Celebrated career criminals masquerading as poor-me, down-on-their-luck orphans, as if anyone could have what they had just by wanting it hard enough.
She and Quentin were orphans, too, and their circumstances were far removed from the wealthy, famous Wynchesters, for whom neither laws nor etiquette seemed to apply. As far as Viv was concerned, their legendary status and overblown heroics were nothing more than perfume on a pig.
But she would do anything for Quentin. She loved her cousin and would never forgive herself if her personal distaste prevented him from returning home safely.
The Wynchesters’ house was massive. A white-columned monstrosity with three stories, huge windows, and an immaculate front garden. The rear garden was walled from view. Likely to keep undesirables like her in her place.
She straightened her bonnet and marched up to the front door, fist poised to knock.
Before she could do so, the door swung open. An older white man with blue eyes, white hair, and a surprisingly pleasant expression greeted her with, “Good afternoon, madam. How may I be of service?”
Viv blinked at him as her brain struggled to recalculate. Had sheeverbeen called madam? By anyone? Even in jest?
“Um…” she managed. What on earth was wrong with her? If there was one thing in her life that had never been in short supply, it was her words.
The butler smiled. “Are you here to see the Wynchesters?”
She nodded.
“Are you or someone you know in immediate danger?”
Viv shook her head, then hesitated.Shemight be safe and sound, but was Quentin?
“I see it’s complicated,” said the butler. “Well, we can’t leave you standing outside. Please, come into the vestibule. Wait here for a moment, away from the weather, whilst I see if any of the family is at home.”
With that, he left her alone in a gilded room with a marble floor. Everything sparkled so much, her eyes hurt. Viv was glad she’d worn the best of her dresses but was quickly coming to the conclusion that her best wasn’t nearly good enough.
Poor little orphans, indeed.
The butler soon rematerialized inside the vestibule. He’d barely been gone long enough to glance into another room, much less enquire if his masters were receiving guests.
Was it all an elaborate scheme to make her feel as though she’d had a fair chance, before dismissing her?
“If you’ll come with me,” said the butler.
She followed him in awe. There was marble everywhere. Fancy arches, shiny gilding, paintings on every wall. A dazzling amount of sunlight streaming in through countless open windows. This wasn’t a home. It was a mansion. And a museum.
The butler led her into a sitting room larger than her and Quentin’s entire dwelling. There was a massive twelve-person table in one corner, a pianoforte in another, and enough armchairs and sofas in a half-circle before the fireplace to comfortably seat two dozen guests.
Presently, the room contained five other people.
“Here we are, then.” The butler gave Viv a respectful incline of his head and disappeared down the marble corridor.
The five Wynchesters gazed at her with open curiosity.
Viv stared back.
They smiled.
Viv did not.
A diminutive blond white woman with fresh paint on her earlobe opened her mouth first. “Welcome to our home. We’re—”
“I know who you are.”
“Yes, obviously we’re Wynchesters,” said the most attractive man Viv had ever glimpsed in all her life. Tall, broad-shouldered, fit but not too muscular, gorgeous chestnut skin, close-cropped black hair, and eyelashes so thick he must’ve made a deal with the devil. “But specifically, our names are—”
“I said I know who you are.” Viv pointed at each of them in turn.
