He nodded. “I made it up myself. I shall call the phenomenon… ‘friendship.’”
“Humph. Do you kiss all your friends’ fingertips?”
“Just Byron’s,” he answered, blinking angelically at her roll of the eyes. He lowered his voice. “I’ve an idea. You and I can share a special title, provisionally called ‘Friendship with kissing and otherunmentionable delights.’ I warn you, it is a gateway to ever more decadent highs.”
She raised her brows. “Unmentionable delights, you say? I thought you were a poet. Never say you lack the words to express yourself.”
“Oh, I can express anything you wish me to express,” he assured her. “I can express all night long. If you need my ejaculations verbally, I do require three to six working weeks per stanza to properly draft and revise the word choice and rhythm. But if expressing myself with my body counts, I’d be happy to lay you down right here on this grass… Or incline against this tree…”
“I am tempted,” she admitted. “But I cannot think about romance while Quentin is still held hostage somewhere.”
“Could you think about courtship after he’s safe?” Jacob asked. “That is, might I woo you with the intention of something more permanent?”
She closed her mouth. Of course not. It was against her rules. Then again, she was the one who had written that rule. And as he’d pointed out… some words were meant to be edited. Why prevent the possibility of a happy ending?
“Find Quentin,” she said, “and then I will be ready to consider a suitor.”
“Specifically me?” Jacob prompted, brown eyes sparkling.
She kissed him. “Try your best.”
28
As much as Jacob wished he could stay in the rear garden kissing Vivian all day, the family’s other cases also needed him. He sent Tiglet to the dockyard with Kuni, dispatched Piffle, the crow, to a rooftop in Billingsgate with an urgent message for Graham, and accompanied the voles to the Custom House to assist with Tommy and Philippa’s mission.
None of it truly received his full attention.
Even as he coordinated the polecats and the mongoose, his mind remained with Vivian, and their stolen moments in the garden. She had agreed to let him woo her! Hopefully. Conditionally. Just as soon as he and his siblings rescued her cousin.
Jacob had already been anxious to find Quentin, but now he was even more eager. Unfortunately, their best leads were proving slow. Leisterdale possessed several cottages and hunting lodges throughout England. Although they’d managed to place an informant to watch each location, amassing a team to infiltrate and search each site in person was far from achievable with their current resources.
Complicating matters was the simple fact that Leisterdale needn’t house his hostage on one of his own properties at all. Restraining an eighteen-year-old in an ordinary inn would not go unnoticed for long, but the marquess had more than enough spare coin to rent rooms or even a whole house for the purpose, using a false name to avoid detection. If Jacob had managed to hide his pseudonym fromthe entire world for years on end, Leisterdale would have no problem paying rent through a third party until Parliament voted against suffrage.
Therefore, they were prioritizing targets. Leisterdale had to communicate with whichever lackey was holding Quentin captive. Informants followed the marquess, his employees, and his associates. Intercepted messages and listened to conversations at his club. Searched Leisterdale’s financial records and business dealings.
Jacob had no doubt there was bound to be a breakthrough very soon. And when that happened, he intended to be ready. Not only to save his client’s cousin, but also to woo Vivian.
He released the last of the ospreys, then leaned his shoulders against the side of the barn. He pulled out the two stacks of calling cards Vivian had commissioned for him.
JACOBWYNCHESTER,ANIMALTRAINER
That was self-evident. He had not advertised his services outside of the family because there was barely enough time to manage his rescues and the upkeep and training and the family’s many missions. Calling cards were a sweet idea, but he wouldn’t be needing them.
He slid the first stack back into his pocket and turned his gaze to the other.
JACOBWYNCHESTER,POET
Well… that one was certainly less self-evident. Outside of the family and Jacob’s poetry group, the only people who knew he’d even attempted to string a few words together were the publishers who had repeatedly declined to work with him over the past decade. He continued to send an inquiry once or twice a year in his own name, but all that ever generated was more kindling for the fire.
When he’d invented Sir Gareth Jallow, Jacob hadn’t expected much to come of it. Landing the first publisher he queried had been an ironic surprise. Even then, he’d expected a printing of a few hundredcopies, most of which would languish unsold. After which, even a fake “Sir” wouldn’t be offered a second contract.
Jacob had planned to purchase five copies of his own pseudonymous poetry collection and gift them to his then-unwed siblings at Christmastide. He’d regale them with the humorous tale of how he’d done everything possible to get published but found no future in it.
Marjorie would have immediately forged a duplicate book with Jacob’s name instead of Jallow’s. Elizabeth would have wasted no time unsheathing her sword to knight Jacob properly so that the pseudonym wasn’t a complete lie. Chloe would have hugged him and said she viscerally understood what it was like to put yourself out there again and again, only to be overlooked. Tommy would have offered him a conciliatory pie. Graham would have been the only one who attempted to read any of the poems.
None of that had happened.
Instead of the fizzle Jacob had been expecting, Sir Gareth shot to instant fame. A second, larger printing later that year. Months later, a third. Weeks later, a fourth. By Christmastide, his siblings already owned copies of Jallow’s book, and the opportunity for ahaha-look-at-this-silly-thing-I-didunveiling was no longer possible.
