Chloe pretended to let out a loud snore.
Dorian giggled and did the same. Although his came out sounding more like baby pig noises.
“Here.” Viv put her old bonnet on the table. It had oil smudges, but it wasn’t unwearable. “Please donate my hat when you go.”
“With pleasure,” said Faircliffe.
“Come back on Monday,” Chloe called over her shoulder as she scooped up the baby for his mealtime. “We can chat more once we’ve hammered out fresh arguments for women’s suffrage.”
Viv left the house feeling more disoriented than when she’d battled her way through Elizabeth’s entryway.
Had she just beeninvitedto meddle in the aristocracy’s lives? An hour ago, not a single line Viv had written had ever been used in a play. And now her unlikeliest political dialogue might be performed by the highest-ranking lords in Parliament?
These Wynchesters were wild, indeed.
Viv returned to Islington wearing her new bonnet. She headed straight to the sitting room, where today’s unopened advice letters still awaited her.
Tommy and Philippa were already seated at the table. Lace-draped Philippa sat behind a stack of books taller than her head. Cravat-less Tommy, in men’s shirtsleeves, bent over a new map she was sketching out. At Viv’s arrival, Tommy glanced up. A grin spread across her face.
“You’re wearing a Faircliffe special!” she crowed. “That duke is my favorite milliner in all of London.”
Viv couldn’t help but grin back. “His grace is a surprisingly handy craftsman. I can’t wait to tell Quentin. Maybe he’ll start sewing his own costumes.”
“What kinds of costumes?” Tommy asked. “Does he often require fancy bonnets?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Ask Graham for a full list of the club’s false identities.” Viv gave a fond shake of her head. “Even when Quentin is supposedly dressed as a cobbler or a parson or a Wynchester like you, his ‘disguises’ are usually just his ordinary clothes. He probably would appreciate a good hat, though.”
Philippa turned to Tommy. “Do you think I should learn millinery?”
Tommy snorted. “I don’t see how you can fit anything else in your brain. Didn’t you just learn Turkish, for fun?”
“Not for fun,” Philippa protested. “To understand local texts describing traditional methods of preparing Turkish coffee.”
“Which you drink for fun,” Tommy said. “I rest my case. If a random document exists anywhere, written in a language you don’t speak, you’ll rectify the situation within a month. Whereas those of us ordinary folk who arenotbluestockings… How many languages do you speak, Vivian?”
“Um,” said Viv. “Five?”
“Good God.” Tommy set down her pencil and threw her hands into the air. “Am I the last non-bluestocking on earth?”
“You know three,” Philippa comforted her. “That’s decent.”
“My French is the worst of anyone in the family,” grumbled Tommy. “And the other two languages, I’d have no excuse not to speak, since we use both English and sign language every day at home. What’s your story, Vivian?”
“Dutch, French, and English, because they’re spoken on Demerara. Latin and Greek because I helped tutor my cousin during the entirety of his school years.”
Tommy ran a hand over her short brown hair as she shook her head. “You should come back on Thursday. You’d fit right in with Philippa’s weekly reading circle.”
“She didn’t say she liked to read,” Philippa whispered.
“She’s a playwright who speaks five languages,” Tommy whispered back. “She can read.”
Viv’s heart pounded. This was the second time in as many hours in which a Wynchester casually referenced Viv’s career as that of a playwright, despite her not having sold a single word. It was as though they could see a successful future in store for her, and found no reason to wait to bestow her proper title.
Philippa smiled at her. “If you’re at all interested in biscuits, wine, or Turkish coffee, then by all means, please join us on Thursday afternoon.”
“There’s also books involved,” warned Tommy. “Don’t let her fool you.”
Viv hadn’t expected to be invited to something unrelated to their cases. “I could stomach reading a paragraph or two in exchange for wine and biscuits.”
