“He’s the most daring Wynchester,” Elizabeth agreed. “Next to me, that is. He yearns to appear in one of his breathless gossip sheets. As a figure of awe, rather than ordinary, scandalous Graham.”
“Your brother is far from ordinary,” Kuni said, indignant. “He certainly does not require royal connections to prove his worth.”
“You’re new to England. Here, high-ranking connections determine a person’s worth. Where would Brummell have been without Prinny’s patronage?”
“Who?” asked Kuni.
“Beau Brummell.” Elizabeth poked her canes toward the bookshelves. “I’m sure there’s a three-volume compendium detailing the dandy’s every pithy word and perfect fold of his neckcloth if you want to bore yourself unconscious for a few hours.”
“I would rather not.”
Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “Leave the gentlemen to high starched collars that prevent their handsome heads from turning, and to their tailored coats and champagne-shined boots they cannot even pull on and off by themselves. Some men aresohelpless. What would they do without fierce, blade-wielding women like you and me?”
“Sleep,” Marjorie answered without hesitation. “Graham always says he cannot rest at night because we’ll be forced to flee to France if you go on a murderous rampage.”
“It’s not murder if the villaindeservesto have his blood spilled,” Elizabeth protested.
“Pretty sure it is,” Marjorie murmured.
“Just wait untilyouneed to be rescued! I’ll stand idly by sharpening my sword, perhaps saying to the scoundrel, ‘Oh no, my dear, I shan’t harm you. Marjorie prefers I invite all despicable villains to a spot of tea first.’”
Kuni rather agreed with Elizabeth’s methods.
“The tea plan might work.” Marjorie shook a finger at her sister. “One should always attempt polite conversation first.”
“Pah,” said Elizabeth. “You’re as bad as Jacob. Never say you’ve started writing poetry, too?”
“My paintbrushes make my poems for me,” Marjorie answered. “And we’ve only Jacob’swordthat he writes poems. He may listen to others at those poetry salons he attends, but Graham says Jacob never shares his own. He’s certainly never shown any to me.”
Elizabeth leaned forward on her canes, her eyes sparkling. “Then what do you think he’s writing? Letters to a secret lover? Gothic novels for Minerva Press?”
“Maybe he writes the gossip columns that Graham likes to read,” Kuni suggested.
Both Wynchester sisters stared at her.
“Jacob wouldnever,” Marjorie breathed.
Elizabeth practically bounced with delight. “I should love it above all things if that were true! Just think—Graham’s life’s work, sending scouts to every corner of London to collect information and subscribing to every newspaper in town to be the first to read words his own brother was writing abovestairs.”
“Surely he cannot covereverycorner of London.”
“He has countless informants.” Marjorie grinned. “It’s not your fault he found you. It was inevitable.”
“Fate,” Elizabeth agreed.
Kuni shivered and pretended she hadn’t heard the dramatic pronouncement.
“Graham tips them well for their service,” Elizabeth explained. “Some don’t seek gold but would rather be owed a favor. Street children, crossing sweepers, maids, guards, tavern owners, surgeons, flower girls, opera singers, hackney drivers, disgruntled footmen…You cannot imagine how many scrapes his spies get into that require professional extrication.”
“Maybe shecanimagine,” Marjorie suggested.
“She can’t,” Elizabeth said firmly. “She’s a princess who lives in a palace. Her Highness hasn’t the least idea what gaming hells and Blue Ruin and the Dark Walkare, much less what sort of trouble they might bring to someone of weak character.”
Kuni wanted to argue, but the message was clear.
Graham’s spiderweb was so large, he probably couldn’t even remember all the names of those who had tangled in it.
With contacts and connections in every corner of London, was it really Kuni who interested him? Or was “princess” the final item to tick off a very long list? If you built a big enough web, you could catch anything.
