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.
