Page 29 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

“The murder room is at the rear door,” Elizabeth answered, as though that explained anything.

“The front door is merely designed to test the mettle of those who come to call. Anyone who makes it through the entryway deserves an audience—and a biscuit. I couldn’t resist adding a sword fight. I’m sorry I put you at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, I was never at a disadvantage,” Viv assured her. “I could have murdered you at any time.”

“You could not have done,” Elizabeth said hotly. “I had you disarmed in seconds without even trying!”

“I don’t need a sword. I have Sally.” Viv licked her fingers.

Elizabeth glanced around. “Who is Sall—”

Viv opened the sugar shaker in her reticule and flung her furry pet into the air.

The tarantula landed in the middle of Elizabeth’s plate of biscuits.

“Aaugh,” she screamed, tossing the plate aside and springing to her feet. “What is that?”

“Wolf spider,” said her husband as he dropped down from the ceiling. Not to rescue his wife, but to perform several press-ups before tossing the leather helmet from his head and helping himself to the remaining biscuits.

“Sally is my personal defense tarantula,” Viv explained, crossing her legs at the ankles.

“Your personal defense tarantula,” Elizabeth repeated. “What is it trained to do?”

“Oh, I haven’t trained her to do anything. All I need is for Sally to do whatever a wild tarantula wants to do.”

“Chaotic.” Elizabeth’s tone was impressed. “I like it.”

“You threw your plate of biscuits across the room,” Viv pointed out.

“Everything in this house gets thrown across the room,” Elizabeth said. “I was responding in keeping with the theme. Besides, we have more biscuits. Is your tarantula hungry?”

“She ate this morning.” Viv held out her hand for Sally. “I’m guessing your nephew rarely comes to visit. This house doesn’t seem particularly safe for children.”

“Dorian can’t even cross the threshold,” Elizabeth said with pride. “Our home is designed to be one thousand percent impervious to babies.”

“You don’t want children?” Viv asked in surprise.

“I would rather eat your personal defense tarantula alive,” Elizabeth answered cheerfully. “Stephen feels the same way.”

“I’m not eating a wolf spider,” said Stephen.

His wife smiled. “Not even if doing so would magically ward us from now until eternity against any possibility of spawning offspring?”

Stephen turned to Viv. “Can I borrow your spider?”

Viv tucked her reticule away protectively. “Not on your life.”

“Do you want children?” Elizabeth asked with curiosity. “Have you discussed how many to expect with Jacob?”

Viv set down her empty plate in haste. “I haven’t even kissed Jacob!”

“ Yet ,” came Jacob’s voice from the sofa behind her.

Viv spun around in mortification, her heart pounding.

No one was there.

Elizabeth cackled. “You were about to kiss him right then, weren’t you?”

“My wife loves to throw her voice,” Stephen said apologetically. “I can’t stop her.”

“Nothing and no one can stop me from anything,” said Elizabeth. “Except sometimes my hip. And my back.”

Stephen raised his brows. “You only ever admit that in front of family.”

Elizabeth waved a hand. “Miss Henry is clearly destined to—”

“Vivian,” Viv corrected as she sprang to her feet. “And if this is the way the conversation is headed, then I am going in the opposite direction.”

“Come here and kiss me,” called Jacob’s eerily accurate voice from behind the sofa. “If we make babies, you’ll never have to visit Elizabeth and Stephen’s home ever again.”

Viv didn’t look back.

Elizabeth’s delighted chortles followed her all the way out the door.

Only one more stop remained so that no one could claim Viv hadn’t given every single Wynchester a fair chance to display their true character.

“This is for you, Quentin,” she muttered under her breath.

As Viv approached the Duke of Faircliffe’s Mayfair terrace, a human butler opened the front door. She expected that her calling card—V IVIAN H ENRY, P LAYWRIGHT —would not be enough, and had mentally prepared several arguments to convince the butler to at least inform his mistress of her presence.

The butler didn’t even glance at her card. To her surprise, he smiled the moment she spoke her name and immediately welcomed her into the terraced home without even dashing inside to enquire whether his employers were receiving guests.

He led her into a dining room the size of her and Quentin’s entire home. In the center of the vast room was an equally oversize table, upon which cluttered a cornucopia of bits and bobs. There were flowers and ribbons and lace and pearls and feathers and odd fruits dipped in wax.

There were also the duke and the duchess themselves, casually sewing the colorful items onto bonnets. Their baby, Dorian, sat between them, stray bits of ribbon pasted to random spots on his sticky arms and head.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said Viv.

“Sit, sit,” said Chloe. “Do you want to make yourself a bonnet?”

“I…” Viv considered the oily mess Elizabeth’s automated butler had made of what had previously been Viv’s best bonnet. “Maybe? I don’t really know how.”

“Have Lawrence do it, he’s good at it,” the duchess suggested.

Viv stared at her, bewildered. Had she just been invited to give instructions to a duke?

“Er,” she managed.

The truth was, Chloe’s bonnets were legendarily hideous. A duchess might be able to wear an entire millinery shop glued to her coiffure, but Viv would rather exhibit at least some sense of style.

The Duke of Faircliffe lifted the bonnet in his lap. “I’m almost done with this one, if you’d like it.”

Viv’s mouth fell open. It was beautiful. More elegant than anything she’d ever worn. The sort of bonnet whose price was so far outside her means, it would’ve hurt her eyes to behold it in a shop window.

“Take it now,” Chloe whispered. “Before Dory gets his paws on it. Unless you want to copy my appearance.”

Viv looked at the duchess, looked at Dorian, then took the bonnet from the duke. “Thank you. I don’t have enough coin with me at the moment to repay—”

“It’s a gift,” Chloe interrupted. “We’re making a new batch for the women’s refuge. As each season turns, I drop off my used clothing and try to add at least a few decent bonnets to the mix.”

“You donate your entire wardrobe four times a year?” Viv asked in surprise.

“Not me,” said the Duke of Faircliffe, leaning back in his seat to hook his thumbs into his waistband. “I’ve been wearing this coat and trousers for the past five years and I don’t intend to break my streak now.”

“Not the same coat and trousers,” Chloe whispered to Viv. “He has half a dozen identical pairs he cycles through.”

Viv wasn’t sure which stunned her more: the duchess giving away all of her fashionable garments every three months, or that the duke didn’t bother attempting to be fashionable at all.

“Dory acquires more than enough new clothing for all of us,” said Faircliffe. “I will never understand how someone so small can outgrow dozens of play clothes overnight.”

“We donate those, too,” Chloe assured Viv. “All of Dory’s outgrown items go straight to the orphanage where I grew up.”

“You don’t want to save Dorian’s baby clothes in case he acquires a brother or sister?

” Viv regretted the question as soon as it came from her mouth.

Obviously, a duke and duchess wouldn’t fret over every farthing the way Viv did.

They could probably afford to replace the wardrobe of every person in the household nightly if they so wished.

“I don’t know that I will have another baby,” Chloe answered with astonishing honesty.

“Oh, I know it’s expected of me. First the heir, then the spare, et cetera.

But we adore spoiling Dory with our full attention—when we’re not crafting speeches for Parliament.

Fifteen months is a little too young to join in on that. ”

“ You craft speeches for Parliament?”

“Just Lawrence’s,” Chloe said quickly. “He’s the one who gives them, not me.

Come to think of it, you’re a writer. A playwright must know how to pen convincing dialogue.

You ought to come join our planning sessions.

If we were faster at it, maybe we could offer speeches for our allies as well.

I’m sure you have pet topics you’d like the lads to discuss, am I right? ”

“Um,” said Viv, showcasing her stunning ability to generate riveting dialogue.

Had she really just been invited to literally help script the next session of Parliament?

A hair-raising wail rent the air.

“Ah,” said Chloe. “Those dulcet tones indicate Dory is ready for teatime.”

“Milk time,” said Faircliffe. “After which he falls asleep, giving us a solid thirty minutes for adult conversation.”

“Or a much-needed nap.” Chloe pantomimed falling asleep right there in her chair.

Viv pressed her new bonnet to her chest and rose to her feet. “I won’t interrupt you further then. Enjoy your nap.”

Chloe pretended to let out a loud snore.

Dorian giggled and did the same. Although his came out sounding more like baby pig noises.

“Here.” Viv put her old bonnet on the table. It had oil smudges, but it wasn’t unwearable. “Please donate my hat when you go.”

“With pleasure,” said Faircliffe.

“Come back on Monday,” Chloe called over her shoulder as she scooped up the baby for his mealtime. “We can chat more once we’ve hammered out fresh arguments for women’s suffrage.”

Viv left the house feeling more disoriented than when she’d battled her way through Elizabeth’s entryway.

Had she just been invited to meddle in the aristocracy’s lives? An hour ago, not a single line Viv had written had ever been used in a play. And now her unlikeliest political dialogue might be performed by the highest-ranking lords in Parliament?

These Wynchesters were wild, indeed.

Viv returned to Islington wearing her new bonnet. She headed straight to the sitting room, where today’s unopened advice letters still awaited her.