and the house starts to feel lonely. Didn’t you say you were our shadow? Graham can keep your house under surveillance and have a messenger boy send immediate word of any visitors—Quentin or otherwise.”

She bit her lower lip. It… wasn’t a bad plan.

Jacob bent down to pet Rufus. “Plus, you’ll be right there in the room with us, as we’re planning whatever cases we’re working on.” He added quickly, “Not that I’m asking you to come work for my family, of course.”

Of course not.

“Because all I contribute is the word ‘no’?” she asked dryly.

“Are you jesting?” He held her shoulders, his open expression sincere.

“We’ve got forgers and acrobats and warriors, but are desperately in need of a clear head in the room.

We sent Elizabeth to resolve an inheritance dispute with a box of swords and no plan.

Just because we rush in headlong whenever someone’s in trouble doesn’t mean it’s always the right tack.

We’d be foolish not to Ask Vivian while she’s sitting there next to us. ”

She gaped at him, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“I’m not swearing we’d take every word of your advice as gospel,” he admitted with a self-deprecating grin. “But we’d listen to your suggestions and consider your viewpoint carefully.”

“Your entire family would welcome my opinions in your Planning Parlor?”

“Without question,” he replied. “Not only does your practicality balance our impulsivity, but also quite frankly, we could use all the help we can get. You wouldn’t be a hindrance, Vivian. You’d be a godsend.”

Her heart pounded and her skin flushed. Who could say no to that?

She dashed a note for her cousin—though she suspected he well knew where to find her—then packed her correspondence and writing implements into a traveling satchel.

If spending every waking minute with the Wynchesters was what it took to convince Quentin to come back home faster, then so be it.

She could spend a day or two in a comfortable chair at a larger table, participating in strategy sessions that would undoubtedly be far more interesting than replying to the usual letters about unfaithful fiancés and overbearing mothers-in-law.

Viv hoped it would be enough. Her throat grew thick, and she swallowed hard. She wouldn’t put it past Quentin not to return for anything short of full and complete acceptance of his beloved idols.

If she didn’t embrace the Wynchesters to Quentin’s satisfaction, he might choose them over her… permanently. Spending sufficient time with each of them was her new mission. If she failed, Quentin could return home only to send Viv packing. He was grown now. He didn’t need her.

The letter he’d written to Newt proved Quentin was perfectly capable of sending word to Viv—but chose not to. A discourtesy that was unprecedented, hurtful, and clearly as serious as an aristocrat disowning one of his heirs.

If she didn’t play her hand right, she would lose Quentin forever.