Page 42 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

He touched the tip of his beak to hers. “Let’s go find Quentin.”

She sucked in an audible breath and raced up the stairs.

Jacob allowed himself a small smile. Whether she liked it or not, Vivian indeed made a formidable Wynchester. Convincing in costume, memorizing maps and animal commands with ease… If only she could see how much good they could do if they worked together!

But there would be time to convince her his family was worth joining after they’d rescued her cousin.

Jacob hurried down the corridor, entering every room he passed.

As he went, maids shrieked and stampeded out of the house to flee the low-flying bats.

He peeked into pantries and tested walls for secret passages.

Jacob doubted the marquess would have had the foresight to install hidden chambers in his Mayfair town home, but the Royal Exterminator ruse was only going to work once.

This was their chance to find Vivian’s cousin.

As he searched, Jacob murmured commands to his bats, sending the furry tempest a few yards farther ahead, so as to clear each space of servants before Jacob slipped in to search it. Screams and fleeing footsteps preceded him every time.

Unfortunately, it only took twenty of his allotted thirty minutes to determine there were no faux Wynchesters tied to a chair on the ground floor. Jacob hoped Vivian was having better luck upstairs, where the sleeping quarters were located.

He and a dozen swooping bats hurried to the stairs to join her—only for Vivian to come trudging down before he’d even made it halfway up.

Her voice was bleak. “No sign of Quentin ever having been here.”

“Did you check behind the—”

“Yes.” Her voice wobbled. “My cousin isn’t here. He never was. The Marquess of Leisterdale—”

“—is a very rich and powerful man,” Jacob finished, his voice hushed. Despite the chaos, they shouldn’t discuss their suspicions here. “Follow my lead, and we’ll reconvene in the carriage.”

He flipped open the lid to the basket and rushed down the stairs, giving the bats the signal to gather inside the wicker receptacle. By the time Jacob reached the front door, all dozen furry little mammals were perched inside the hamper.

As he strode through the entryway, Jacob tilted the bat-basket toward the butler, who stifled a shriek and cowered against the far wall to let Jacob and Vivian pass.

“Jolly good, then,” Graham said briskly. “Give us a call if you experience another outbreak.”

“Another… outbreak?” gasped the butler.

In seconds, Graham, Jacob, and Vivian were back inside the carriage. They ripped off their hot, heavy masks as the horses whisked them back toward Islington.

“He’d been moved?” asked Graham.

“Never there.” Vivian stared at Jacob darkly, as though it were his fault the villain had been wise enough not to store his hostage in his primary residence.

“Leisterdale has more than one house in the country,” Jacob reminded her. “Quentin could be at one of those.”

“The marquess also has more than one plantation,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Quentin could be at one of those .”

One glance at the glossiness in Vivian’s brown eyes was all it took for Jacob to realize this was a visceral fear.

Vivian’s own escape had been pure luck. Although slavery was finally illegal here on English soil, a sugar-plantation-owning lord depraved enough to kidnap an eighteen-year-old lad in order to sway the vote in Parliament was unlikely to have moral scruples about how best to dispose of a young Black hostage.

Her eyes were panicked. “We should have been watching the docks instead of the crescents…”

Jacob pulled her into his arms and held her tight. He could imagine her terror. Vivian had lived the nightmare. She knew exactly what would await her cousin.

Jacob couldn’t allow that to happen.

“We’ll find him,” he promised, his voice rough against the back of her ear. “I understand why that would be your worst fear, but remember, there is no evidence to indicate Quentin is no longer in the area. He was here to give that thumbprint.”

Over her shoulder, Jacob exchanged urgent glances with his brother, who nodded to signal he’d deploy any spare spies he could find to lift every rock and check every ship’s manifest.

“It sounds crass,” Graham said softly, “but your cousin loses value as a hostage if he cannot easily be produced for the ransom. We have every reason to believe he’s still in England, and probably here in London. Possibly at an accomplice’s residence. We will find him. It’s only a matter of time.”

Jacob murmured, “And the moment the kidnapper mentions a price for ransom, we’ll pay it and make the exchange at once. Quentin’s safety is our priority.”

Vivian shuddered in Jacob’s arms, then went still for a long moment before straightening away from him.

She gave a stoic nod. “You’re right. I know you’re right.

Emotions can overtake my heart, but my brain still recognizes logic.

Leisterdale wants a certain act to pass before he asks for ransom money, and until he achieves that goal, it’s in his best interest to keep my cousin healthy and close by.

We don’t know how much time that gives us, but Quentin should still be alive… for now.”

Jacob held her hand in his, rubbing the soft warm skin with his thumb.

Vivian flashed him a grateful smile. As the horses clopped along, her spine regained its straightness.

The panic melted away, replaced by what Jacob had come to think of as her plotting furiously expression.

The Wynchesters might be worn thin, but Vivian carried a one-woman Planning Parlor in her brain at all times.

If there were any overlooked clues, Vivian would spot them.

When the carriage reached Islington, the available family members piled out of the home and jogged up to the carriage in the hopes of being the first to welcome Quentin.

Vivian remained silent while Jacob explained why they didn’t have him.

Marjorie took one look at her face and hugged her.

“Let’s go indoors.” Elizabeth gestured toward the sky. “It’s going to rain.”

“And Cook made lime biscuits,” said Marjorie.

Graham blinked at her. “ Lime ?”

Vivian spun to stare at Jacob. “Like the ones my mother made in Demerara?”

“I hope they resemble them a little bit. I don’t have a recipe.”

“Then how did you know—”

“You mention them no less than seven times in your plays. I figured they had to be your favorites. Cook tried her best, but if they’re not quite right, I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

Vivian threw her arms about him and pressed her cheek to his chest. “You’re trying. I see you trying. I appreciate all of your efforts.”

You’re trying was not quite the same as You’re achieving your goal of making me happy , but he hoped it was at least progress in the right direction.

He held her close for as long as she let him.

When they stepped into the siblings’ sitting room, Philippa waved a hand toward the table. “Jacob, I almost forgot. Some post came for you while you were out.”

Jacob sifted through the pile of correspondence, his spirits rising. He tossed all but one of the letters aside, then broke the seal and scanned the contents. What he read inside made his heart attempt to burst from his chest.

“Vivian,” he began, trying and failing to contain his excitement.

Her eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Nothing bad,” he said quickly. “Something wonderful. Your dramatic play about suffrage reform will be produced on Drury Lane!”

Huzzahs of joy rang around the room.

From every mouth except Vivian’s.

Her forehead lined with confusion. “Why would a theater manager inform you rather than me?”

“Well…” Jacob shoved the letter into his pocket, belatedly realizing he did not in fact have a good explanation that didn’t involve unmasking himself as Sir Gareth Jallow. “I… That is to say, you’re aware that I have friends who are writers of some renown…”

“Poets, not playwrights.”

His cravat felt too tight. “Yes, well, professional scribes of considerable fame and status. One such individual put in a good word for you at the Olympic Theatre—”

“Why would they do that?”

“Why would… someone… champion you to the theater?” Jacob swallowed.

He’d hoped she would be too overjoyed at this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to worry about how, precisely, it had come about.

“You know I’ve read your plays. They’re wonderful.

You’re an excellent writer, which is the very topic my weekly group discusses. ”

Vivian narrowed her eyes. The rest of his siblings were smiling and nodding. He’d waxed poetic about Vivian’s abilities to them, too.

“Given your stellar talent,” he pushed on, “of course I would rave about your work as an example of criminally overlooked craftsmanship. If an individual then took it upon himself to—”

“Who authorized you to interfere on my behalf without so much as enquiring whether I wished for such intervention?” she snapped.

Jacob halted. Though his lips moved like a fish, no sound escaped.

His siblings watched avidly.

“Who has the biscuits?” Graham whispered.

“Here.” Marjorie passed them down the line.

Jacob kept his focus on Vivian and tried again.

“Remember, word of mouth isn’t trickery.

It’s a good and natural thing. Opining you deserve to be published is simply stating the truth.

You believe the odds are stacked against you, and you’re correct.

You know you’re at a huge disadvantage. So why not accept help when you can? ”

“Please listen to my words.” Vivian poked her finger into his lapel. “I haven’t worked this hard to become an annoying favor some theater manager must suffer through solely to curry the blessing of some white male poet.”

“Er,” he said.

“I sent that play to the manager of the Olympic. He said never to contact him again. This has nothing to do with me being good at what I do. It’s not about my work at all.”

“The manager now realizes—”

“—that he has a big important friend who said do this . Your manager didn’t have a choice.

He’ll appreciate my work even less now.” Her eyes glinted with anger.

“This is yet another way Wynchesters are dangerous. You act rashly in others’ names, even when they don’t want you to.

And then people like me are left to suffer the consequences.

At best, this theater manager will throw on a halfhearted afternoon performance and call the favor fulfilled. ”

“But if otherwise your play wasn’t going to be performed at all—”

“I want my work to be performed by choice! Only by earning the honor on my own merit will I ever be taken seriously as a playwright.”

“You said yourself, that plan is not working. You’ve been trying for years—”

“And I’ll keep trying for decades more! Eventually, someone will have to recognize good work when they see it.”

“You don’t believe that any more than I do,” said Jacob. “You know the world isn’t fair.”

“I want it to be,” Vivian said achingly. “I need there to be hope, not just for me, but for all the others who… Doing everything in my power has to be enough to make a difference.”

“Does it? You couldn’t leave Demerara on your own power,” he pointed out. “Sometimes we have to accept help in order to realize our—”

“Is this where you wax poetic about your angelic Baron Vanderbean, the white man who saved you all and delivered you to lives of wealth and privilege?”

“I wasn’t going to,” Jacob said. “But now that you brought it up, that’s a brilliant point. Without Bean sharing his considerable advantages without hesitation, many of us would still be—”

“One question,” she interrupted. “Did your precious baron abduct you against your will and arrange your future without your knowledge or consent? Or did he present options, and allow you to choose what you’d like to do with your life?”

“Choice,” the siblings chorused together.

Vivian’s eyes flashed. “Yet you didn’t think I deserved the same consideration a lord gave a small child?”

“You’re being melodramatic,” said Jacob. “I—”

“Oof,” said Tommy. “You just lost this argument.”

“Erase that phrase from your vocabulary,” Philippa agreed with a wince. “Just because you might react differently doesn’t make someone else’s feelings invalid.”

Vivian crossed her arms. “ Would you react differently? If all it takes to be published is for one of your important friends to whisper into the right ear, then why aren’t there volumes of Jacob Wynchester’s poetry in bookstores all over England?”

“It’s complicated,” he hedged. “Listen—”

“Why should I? You don’t seem particularly inclined to listen to me . I suppose I’m too melodramatic.”

“Told you that was a mistake,” Tommy murmured.

“Listen,” Jacob said again, even though it was clearly the wrong thing to say.

He wasn’t skilled at talking to people. He needed time to hone his words.

Most of which ended up in the fireplace for a reason.

“I’m not an old white baron. I’m just a man trying to help a friend.

If you don’t want your play to be performed, then say so, and I’ll let the theater manager know to take it off the schedule. ”

“If you do that,” Vivian said quietly, “neither he nor any other theater manager in England will consider my work ever again. Rejecting this opportunity, no matter how insincerely granted, would blackball my name.”

He swallowed.

“You give me no choice,” she continued, her eyes glossy. “All I wanted was choices. The freedom to live my life on my own terms. You took that from me.”

That… was not the gift he’d been trying to give. Jacob desperately glanced at his siblings for help.

They all became extraordinarily absorbed with inspecting the biscuits on their plates.

“All I asked of you was to help me find my cousin.” Vivian’s entire body seemed to vibrate with rage and hurt. “Achieve that if you can, but please don’t do me any more favors. It’s late. I’ll see myself home.”

Before Jacob could figure out how to salvage the situation, Vivian strode from the sitting room toward the front door.

It was raining now, just as Elizabeth had predicted. Outside the front window, Vivian walked with her head high as though she didn’t even notice the cold drizzle.

Or perhaps it was the best way to hide the tears on her face.