“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…ifhe 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.”
5
Viv did her best not to panic.
At eighteen years of age, Quentin was an adult man, whether she liked to admit it or not. He could not be expected to plan his life around the whims of his twenty-eight-year-old spinster cousin.
