“We also acquired samples of Leisterdale’s handwriting,” added Graham. “The hand he uses to draft bills in Parliament doesn’t match the letters sent to us or to Olivebury.”
“Unsurprising,” Viv pointed out. “Anyone with half a brain would disguise his handwriting.”
“Or have an accomplice do the writing,” Jacob agreed. “Such as whomever Leisterdale has hired to watch over Quentin.”
“Probably yet another haughty, entitled extremist who views Black people and commoners as expendable,” Philippa said. “Leisterdale boasts about his vast collection of slaves on his sugar plantations, and argues vehemently any time abolition is mentioned in Parliament.”
Jacob nodded. “And someone who thinks of other humans as disposable tools would not hesitate to kidnap one, if it furthered his own aims.”
“Like many English peers with lucrative ‘investments’ in the Caribbean, Leisterdale quite openly delights in abducting innocents,” Viv said, her voice shaking. “No one volunteers to become his chattel.”
Philippa expression was grave. “Most lords openly oppose abolition. The few willing to hear Faircliffe’s views on the subject would only consider relinquishing slavery if paid handsomely for the loss of their so-called property.”
“And how much would the recently freed slaves receive?” Jacob asked sardonically.
“Nothing,” Philippa replied softly. “When suggested, the topic is dismissed altogether.”
“Of course the hostages performing all the work would receive nothing.” Fury spread through Viv’s veins. “Those lords are our ‘betters.’ Just ask them.”
Graham handed Viv a newspaper. “According to the gossip columns, there was a public row last night at Leisterdale’s club. He engaged in a screaming match about the evils of suffrage, and threatened a powerful marquess to his face if the marquess didn’t vote to protect lords’ rights.”
“Lords’ rights,” she muttered in disgust. “He has the right to bend over and receive my boot up his arse.”
Marjorie leaned forward. “The question is, how do we unmask him?”
“No,” said Jacob. “The question is, how do we rescue Vivian’s cousin?”
Viv thought it over. “No new demands means there’s nothing we can currently do to encourage Leisterdale to release Quentin on his own. Blackmail, not kidnapping, was the original goal. Quentin must have witnessed a robbery.”
“That would do it,” Marjorie agreed. “Leisterdale must believe he can easily sway the House of Lords. What he needs is for Olivebury to convince the House of Commons to vote against suffrage.”
Jacob nodded. “Chloe and Faircliffe spend every spare moment preparing speeches and arguments, so it’s reasonable to assume poorOlivebury would need to do the same—particularly if he’s expected to argue against his own belief system. No matter how fanatical Leisterdale is about whatever nonsensical way he believes wealthy white aristocrats are oppressed, he must realize this task won’t be easy for Olivebury.”
Graham nodded. “Abducting the baron was likely an impulsive act. Leisterdale needed to ensure his blackmail had enough time to generate the desired results. Kidnapping your cousin was an unintended side effect in an attempt to controlus.”
Jacob turned to Viv, his eyes tortured. “I’m so sorry.”
“We’re all sorry,” said Marjorie. “More than words can say.”
In unison, all three Wynchesters touched their fingers to their chests and lifted their palms to the sky.
Viv let out a long breath. It was past time to stop holding them responsible for everything. As much as she’d—rightfully—feared that Quentin copying the rule-breaking Wynchesters would lead straight to misery, her cousin’s decisions weren’t anyone’s fault but his own. She could not continue to blame Jacob and his siblings.
“Leisterdale wouldn’t have captured a fictional Wynchester if Quentin hadn’t been running around pretending to be a man that doesn’t exist,” she admitted. “I guess this is what it took for him to learn his lesson about lying, spying, and bending rules.”
“I love lying, spying, and bending rules,” Marjorie said with a happy sigh. “If it helps others.”
Viv looked at her sharply. “You wouldn’t love it if such behavior got you abducted by a scoundrel.”
“Precisely how I met my husband.” Marjorie’s mouth fell open and she clapped her hands with glee. “Maybe Quentin will return home with a betrothed at his side.”
“Sorry,” Jacob whispered again, as purring kittens crawled over his lap. “She never stops matchmaking.”
“Is that what you want?” Philippa asked. “For Quentin to view our family as dangerous scoundrels of poor character?”
Viv had used those exact words any number of times when referring to the Wynchesters. Gallingly, Quentin was right: coming to know them had caused her to readjust her opinions.
Her fears about naïve young people copying the Wynchesters’ antics willy-nilly had clearly not been unwarranted. Theywerereckless. Theywereunattainably privileged.
