Page 58 of A Waltz on the Wild Side (The Wild Wynchesters #6)

An hour later, the teeming crowd at Vauxhall surprised Viv.

She’d known Adrian and Marjorie’s art studio had become something of an institution, and she’d known Marjorie had been tutoring and giving classes for years before she’d met Adrian.

But Viv hadn’t realized until now just how many lives Marjorie’s art had touched.

At least a thousand people had paid the garden’s four-shilling admission for the school’s anniversary celebration.

There were children, and parents, and grandparents.

Former students, aspiring students, happy customers with framed art in their parlors, and hundreds of admirers who had browsed the various galleries and exhibitions over the years.

In fact, behind the raised wooden dais upon which stood twelve easels covered in dark cloth, a large section of the pleasure garden had been converted into a temporary gallery of sorts.

Visitors could stroll through the walking paths and admire paintings and sculptures on loan from current and former art students.

At least as many onlookers wandered the paths as sat before the stage awaiting the ceremony.

“It’s time,” Adrian said to Marjorie.

The Wynchester clan were to sit single file in reserved seating at the very front of the audience, before the grand dais.

Marjorie turned to Jacob. “Don’t worry. We can introduce ourselves if you don’t feel comfortable.”

To Viv’s surprise, Jacob shook his head and took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”

Marjorie bounced on her feet in glee.

“Take the floor for as long as you like,” she gushed, then somewhat lowered her voice to a stage whisper that could be heard all the way to the Dark Walk. “Feel free to announce anything you please.”

“But maybe don’t mention Leisterdale and Uppington just yet,” Graham advised. “Best to wait until tomorrow’s newspaper is on every breakfast table in London.”

Jacob looked more likely to vomit than to smile. “I know what to say.”

“Of course you do.” Marjorie squeezed his arms. “You probably spent all night editing every word into perfection.”

“Go on,” said Tommy. “We’ll cheer you on from the front row.”

Jacob, Marjorie, and Adrian took the stage. Marjorie, gamboling like an excited bunny. Adrian, loping beside her. Jacob, as stiff-legged as if trudging to his own execution.

Viv could not have been prouder. She knew how hard this was for him. How brave he was being. Jacob feared the public’s reaction. That he’d agreed at all was testament to how much he loved his sister.

Adrian handed Jacob a speaking-trumpet to amplify his voice.

“Oh, Lord,” Viv murmured beneath her breath. “He’s going to hate that.”

Jacob indeed accepted the speaking-trumpet as though he’d just been handed a rotting corpse for Christmas. For a moment, Viv feared he might fling the trumpet aside and flee from the dais, never to emerge from his barn again.

But then he drew the trumpet to his lips and began to speak.

The crowd fell silent.

At first, Jacob’s words were halting. Then he gained confidence and volume. His moving introduction of his sister and brother-in-law and their artistic endeavors in the community was so eloquent, it was practically a work of poetry. He had very much edited every word to perfection.

The entire audience was rapt. When he finished speaking, there was a moment of silence, as if the crowd had hoped he would go on talking forever. Followed by thunderous applause and whoops of congratulations.

“Before we continue,” Marjorie said loudly, without any need of a speaking-trumpet, “is there anything else you’d like to get off your chest?”

Jacob shot her a sour look.

She squinted at him as though she could see through his flesh and bones to the soul beneath. “Go on, then. As long as you need.”

His jaw tightened, but he turned back to the captive audience with determination.

“Most of you don’t know me,” he said into the speaking-trumpet. “Those who have heard of me most likely know me as…” He fished a small rectangle of cardstock from his pocket and held it up to the crowd. “Jacob Wynchester, Animal Trainer.”

Viv shot upright in her chair and grabbed Quentin’s arm. “I bought him those calling cards!”

Jacob flicked it into the crowd and pulled out a second calling card. “A select few in the audience might know me as Jacob Wynchester, Poet.”

Viv wiggled in her chair. “I commissioned those for him, too!”

Scattered members of Jacob’s poetry group shouted huzzah from somewhere deep in the crowd.

He tossed the second calling card across the sea of faces after its brother.

“What you probably don’t realize”—his grip on the speaking-trumpet visibly tightened—“is that you might know me best by my other name.”

All the air left Viv’s lungs. Was he going to do it?

Oh, Lord, he was really going to do it!

“It is my honor and privilege to present you to my true self.” He took a deep bow. “Formerly known as Sir Gareth Jallow.”

The crowd lost their collective minds.

Excited female shrieks rang out.

A disbelieving male voice shouted, “Liar!”

“It’s true!” members of the Dreamers Guild called out. “Sir Gareth is our good friend Jacob Wynchester.”

It took the crowd mere seconds to pass the salacious whisper that personages no less than the most famous writers in Britain had confirmed Jacob’s secret identity.

“I love you, Sir Gareth!” screamed a fanatic female voice.

“So do I!” added a fervent male shout.

Laughter punctuated the roar of whispers, along with several more cries of “I love you more!” and “Me, too!” further lightening the mood.

Now that the shock was starting to wear off—and the few opposed to Sir Gareth Jallow being Jacob Wynchester having seen themselves out—the audience was more enthusiastic than ever to bear firsthand witness to what was quickly becoming an historic moment.

They’d recount this story at dinner parties for years to come.

Several enterprising youths darted forward to jostle for the fallen calling cards, which had seconds before been in Sir Gareth Jallow’s very hands.

Viv exchanged grins with Marjorie, who winked from high upon the dais, as if she’d known all along what Jacob meant to do. Perhaps she had. Or perhaps she’d simply seen her brother’s potential, and strove to give him a stage, just as Jacob was attempting to do for Viv’s play.

“Marry me!” came an ear-splitting cry from not far behind Viv. Several other young women echoed the sentiment.

“My apologies, ladies,” said Jacob, deadpan. “I’m taken. Or hope soon to be.”

“I’ll take you!” came a voice from the back.

Jacob’s gaze was hot on Viv, who had forgotten how to breathe altogether. “Is it all right if I read aloud an as-yet-unpublished love poem?”

She nodded, her throat tight.

The crowd went wild.

Viv wagered most of them were cursing their ill luck to have left their writing implements at home. By morning, a thousand misquoted versions would be circulating throughout London.

But the only words she cared about were the ones Jacob said next.

He shook out a folded sheet of paper and began to read.

Each syllable of his love poetry washed over her like the warmth of the sun on a cool day. Sweet, sensual, irreverent, heartrending. Tears ran down her cheeks before he finished the final line.

Young ladies in the audience dropped like flies, swooning in unison.

Viv almost joined them.

“I didn’t have a chance to rehearse this next bit.

” Jacob handed the speaking-trumpet to Adrian, then lowered himself to one knee so that he could lock eyes with Viv.

This time, his words were only for her. “Before I get to the main question, I want you to know I would never force you to live in the same house with my siblings if you don’t want to. Pick a place, and I’m there.”

She frowned. “What about your animals?”

“I can afford to build another barn. What I can’t afford is to lose you.”

She glanced over his shoulder at his family.

“They don’t want to lose you either,” he added.

“Your views balance us, in the best possible way. Together, we could have more impact and be better people than I’d ever imagined.

But even that isn’t your responsibility.

If you never want to work another case again, that’s your prerogative.

I’m not asking you to come labor for the Wynchesters. ”

She bit her lip. “What are you asking me?”

“Right.” Jacob cleared his throat, his face half-terrified, half-hopeful.

He lowered his lips to kiss the back of her hand.

“Miss Vivian Henry, formerly of Demerara, soon to be the most sought-after playwright in England, forever the owner of my heart. Would you do me the eternal honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

Her voice may have trembled, but it rang out clear and loud. “Of course I will.”

All the Wynchesters cheered, causing whoops and huzzahs to spread through the crowd like ocean waves.

The happiest ending of all.

Jacob reached out his hand. Viv held on tight. He hauled her up onstage and swirled her in a circle, earning even more cheers from the adoring crowd.

“I love you so much,” he murmured into her ear. “If you ever need more basil, or a passionate distraction while you read, you can always call on me.”

She hiccup-laughed into his chest. “I love you more than all the soon-to-be heartbroken ladies in England combined.”

“You do know what this means, don’t you?” crowed Marjorie.

“We’re going to have to teach Rufus to respect hedgehogs?” Viv guessed.

Elizabeth rushed onstage, sword drawn. “It means it’s my turn to shine!”

The other Wynchesters were right behind her. Graham sent his sister a repressive look.

“I mean Vivian’s turn.” Elizabeth swung her sword with a lofty smile. “I merely provide the knighting services.”

“You do not have to be inducted as an official Wynchester in front of half of London,” Jacob murmured to Viv.

“Are you jesting?” She raised her brows. “My cousin would disown me on the spot if I failed to make the most of such a spectacle.”