“Sixteen.”
“Obviously,” she muttered.
Jacob’s expression was sympathetic. “There’s also a possibility that the reference isn’t to an actual isle, but rather another code for an unnamed location.”
“So, Quentin could be… literally anywhere?” Viv expected to feel the yawning emptiness return in a tidal wave, but the familiar handwriting in her hand kept the panic at bay.
Tell her I love her very much, and that I’m in no danger.
She would box his ears for thisbecauseshe loved him, but she knew Quentin as well as she knew herself. As well as he knew her. Which meant, whatever and wherever this so-called mission was, he absolutely would stay safe. Perhaps he wasn’t mature enough to confess his actions to her face—or, being charitable, he didn’t trust her reaction enough to confide in advance—but he loved her enough not to risk getting himself killed.
Tell her I swear on our mothers.
There could be no stronger vow.
She read the letter again, then frowned at Jacob. “It’s been well over twenty-four hours, and this Newt didn’t tell me a bloody thing. Don’t tell me he forgot about that request, too?”
Jacob grimaced. “He forgot to read the letter. Our informant said it was mixed in a pile of other unread correspondence. Newt broke the seal right in front of him.”
Viv narrowed her eyes. “Newt ‘forgot’ to read Quentin’s instructions… or he suspected the contents prohibited him from taking Quentin’s snuff?”
Jacob grinned and placed an empty snuffbox on the table. “You are terrifyingly good at reading people.”
“I have to be.” She sent a despairing glance at her own pile of unread correspondence. “It’s the only way I have to earn money.”
“Until you sell a play. Whichwillhappen.”
“I know.” She rubbed her face. “If only I could make Fate faster. Speaking of speed, how quickly do you think—”
“As soon as we can,” he replied. “Graham doesn’t have local spies on the British Isles, but he’s sent word to everyone in the vicinities. He’s also sent sketches to any coastal towns with an aristocrat in residence.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “We’ll find your cousin and bring him home. I promise.”
She returned the tender squeeze reflexively, then stared in disbelief at their enjoined hands as a new suspicion formed in her gut.
Quentin had asked his friend to allay her fears if he hadn’t returned home in twenty-four hours… but the brat well knew she’d be worried sick the moment he failed to show up at the dinner table in time for supper.
Had the rascal been hoping to send her straight to the Wynchesters all along? Had she played right into her cousin’s hands? Was he back from the Isle and biding his time somewhere in London, refusing toreturn home until he was certain she’d given the Wynchesters a fair chance?
No. Quentin wouldn’t stop there.
He’d refuse to show his face until he was certain she adored this family of do-good scoundrels as much as he did.
Her besotted cousin would voluntarily dangle from the side of a cliff by his fingertips for days on end if it meant Viv warming up to the family she’d vowed to hate. If he was nearby—or had a confederate passing him intelligence—Quentin would be over the moon to know Viv’s fingers currently rested inside Jacob Wynchester’s warm hands.
Jacob’s fingers tightened. “What is it?”
“Me, hating my talent for reading people,” she muttered, and pulled her hands back to her lap.
They felt cold without the warmth of his flesh. Bereft.
Damn you, Quentin.
“Are you all right?” Jacob asked with concern.
Was she? Viv rubbed her aching temples. “I won’t be well until Quentin is back home. He may be having the time of his life, but I need to confirm his well-being with my own eyes.”
Although her manipulative cousin was fine—for now—she needed to find him and shake some sense into him for his own safety.
Perhaps Quentin didn’t fully comprehend that Viv’s objection to the Wynchesters wasn’t their rule-breaking per se. She herself had blatantly attempted to circumvent cruel and unethical property laws. The problem was that her mother died for her bravery, and Viv would have been killed, too.
