Page 30 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)
Tommy and Philippa were already seated at the table. Lace-draped Philippa sat behind a stack of books taller than her head. Cravat-less Tommy, in men’s shirtsleeves, bent over a new map she was sketching out. At Viv’s arrival, Tommy glanced up. A grin spread across her face.
“You’re wearing a Faircliffe special!” she crowed. “That duke is my favorite milliner in all of London.”
Viv couldn’t help but grin back. “His grace is a surprisingly handy craftsman. I can’t wait to tell Quentin. Maybe he’ll start sewing his own costumes.”
“What kinds of costumes?” Tommy asked. “Does he often require fancy bonnets?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Ask Graham for a full list of the club’s false identities.
” Viv gave a fond shake of her head. “Even when Quentin is supposedly dressed as a cobbler or a parson or a Wynchester like you, his ‘disguises’ are usually just his ordinary clothes. He probably would appreciate a good hat, though.”
Philippa turned to Tommy. “Do you think I should learn millinery?”
Tommy snorted. “I don’t see how you can fit anything else in your brain. Didn’t you just learn Turkish, for fun?”
“Not for fun,” Philippa protested. “To understand local texts describing traditional methods of preparing Turkish coffee.”
“Which you drink for fun,” Tommy said. “I rest my case. If a random document exists anywhere, written in a language you don’t speak, you’ll rectify the situation within a month. Whereas those of us ordinary folk who are not bluestockings… How many languages do you speak, Vivian?”
“Um,” said Viv. “Five?”
“Good God.” Tommy set down her pencil and threw her hands into the air. “Am I the last non-bluestocking on earth?”
“You know three,” Philippa comforted her. “That’s decent.”
“My French is the worst of anyone in the family,” grumbled Tommy. “And the other two languages, I’d have no excuse not to speak, since we use both English and sign language every day at home. What’s your story, Vivian?”
“Dutch, French, and English, because they’re spoken on Demerara. Latin and Greek because I helped tutor my cousin during the entirety of his school years.”
Tommy ran a hand over her short brown hair as she shook her head. “You should come back on Thursday. You’d fit right in with Philippa’s weekly reading circle.”
“She didn’t say she liked to read,” Philippa whispered.
“She’s a playwright who speaks five languages,” Tommy whispered back. “She can read.”
Viv’s heart pounded. This was the second time in as many hours in which a Wynchester casually referenced Viv’s career as that of a playwright, despite her not having sold a single word.
It was as though they could see a successful future in store for her, and found no reason to wait to bestow her proper title.
Philippa smiled at her. “If you’re at all interested in biscuits, wine, or Turkish coffee, then by all means, please join us on Thursday afternoon.”
“There’s also books involved,” warned Tommy. “Don’t let her fool you.”
Viv hadn’t expected to be invited to something unrelated to their cases. “I could stomach reading a paragraph or two in exchange for wine and biscuits.”
“Mm-hm, that’s how it starts.” Tommy clucked her tongue. “You’ll be crafting military ciphers and performing natural philosophy experiments in no time.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Philippa chided her, softening her words with a kiss to Tommy’s cheek.
Tommy swiveled her head at the last second, intercepting the chaste buss and turning it into a proper kiss.
Philippa blushed scarlet, though it was clear she didn’t mind at all.
Viv grinned at the now-familiar sight and settled into her seat at the table.
Begrudgingly, she was forced to admit she’d begun to understand what Quentin saw in the Wynchesters.
Rather than a morally gray, hypocritical monolith, each of them was refreshingly unique and unapologetically themselves in every way.
Complete disregard of society’s impossible-to-achieve demands was a lifestyle Viv couldn’t help but respect. She herself dedicated her days to bucking expectations and making her own way despite the world she lived in, rather than conforming to it.
She wished Quentin understood that she didn’t think he was wrong for wanting to help others. She simply feared for his freedom and his life.
Even if Viv wanted to break rules—and she did! She’d tried to break the biggest one of all!—in doing so, she’d risked torture and death. That was not a fate she wished to fall on Quentin. He was a good lad, and deserved to live a long, happy, safe life.
The Wynchesters were unquestionably and mind-bogglingly privileged… but they were conscious of the discrepancy. Each of them did their best to spread that privilege around to those who weren’t in the same enviable position.
Quentin needed to comprehend that rule-breaking wasn’t the problem.
Retaliation was the problem.
The Wynchesters were powerful enough to shoulder that risk for their clients. Putting themselves on the line without hesitation didn’t erase the unfairness, but Viv acknowledged that they were doing their best to restore as much balance as they could.
She opened her journal and jotted a few notes to prove to Quentin she’d truly come to know each of them.
Viv fully supported Chloe ceasing her childbearing after one birth, if that’s what she wanted to do.
Or Elizabeth, choosing not to have any babies at all.
Willfully barren was a stance rarely seen in England, as childlessness was often considered unnatural or a personal failing.
It was even legal for husbands to impregnate their wives against their will.
And then there was Tommy and Philippa, who were each other’s wives…
partners… whatever. Viv didn’t have the words to describe their relationship, or to explain Tommy’s equal ease in the role of man or woman.
The obvious truth was that the two were deeply in love.
And honestly, did anything else matter beyond that?
Viv had misjudged Marjorie and Adrian when she’d thought them capable of pushing children toward a life of crime.
Graham and Kuni also seemed to be unusual, but genuinely kindhearted people.
And no one could deny their methods were effective.
They wouldn’t be stretched to the limits if they didn’t keep their word.
Quentin would be thrilled at her conclusions.
Viv closed her journal and sifted through her correspondence instead.
Helping the Wynchesters with their cases was gratifying, but the newspaper was her only source of income, without her pin money.
And there was no way to know when Quentin would tire of playing adventurer and judge Viv worthy enough to come home.
Which had to be soon, didn’t it? Rent would be due in a fortnight, and her Ask Vivian earnings wouldn’t come close to the sum. No matter what point he was trying to make or how angry he had been, Quentin would never leave her in such a position… would he?
Viv swiftly sorted through her newest batch of letters, in hopes of receiving another query from the burglar.
Nothing today, damn it. Ironically, she had once prayed never to hear from a madman again, and now she was eagerly awaiting his next missive, in the hopes that some clue in his letter would lead them to his identity.
Better yet, Viv might be able to craft a response whose instructions would lead the villain to be caught red-handed.
“Do you think Kuni prefers whipstitch or French hems?” Tommy asked suddenly.
Philippa jumped, causing her magnifying glass to tumble to the floor. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” Tommy bent to retrieve the glass. “You were concentrating, and I interrupted. I just wanted to make her Adrienne gown perfect without her knowing I’m working on a dress for her. If I ask, she’ll know I’m up to something.”
“Give me an hour or two, and I’ll ask. I need to finish this,” Philippa murmured, bending back over her research.
“Kuni will be gone by then. She’s leaving for the Kensington case in thirty minutes. That one won’t be over until morning, at which point she and Graham head to Oxford for—”
“I’ll go.” Viv leapt to her feet, without responding to the ordinary advice letter in her hand. “She’s in the rear garden?”
Tommy nodded gratefully. “Remember, you can’t tell her what it’s for.”
Viv smiled. “Kuni won’t suspect a thing.”