Page 34 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

“And he gives me an allowance from it. My pin money covers my clothing and anything else I might need.”

“Does it?” Jacob said with skepticism. “And is the money really a gift if you work as maid and cook and nanny and tutor and probably valet as well?”

She pressed her lips together. “Would I like to receive all those salaries? Of course. Who wouldn’t?

But Quentin’s quarterly dividends aren’t nearly the sum you must be imagining.

If he could afford to hire staff, he would.

We wouldn’t be living here . As soon I sell a play and establish a solid career for myself… ”

Jacob held his tongue. He wondered how long she’d been telling herself that recognition and riches—or at least a living wage that allowed her a full night’s sleep once in a while—were right around the corner.

Probably for years. Maybe her whole life.

And here she was. Living here. Like this. Somehow still confident and hopeful.

“I will sell a play,” Vivian said hotly, as though she could read Jacob’s mind. “But… it’s impossible to predict when that might be. In the meantime, I hope Quentin returns before the rent is due.”

Jacob looked at her sharply. “You can’t pay your rent?”

“With what I earn answering anonymous letters sent to the newspaper? Either you have no idea how much rents cost, or you vastly overestimate how periodicals compensate their contributors.”

Probably both were true. Jacob had never paid rent. He didn’t have a house the first several years of his life, then moved in with Baron Vanderbean, who had built the Wynchester siblings’ Islington residence months before they had become a family.

Jacob’s only experiences with earning money were a circus that had paid almost nothing, his failed publishing attempts as Mr. Wynchester, and his subsequent career as Jallow, which had rocketed far beyond his wildest dreams.

He was embarrassed to admit that although he’d meant it when he’d said Vivian should earn the wages of maid and cook and governess and any other roles she provided, Jacob actually hadn’t the least notion what those positions might earn.

He wasn’t even certain if Chloe still managed the Wynchester family’s books, or if she’d passed the task on to someone else.

Would Vivian’s newspaper income be enough to afford a small room of her own?

Probably not. Servants lived with the families they served for a reason.

Without her cousin’s trust money, Vivian would either be out on the streets or toiling just as much as she did now for some other wealthy employer.

Either way, there would be no free time for penning plays.

“I can cover the cost of your—” he began.

“Quentin would never allow me to be evicted,” Vivian said. “He’ll show up any day now.”

Jacob hoped so.

Then again, Quentin hadn’t made any attempt to communicate with his increasingly worried cousin. Jacob’s siblings frequently traveled far and wide on a moment’s notice for many of their justice missions, but they would never disappear for days without a word.

The lad was either pathologically self-centered and incredibly inconsiderate… or something else was going on.

Jacob had never hoped harder for a lad to bear the personality traits of young and thoughtless.

“How did it go at the meeting last night?” Vivian asked.

He couldn’t hide the grin that threatened to take over his face. “I faced my fears.”

“And lived to tell the tale!” She clapped her hands. “Well done.”

“You might give decent advice once in a while,” he teased.

“Why don’t you let me read some of your work? I’m a playwright, not a poet, but I can spot talent a mile away.”

“No, thank you,” he said hastily.

He’d known the Dreamers Guild for years, and Vivian for less than a fortnight.

If Jacob wasn’t yet ready to tell his siblings, he certainly wasn’t going to divulge his second identity to a client.

Much less the world at large. Not when a secret that big would turn his life—and half of England—upside down.

“I’m not so scary,” she coaxed.

She was absolutely that scary.

Her steadfast confidence in her own opinions was another reason he’d rather she never read a single word of his poetry. Vivian was literally paid to be right about other people. If she found Jacob’s poems unworthy, it would wound him more than all the countrywide praise.

She dragged her chair closer. “You won’t allow me to read your poetry because you think it’s bad? Or because you’re afraid it’s good , and I’ll have no choice but insist you share it with the world?”

He tightened his lips rather than respond.

“Don’t block yourself from success,” she said with surprising gentleness. “The fact that you’re audacious enough to create something from nothing makes you exceptional.”

Inarguably, Sir Gareth Jallow had indeed received exceptional success. But was his fame fully deserved? Or was the pretentious “sir” and the mystery of his reclusive persona doing more to sell books than the actual content inside?

“Why don’t you let me read your work?” he countered, hoping to deflect attention from himself and perhaps even inflict a sliver of the same doubt and nervousness upon Vivian.

She shrugged and gestured to the sideboard. “Read anything you want. I’ll take over the dishes.”

He stared at her. “Read your work right now? In front of you?”

“Or take a script home. I have duplicate copies of everything, remember?”

Could she truly be that nonchalant about something she’d poured her heart into?

Jacob dried his hands and crossed to the sideboard. She didn’t stop him. He scooped up an entire pile of manuscripts. Rather than tense in anticipation of his impending first reaction, she turned toward the sink. He started with the topmost page. She wasn’t even watching him.

By the third line, he’d forgotten all about Vivian.

He forgot he was standing in a tiny kitchen.

He forgot his sausages were over on the table growing cold.

He forgot he lived in this world at all.

Instead, he turned the pages faster and faster, snorting at the witty dialogue and holding his breath at all the moments of drama and suspense.

When he reached the end of Act One, he glanced up in awe. She still wasn’t peering at him, watching for any sign of approval or censure. She’d actually finished clearing the dishes and tidying the entire kitchen. He’d been too lost in her play to notice.

“I was going to help with that.”

She shrugged. “Reading is more important than housework.”

All right, then. Rather than continue to Act Two, he flipped through the stack, pausing at random to skim whatever lines happened to appear.

Every single page was brilliant, even without context. The humor, the swift pace, the action. She was the prima donna of playwrights… or would be, if anyone with a brain gave her half a chance.

“You sent these plays out?” he asked.

She nodded and joined him at the sideboard. “To every theater manager in the country.”

He considered. “What if you didn’t?”

She frowned. “If I’ve garnered no interest whatsoever when maximizing my chances, why would I purposefully minimize them?”

“You wouldn’t be,” he said. “Trust me on this. You are a logical person, but most of the world is not. Sometimes the only way to win is by resorting to a bit of trickery.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I’ll be published on my own merit or not at all.”

“Not bad trickery,” he assured her. “Normal trickery. The sort everyone uses every day.”

“It’s not true success if I cheat my way to the top. What did I tell you about obstacles?”

“No, it’s… Look. Why do society hostesses rent expensive pineapples to display as centerpieces at their dinner parties?”

“Because the rich have absolutely nothing else to do with their time and money? If I had a pineapple, I’d eat it.”

“And they might, too, if pineapples weren’t so exotic and rare that they cost more than a horse. Pineapple motifs are carved all over stately homes because their scarcity implies status, and everyone wants a little bit more of that.”

She sighed. “What does tropical fruit have to do with my plays?”

“Be the pineapple,” Jacob coaxed, edging closer.

“Intriguingly unusual and irresistibly sweet. Research each theater manager before sending a query, and be sure to imply that their most hated rival not only has shown interest, but also is actively trying to keep this manuscript out of your target’s hands.

He’ll not only snap it up, but also insist on exclusivity. ”

“It’s not that easy,” said Vivian. “Perhaps you and your family can feel good about making up lies to manipulate people everywhere you go, but I want to earn my accolades.”

That cut closer than she knew.

“It’s not lying… exactly,” said Jacob. “It’s worth a try, at least.”

All right, yes, it obviously involved a wee bit of lying. And some manipulation. But that didn’t make it a bad idea. Not when mutton-heads all over England were rejecting plays this excellent, unopened and unread.

Jacob hadn’t the least doubt that if one of those theater managers actually read so much as the opening page, they’d be prepared to duel at dawn for the right to perform Vivian Henry’s theatrical debut.

“If you won’t use human nature to your benefit, then you can’t expect footlights and confetti from a total stranger,” he told her. “ I know you’re talented enough to be a star overnight, but no one else knows it. That’s why apprenticeships—”

She looked unimpressed. “Why should I play apprentice to someone who cannot write as well as I do?”

“Because that’s how the world operates.” He slid the stack of plays back onto the sideboard behind her hips. “Working one’s way up the ranks is a necessary step. You could take a volunteer position—”

“I ought to be paid for my labor!”

“Of course you should. But these are the facts. You would hear the same advice if you wished to be a baker or a blacksmith. In many cases, masters are well paid for training apprentices. That path may currently be out of your means—”

“And out of the question,” she ground out with obvious frustration. “I don’t want to waste my time and money copying someone else’s words for the next five years, when I’m ready now —”

She jabbed her finger into his chest for emphasis.

He caught it and trapped her hand to his chest.

She glared at him in consternation.

“You don’t have to convince me that you’re worthy,” he said softly. “I already know that you deserve everything you want.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted. She did not remove her hand from beneath his. The air crackled with awareness.

He could feel his heart fluttering against her palm as he lowered his head toward hers, fully expecting to be pushed away and rejected.

She was the great and talented Vivian Henry. The woman whose name crossed everyone’s breakfast table every morning. The lady with all the answers.

He was just Jacob.

“You’re taking too long,” she murmured against his lips. “Kiss me before I die of anticipation.”

He wasted no time in heeding her advice.

Their hips bumped against the sideboard, sending reams of neatly stacked plays flying.

Neither of them paused. Vivian’s hands laced tight behind Jacob’s neck, and his own arms wrapped gently about her, cradling her close without trapping her to him.

She tasted like success. Like the perfect opening line to a poem.

He liked that they’d both taken the first move together. He liked that she chose to kiss him. That she tasted like pies and marmalade. He liked that she argued with him. That she shared her thoughts and struggles.

He only wished he had the answer she sought. The ability to wave a magic wand and grant her the opportunity to shine, like the star she was destined to be—if only people would look and see what was right before their eyes.

His heart gave a little jump of excitement. Jacob Wynchester might not be able to do much about theater managers’ prejudices, but Sir Gareth Jallow… now there was a chap with a fair bit of influence.

Jacob had never leveraged his alternate persona’s fame in the pursuit of literary favors, but he supposed it was no different from Tommy utilizing any of her infinite disguises in the pursuit of justice. And the unfair prejudice against Vivian was an obvious injustice.

Unlike Tommy, Jacob couldn’t claim he’d be bending the rules to help a “client.” Vivian meant more to him than that. He didn’t want her to disappear from his life the moment her cousin came home.

But even if she did… even if all the future held for them were a few fond memories… at least he could offer a little help up the ladder she very much deserved to climb.

She’d made her opposition to trickery clear—but his praise was no sham. He’d be telling the full and honest truth about what a talented and worthy writer she was. He’d shout it from the rooftops, if he could.

Though he shouldn’t mention any plans to Vivian quite yet.

First of all, Jacob wasn’t certain what, exactly, he could pull off.

Nor did he want her to think he was being benevolent in order to curry favor with her, or to make her feel beholden to him in any way.

He’d rather be anonymous and know deep inside his heart that he’d done everything he could to help her achieve her dreams.

But that was a project for later. Right now, the only thing he wanted from life was to keep kissing the clever, talented woman here in his arms.