Nonetheless, if hehadspent the night with one of his friends, the least he could have done was let her know he would not be coming home. He knew she would have supper on the stove and playing cards ready on the table, watching the clock as she awaited his return.
Quentin wasn’t that cruel. Was he?
They’d also never argued like they had the previous morning. Some hurtful things had been said, on both sides. She would have thought their bond was strong enough to weather worse than that. But if so, then where was he?
“Deep breaths,” Viv commanded herself aloud, her voice unrecognizably high and shaky. “Think it through.”
It was inevitable that at some point her baby cousin was going to grow up. He’d have activities and interests other than the orphan spinster who had been his nursemaid, guardian, and confidante since he was eight years old.
She supposed him being out past dawn was the natural progression of a boy becoming a man and stretching his wings. At some point, Quentin would stay out all night for other reasons. Clubs, drink,women. He would soon fall in love and wish to marry, and thus needVivto find somewhere else to stay.
Was that the answer? He’d spent the night with a secret paramour? Someone whose existence he had not yet divulged, because of the catastrophic effect it would have on Viv’s own future?
She hoped that wasn’t the case and despised herself for it. Maybe Quentin was right. Shewasholding him back, because it was better for her if he didn’t grow up. A serious character flaw, if she’d ever seen one.
Her advice column paid a pittance, and she was contractually prohibited from performing as Ask Vivian outside of the newspaper. The best she’d been able to negotiate was for the paper to offer a guaranteed private response in exchange for a small fee, half of which was shared with Viv. She was popular enough now that almost every letter earned an extra half-penny.
It was better than nothing, but still far from enough. To afford rooms of her own, she needed theater managers to take her and her work seriously.
Or you need a partner, she could hear her mother say.A husband.
Out of the question. Viv could not consider courtship until she’d made something of herself on her own. Before opening a door to potential suitors, she had to prove herself first. Her future husband would discover his wife to be competent, and self-sufficient, and successful.
Viv never wanted to feel disadvantaged—or enslaved—ever again.
Nor could she stand feeling this alone.
For Quentin to live a long, happy life had been her sole priority from the moment her toes touched British soil. She might have had a different career by now if she’d spent half as much time pursuing her own dreams as she did ensuring that all of Quentin’s came true.
He’d been acting oddly the past few days. She’d suspected him of hiding something from her on more than one occasion. But even if she entertained the notion of love at first sight, when would Quentin have met this mystery woman? While he was out performing ill-advised acts of skullduggery with chalk in his hair?
Maybe, she was forced to admit. The fact that his secret society needed false names and disguises for their missions necessarily implied that there was a client to please. Perhaps a pretty one Quentin’s age, who had long prayed to be rescued by a strapping young lad with the high spirit of a pony and the fashion sense of a rag bin.
“Blast it all, where are you?” she asked the empty house.
What would Quentin do? What would he wantherto do? The answer to both questions was the same: call in the Wynchesters.
Pfft. That was a low she would never bring herself to. She could not be manipulated in such a way. Viv hurried to the sideboard and extracted the journal she’d been keeping about Quentin since he was small.
It had begun as a practical repository of knowledge. Favorite foods, and which ones made him sneeze. Dates of illnesses, along with associated symptoms, and which remedies actually worked.
As he grew, so did her notes. Funny things he said, recurring nightmares, friends, obsessions, hobbies, education, activities, places frequented. He would be embarrassed to know just how thoroughly she had chronicled his life.
But this fat little book was going to help her find him.
After feeding Rufus and checking on Sally one last time, Viv wedged a small green leaf in the crack of the front door. Upon her return, she would know at once if Quentin had made it back before her.
She started with the likeliest sources of information: the members of his secret society. The lads ranged in age from sixteen to four-and-twenty. Though they winkingly refused to admit any such secret clubexisted, they each spoke highly and enthusiastically about Quentin.
He was a wonderful chap, a right honorable fellow, steadfast and friendly, always up for anything.
“Like what, precisely?” she asked. “Where was he last night? Where is he today?”
The bubbly responses dried up instantly, each secret society member after the other staring at her with the same bafflement. Quentin was missing? Was she certain? Where did he go?
It was enough to make her lose her mind. Halfway down her list, she remembered the odd name Quentin had mentioned before storming out.
This time, the responses were cagier. Newt? Never heard of him. But if Quentinwerewith such a person, they guaranteed he was off doing normal, non-illegal activities. No disguises or capers or seditious acts. And definitely nothing risky or dangerous.
