Not that it was technically Viv’s, either.
Given Mr. Wynchester spent his life roaming his vast mansion and its equally sprawling grounds, the rooms she shared with her cousin must look sad, indeed. She hated the thought of him inwardly judging her and finding her lacking.
If only he weren’t so infernally handsome, on top of it all! His attractiveness didn’t even make logical sense. Not too tall and not too short. Not too bulky and not too scrawny. Neither slovenly nor dandy-ish. All those “mediums” mashed together should combine into mediocrity, not extraordinariness. He wasn’t playing fair.
She liked the bright intelligence in his eyes, the full thickness of his lips, the slight shadow at his jaw. She even liked that he—or his valet—had taken the time to craft an extravagantly folded cravat, yet a leather apron was still slung around his narrow hips.
As though Jacob—the vexing man had wormed his way far too deep into her life for her to keep thinking of him as Mr.Wynchester—had either left home in such a rush that he’d forgotten to remove his apron… or else he cared more about everyday practicality than polite society’s fashion sensibilities.
An admirable characteristic that absolutely could not be borne. She was right to distrust the Wynchesters. She definitely wasn’t going to start likingthisone. Maybe her badger would bite him, and he’d never return.
“I suppose you find our humble living arrangements tragic.” Viv barely kept the bitterness out of her voice.
He sent her a curious look. “What’s wrong with this house?”
“It’s not much compared to yours.”
“Why compare? There’s always better than where we find ourselves, just like there’s always far worse. You keep your home beautifully… except for your cousin’s bedroom. I regret to inform you that he may not be missing after all, and might simply be lost under one of his heaps of random objects.”
Viv pressed her lips together to keep from smiling in agreement. She wasnotgoing to find Jacob Wynchester charming.
“Since you mentioned the living arrangements, might I ask how the cohabitation with your cousin came about?” he enquired.
Her knee-jerk reaction was that her family’s financial situation was none of his business, but the facts were: She’d gone tohimfor help, he was here trying to do just that, and neither of them had any idea which detail would or would not prove decisive in locating Quentin.
She’d braced herself for ridicule when she’d handed over the list of secret society members. Obviously, the moment Jacob and his family visited those moonstruck lads, there’d be no hiding the depths of Quentin’s Wynchester fanaticism. His friends would have explained every “secret mission” in minute detail. Had probably begged the Wynchesters to autograph every surface in their house.
To Viv’s surprise, Jacob and his family had seemed to take the youthful club’s enthusiasm in stride, with nothing more than, “We’ll let you know if it leads to any relevant clues.”
Perhaps their fanaticism wasn’t unusual. Maybe every adolescent boy in England—and a fair number of grown men—did the same. Given the Wynchesters’ royalty-like praise in the newspapers and scandal sheets, Viv might be the only person in the entire country not to bow down before them in awestruck sycophancy. She’d sworn never to behave like that again, for any reason.
But her personal reticence didn’t matter. If he and his siblings needed to know Quentin’s personal history in order to find him, then Viv would have to tell the truth about that, too, no matter how she felt about sharing her cousin’s private business with strangers.
She lifted her chin and replied, “My cousin is the illegitimate son of Viscount Ayleswick.”
Jacob’s forehead lined briefly.
“Correct, the prior one. The current viscount is legitimate—and thirteen months younger than Quentin.”
She did not need to explain how different the firstborn son’s life might have been if his viscount father had deigned to marry Quentin’s mother.
Nor did Viv need to spell out why such a marriage had not happened.
“Upon Quentin’s birth, the viscount created a small trust for him. Honestly, the effort was more than I would have expected, given the situation. Of course, Ayleswickcouldhave publicly acknowledged his son’s existence. Illegitimate sons of lords move much more freely through society than run-of-the-mill bastards of ordinary mistresses. Though I suppose it was too much to hope an aristocrat might acknowledge a Black child.”
Jacob inclined his head. “I can only think of one recent occasionthat came close. A few decades ago, Miss Dido Belle was born into slavery in the West Indies before being brought here to be raised by her great-uncle, the Earl of Mansfield.”
“Raised as a lady?” Viv asked with interest.
He made a face. “As… a free gentlewoman and companion to her same-age white cousin, who was indeed raised as a lady. Miss Belle lived with the family for thirty years. Although the earl left her a significant sum and an annuity in his will, even upon his deathbed, her uncle still did not acknowledge Miss Belle as his niece.”
Viv sighed. She had written several plays in which the lives of people like her cousin and his mother had turned out much differently. Those scripts were probably destined to remain fairy tales for centuries to come.
“I miss Quentin,” she said quietly. “The house is finally clean and quiet, and I couldn’t hate it more. My cousin has driven me mad since the moment I arrived on this shore to take care of both him and his ailing mother. Nonetheless, since that first hug, we’ve never been apart… until now. It’s been three days, but it feels like three decades.”
Jacob nodded with obvious empathy. “Family is like that. Every time one of my siblings moves out, it’s like I have to learn what ‘home’ means all over again. But don’t worry. This isn’t permanent. We’ll find Quentin and bring him home where he belongs.”
“Please do so swiftly,” she said with feeling.
