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

In honor of their brother Graham’s birthday, Jacob’s sister Chloe and her husband, the Duke of Faircliffe, had brought their baby Dorian for a visit. While the kitchen prepared cakes and pies, the others gathered in the sibling sitting room.

Jacob and Chloe were enjoying a rare moment alone in one of the parlors.

Almost alone. Chloe’s baby, Dorian, balanced on her hip, flapping his chubby white arms, beamed at Jacob with a delighted grin.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe asked.

With anyone outside of the family, Jacob would have answered nothing .

He admitted, “When you first married Faircliffe, there was an empty space left behind. We felt as though we’d lost you.”

Her face filled with sympathy. “The six of us lived under the same roof for so long. It was hard for me, too.”

“But then the others also found someone new,” he continued. “Like you, Elizabeth married and moved across town, but Tommy, Graham, and Marjorie each brought their spouses home. Our house now holds more Wynchesters than ever.”

Chloe’s eyes softened with sudden understanding. “And yet, as the only sibling not to have found love, you feel more isolated than ever?”

He sighed. “It’s silly, isn’t it.”

“I’d say completely understandable. Especially since the only time any of us get together lately is to discuss a new case, not chat with each other. But we love you, even if we rarely have time to say it anymore.”

“I know.” He gave Chloe and the baby a hug. “I love you all, too.”

Dorian squeezed Jacob’s cheek. Chloe grinned and passed Jacob the baby.

“How are you?” he asked as he cuddled his nephew.

“Exhausted,” she admitted. “Despite my husband’s ongoing efforts in the House of Lords, we’ve made no progress on equal voting rights.

Parliament is presenting a new militia act later tonight.

Supposedly just administrative changes to make matters more efficient, but some fear it’s yet another show of force against commoners.

You should hear the things some of the lords say in their arguments. ”

“I’d rather keep my sanity,” Jacob said wryly.

“A wise choice. You need a clear mind for your poetry. If you don’t make time for your dream—”

“I’ve made enough time for it,” he said vaguely.

She smiled. “Perhaps one day you’ll be rich and famous.”

“We’re already rich and famous,” he reminded her.

In Jacob’s case, wealthier than his wildest dreams. Years back, he’d stopped checking his bank balance because the number was nonsensical.

“A gift like yours shouldn’t be wasted,” Chloe insisted.

He blew raspberries on the baby’s plump cheeks rather than respond.

His sister elbowed him in the side. “Who knows… You could be the next Sir Gareth Jallow!”

Jacob rolled his eyes. “England isn’t ready for that much change.”

Famed poet Sir Gareth Jallow was a white knight—or perhaps a baronet, no one was quite sure.

Jacob was an untitled Black man. Because Black men couldn’t have titles. Or, apparently, enjoy lucrative poetry careers. It was white men who were published all over England and invited to recite their works at all the most prestigious events.

“I don’t need to see my name on the cover of a book,” Jacob informed her, keeping his voice calm and firm, the same way he spoke to his Highland tiger.

Chloe didn’t look convinced. “You don’t think it would be marvelous?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “How do you think the public would react to books bearing my name?”

“I’d say I don’t give a fig about the opinions of anyone who would object to your well-earned success, but my feelings don’t matter. You should do as you want.”

Should he? Could he?

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t fantasized about it a thousand times. But if Jacob Wynchester were a household name, everyone would look at him differently. Not just the people on the street, but his own family. Who loved him just as he was. So why would he change that?

He already had a life he adored. How many people of any color or class had a barn full of clever animals and a family who fought for justice wherever it was needed?

This home was Jacob’s place. Being a Wynchester was how he fit into his family, and into society, and into the world. It was fine. He knew how lucky he was. He was fortunate enough to help other people, every single day. Only a self-important prick would aspire for more.

Which… didn’t bode well, because Jacob secretly did long to see his name embossed on leather tomes all over the country:

J ACOB W YNCHESTER, C ELEbrATED P OET

He wanted to be known for accomplishments in his own right, and not just as a nameless, faceless, behind-the-curtains animal trainer for the Wild Wynchesters.

But some dreams were just that: a happy fiction.

“If you’re not going to be a famous poet,” Chloe began slyly, “you could consider being a suitor.”

“Not you, too.” Jacob groaned. “Did Elizabeth and Marjorie put you up to this?”

“They love you. We all want you to be happy.”

“Do I have to marry to be happy?” He looked down at the smiling baby on his lap. “Maybe I don’t want a wife.”

Her eyes widened with interest. “Do you want a husband?”

“Maybe I’m happy caring for my animals.”

She gave him a long look, then smiled gently. “You’re right. We shouldn’t push. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Jacob glanced up, expecting to find one of his impatient siblings shooing them into the main room for cakes.

Instead, it was Mr. Randall, their butler. “Pardon the interruption. Do you want the mail, or shall I take it to the others?”

“Are those missives from Graham’s informants?” Chloe asked.

“No, I’m afraid it’s just a regular post delivery.”

“I’ll take it.” Jacob handed Chloe her baby so he could collect the pile of mail.

“What’s that?” She peered over his shoulder. “It looks like it’s from a publisher.”

It was indeed. The usual Dear Mr. Wynchester rejection that all of Jacob’s authorial intents engendered.

He crumpled it up and tossed it in the fireplace.

A move that would have been exponentially more satisfying if warm spring afternoons required a lit fire. The current rejection simply sat in a ball of white paper between two logs, along with several more of its brethren.

This was the last of several publishers to reject Jacob’s latest compilation of poetry without even reading it.

“Keep trying,” Chloe said with sympathy. “Some things are difficult to achieve, but worth it in the end.”

“Mm-hm,” he murmured noncommittally.

“I’m sure you’re not the only one whose work has been rejected,” she added. “Probably even famous poets like Sir Gareth didn’t become country-wide sensations on their first try.”

“Jallow landed the first publisher he spoke to,” Jacob said sourly.

“Well…” Chloe bit her lip. “There’s no reason to be jealous of him.”

“I never said I was jealous.”

Why would anyone be jealous of the way Jallow’s books were on every shelf in every shop and home in London?

Or the legions of fans who memorized every word he’d ever written, in order to drop a line or two into casual conversation to appear cultured and worldly?

The way Sir Gareth Jallow’s name was spoken with awe and respect?

“I just think…” Chloe began.

“Can we please change the subject?” he begged.

Sir Gareth’s success and Jacob Wynchester’s lack thereof was as complicated as his feelings on the matter.

Any attempt at entertaining the conversation without divulging things he’d rather keep to himself was awkward at best, and excruciating at worst. And he feared what words might blurt out of his mouth if he were backed into a corner.

“Gah!” gurgled Dorian.

“You’re right,” Chloe cooed. “That other letter does look different. Perhaps Uncle Jacob will read that to us instead.”

He glanced down but didn’t recognize the handwriting. “It’s addressed to ‘Wynchester Family.’”

“Well, we’re the Wynchester family,” she said with a smile. “Open it whilst I attempt to mop up some of Dorian’s drool.”

Jacob scanned the contents, then rolled his eyes. “Another day, another jester.”

“What is it this time?” she asked.

He snorted. “Whoever sent this expects us to believe they’ve kidnapped Horace Wynchester.”

Chloe burst out laughing. “How exactly does one kidnap a figment of our imagination?”

Before their adoptive father died, Bean created a fictitious “heir” that any of the siblings could impersonate if they needed the support of a Balcovian baron to achieve a goal.

Horace Wynchester would be the new Baron Vanderbean…

if he existed, which he did not. Their fictitious sibling certainly hadn’t been kidnapped.

“Such nonsense,” said Chloe. “The last time anyone used the baron identity was years ago, when Tommy was courting Philippa.”

Jacob grinned at the memory. “As far as anyone recalls, Horace is a skinny white lad whose tender heart was absolutely crushed by Philippa’s eventual indifference.”

After Tommy stopped being the baron, the family let slip that the new heir had returned to Balcovia for an indeterminate amount of time. They hadn’t thought about old Horace since.

Chloe dabbed at Dorian’s cheeks. “And now someone’s trying to ransom our make-believe relative for money?”

Jacob skimmed the rest of the letter. “Even more peculiar: We’re to ‘cease all investigations’ if we ever wish to see poor imaginary Horace again.”

“Even if such a person existed, why would anyone fall for this balderdash?”

“Such an amateurish extortion attempt. They’ve included no proof of their claim—”

“Because Horace Wynchester isn’t real,” Chloe interjected with a laugh.

“—nor does the kidnapper indicate any method for us to contact them for further steps.” He crumpled the silly hoax into a satisfying ball and tossed it into the fireplace with the other rejections.

“We receive preposterous letters from chuckleheads like this at least once a month, and it never amounts to anything.”

“Marjorie thinks we should collect the zaniest letters and save them in an album we can look through whenever we need a laugh,” Chloe reminded him.

They both looked at the unlit fireplace. It was impossible to tell at a glance which of the many paper balls behind the grate was the kidnapping note, and which belonged to an entire month’s worth of rejections.

“Bah,” said Jacob. “That one isn’t worth the effort. By the time we’ve finished our cakes, we’ll have forgotten all about it.”