Page 37 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)
“What can I do?” asked Philippa.
“If they find out he’s not a Wynchester…” Viv ventured, her voice shaky.
Horror flooded Jacob’s face.
“What’s happening?” asked Philippa. “Isn’t Quentin in less danger if the kidnapper realizes he’s not one of us?”
“No.” Graham scrubbed a hand over his face. “Whatever the blackmailer wants, he thinks abducting a Wynchester gives him leverage. That’s what makes ‘Horace’ a valuable hostage. If Quentin admits he isn’t part of our family, he becomes nothing more than an ordinary Black boy.”
“Disposable,” Viv whispered.
“No,” Jacob said firmly, giving her arm a squeeze. “I swear we’ll find him first.”
Viv wanted to believe him so badly.
“Why exactly was Quentin disguised as Horace?” Philippa asked. “And yes, I realize we’d have the answer to this if we’d interviewed the club members. In the interest of saving time, please tell us everything you know.”
Viv swallowed. “I didn’t ask. He’s always disguising himself as someone or another, in the pursuit of one of his alleged cases. I never ask about those, either. I thought it was folly. I didn’t want to show too much interest, because I was trying my damnedest to get him to stop.”
“You wanted him to leave the club?”
“I wanted all of the lads to cease pretending to have the Wynchester reputation and resources before it got one of them killed.” She swallowed hard. “I told Quentin your family was dangerous…”
“We didn’t force him to impersonate Horace,” Philippa protested.
“You don’t have to. You’re larger than life, like all his heroes. Lads see the Duke of Wellington and want to be a soldier, never comprehending the odds of returning from battle alive, much less with honors.”
“None of us have died during a mission!”
“That’s not the only danger. A Wynchester gets arrested more often than the average person washes his teeth, yet there’s been no consequences for any of you.”
“Our lawyers—”
“Exactly. Your money, your connections, your name, your status. Quentin and his friends don’t have any of that.
Can you look me in the eye and tell me with a straight face that his life would be in any less danger if he’d been captured by the authorities for a robbery instead of abducted by the kidnapper? ”
Philippa looked horrified, but she could not refute Viv’s point.
“We have another clue,” Jacob interrupted quietly. “Quentin’s letter to Vivian. He intended to spy on a Lord S.”
“Who is Lord S?” asked Marjorie.
“I’ve no idea,” Viv said hoarsely, wishing once again that she’d interrogated Quentin within an inch of his life every time he mentioned his stupid club. Then again, perhaps that would only have drawn a wedge between them sooner, and she wouldn’t even have his coded letter to parse.
“You have no idea?” Adrian asked. “I thought Ask Vivian had all the answers.”
“I don’t have any of the answers,” she whispered. “I never have. I’m faking it, just like Quentin. We’re both doing the best we can.”
“You have the answers quite a lot of the time,” Jacob said. “I read your column, and so does half of London.”
Graham nodded. “Thanks to your description, Marjorie and Adrian’s sketches will help us find the messenger, who with luck can lead us to the kidnapper.”
“Which could take days or weeks,” Viv said. “We need to act now. Who do you think it might be?”
Jacob’s nose wrinkled. “Wealthy, thinks his desires trump everyone else, wouldn’t know a Wynchester if one punched him in the face… Sounds like an aristocrat to me.”
“Lord S,” said Viv. “It has to be.”
“The Marquess of Leisterdale,” blurted Philippa. “Right?”
Adrian frowned. “I thought we decided Leisterdale was Olivebury’s nemesis, not ours. Those two are polar opposites in Parliament. A rivalry makes sense. Whereas Horace Wynchester is Balcovian. He couldn’t vote even if he were real.”
Graham sent Viv a look. “I thought Quentin didn’t have an accent?”
“He has a British one,” she answered. “Not like mine. He was born here.”
“This kidnapper did absolutely no reconnaissance whatsoever,” Philippa muttered.
“He didn’t have to,” Marjorie pointed out. “Not if Quentin walked up to him and said, ‘I’m Horace Wynchester, how do you do?’”
“He’s been practicing his disguises,” Viv said. “We took cosmetics classes at the theater. And I try to teach him to sew.”
Philippa said, “I imagine you never dreamed a raffish waistcoat or false wrinkles would one day put his life in danger.”
Viv tried not to scream. “Aren’t you listening?
It was my constant nightmare. Why do you think I object so hard to your law-breaking, lies, and dangerous exploits?
A wealthy, well-connected family like you can get away with treason, but a boy like Quentin would face prison for breathing near the wrong person. ”
Jacob looked baffled. “You despise my family, but you helped Quentin to imitate us?”
“I love my cousin. There’s little I wouldn’t do for him.”
“Should you? The way he works you to the bone, I’m surprised you manage to write a single sentence. You aren’t the least bit resentful to become your cousin’s dependent and guardian all at once?”
“Resentful?” she repeated. “He rescued me .”
Jacob frowned. “What does that mean?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Concentrate on Quentin, not me. There are more important interviews to conduct.”
“I’ll visit Newt at once,” said Graham. “Right now and in person. I’ll extract every drop of information about Lord S that he can give us and report back within the hour. We’ll interview all the club members this very night.”
Viv’s stomach roiled. She’d imagined her innocent young cousin had staged an elaborate plot to manipulate her into befriending the Wynchesters… when all along, Quentin had been kidnapped . Trapped. In danger. Fearing for his life.
Trusting his all-knowing cousin would find him. A woman who’d spent the day reading her mail and kissing Jacob Wynchester.
She would never forgive herself.