“Um,” said Mr. Olivebury. “Could you lot wait to turn over a moral new leaf until after you’ve extricated me from the blackmail situation?”
“We would love to,” Graham assured him. “The first step—”
“—is to steal back what’s been stolen,” blurted Mr. Olivebury. “Please. Before anyone else sees it.”
Vivian tilted forward. “Is it really a treasure map?”
Mr. Olivebury stared at her. “A what? No. They took a portrait.”
“A… portrait,” Philippa repeated. “Might I ask of whom?”
“My mistress,” Mr. Olivebury hedged.
“That’s the ‘in,’” said Vivian with excitement. “You bring her flowers or jewelry or chocolates on Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
Mr. Olivebury gaped at her. “How could you possibly know—”
“Not ‘in,’” Vivian corrected herself. “‘I.N.’”
It was possible Jacob found her brains even more alluring than her beauty.
“Lots of men have mistresses,” Philippa said with skepticism. “Is yours even a secret? Practically the entire male segment of the ton keeps one, according to my mother. Is owning a portrait of yours really such a scandal?”
“She might not be alone in the portrait,” Mr. Olivebury mumbled. “I might also be in it. Without any clothing. Performing acts that would destroy me socially and eradicate any remaining influence I have in Parliament.”
“Good Lord.” Vivian groaned. “You kept something like that on your wall?”
“We don’t judge our clients,” Jacob said firmly. “We simply retrieve what’s been stolen.”
“Please hurry,” begged Mr. Olivebury. “My marriage and the fate of England hang in the balance.”
15
The next morning, Viv sat alone in her silent, empty kitchen in her equally silent, empty house, slowly—make that rapidly—spiraling into a vortex of panic and preemptive grief.
Quentin still hadn’t come home. What if he were never found? Or turned up dead? What if the last words they ever exchanged weren’t their usualI love yous, but a stupid argument for which she would never be able to beg forgiveness?
When the knock came at her door, she flew out of her seat and across the kitchen in hope and eagerness, before remembering that Quentin would have no reason to knock at his own door. A knock meant bad news, not good. An administrator from a hospital. A mortician.
The door opened to reveal… Jacob Wynchester.
She nearly tumbled boneless into his warm chest in relief. Only by sheer will did she remain standing on her own two feet.
“No word?” she said dully.
“I do bring word,” he said with a smile. “Wonderful words.”
Scratch that. She was absolutely going to be a sobbing mess. But into Quentin’s cravat, not Jacob’s.
She pushed him aside in order to lay starving eyes on her cousin.
No one was there.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “Take me to him!”
“Moderately positive words,” Jacob amended, cupping her shoulders gently. “I don’t have your cousin’s precise location quite yet, but we do have proof of his safety.”
Disappointment clawed at her throat. “You mean, someone claims Quentin is safe and sound. Just whose word are you so confident about taking at face value?”
