“I respect you,” she said hastily. “You have value.”
Exasperation flickered in his eyes. “We’re not talking about you and me.”
Weren’t they? Then what? Viv prided herself on always knowing exactly what was going on around her. Quentin had never kept anything from her before—or even possessed any secrets to keep. When dissatisfied, her well-meaning cousin was no stranger to rash actions. For the first time in her life, she hoped she was reading someone wrong.
He was also a good lad, she reminded herself. Whatever he was not yet ready to confide wouldn’t turn out to be anything major. There was no sense getting worked up over nothing. Especially when there were real dangers afoot.
“The Wynchester family criminally disregards the auxiliary effects of their privilege,” she said. “They not only instill the false belief that it’s easy to be just like them, but also perpetuate an impossible standard for the less privileged. The upper classes can point at them and say, ‘Theycame from humble origins and became educated and wealthy. If the lower classes are poor and disadvantaged, it’s their own lazy fault, and not a problemweneed to address.’”
Quentin crossed his arms. “I don’t care about the upper classes. The world needs more Wynchesters.”
He had never known a world without the infamous family. Their portentous group adoption had taken place four years before his birth.By the time her young cousin had learned to read, their daring exploits were already in every scandal paper. He never questioned their fame, or what they did with it, because he’d never known anything different.
Viv knew. And like it or not, she’d keep trying to make him see.
“Your wild Wynchesters may never suffer consequences, but it doesn’t work like that for you and me. Their successes don’t mitigate our barriers. You may think they’re heroes, but what I see are smug, rich brats who believe laws apply to everyone but them.”
Quentin let out a groan. “That’showthey help their clients. You write plays for a living, don’t you? Haven’t you ever heard of Robin Hood?”
Viv did not in fact write plays for a living. Despite his frustration with her, Quentin was being very charitable with that characterization. Viv wrote a thousand words without fail, every single day, but had yet to sell a single script.
“All I’m saying…” She took a deep breath and stopped herself from making the situation worse.
From the time her younger cousin was a child, she’d been his companion, then his guardian. Though he did not yet have his majority, Quentin was grown now. She had better start treating him like it, if he was to learn how to be his own man.
Even if old habits were hard to break, and past nightmares impossible to shake.
As an olive branch, she jabbed a soapy finger at the newspaper. “Just read me the important bits.”
His posture relaxed. “Your column?”
“No, I already know whatIwrote. What’s on the front page?”
He scanned the lines while she scrubbed. “The voices agitating for voting reform have dwindled to nothing. Even the group of ladies over in Bath who think allwomenshould have the vote have ceased making noise.”
“Can you blame them?” she asked. “The Peterloo Massacre was just a few months ago. After their own government sent armed soldiers to attack peaceful protesters hoping for voting reform, it’s more dangerous than ever to stick your neck out unnecessarily.”
He turned a page. “Do you think it’ll ever happen?”
“Hard to say. Thirty years ago in Sierra Leone all heads of household voted—even unmarried African women, like me. That’s a British colony. Why not here?”
“Because England doesn’t even give allmenthe right to vote.” Quentin snorted at something in the paper. “Just obnoxious aristocrats, like these buffoons.”
“Which ones are the buffoons today?”
“The Marquess of Leisterdale and his heir, the Earl of Uppington. It seems they settled everyone’s tabs at their club last night and are now the favorites of the ton. The pair were out celebrating Uppington’s recent return from spending several months overseeing their Caribbean holdings. Leisterdale is quoted as saying, ‘Owning a sugar plantation is like having access to an endless pot of gold.’”
“Is that right?” Viv’s stomach twisted. She knew exactly what it was like to be a Black woman tethered to some white aristocrat’s sugar plantation. “Where in the Caribbean?”
“Demerara. Where you were kept.” His fingers shook, rattling the paper. “These men weren’t the ones who…”
Viv’s hands stilled in the dishwater. “No.”
“Did… my mother…” He swallowed audibly.
Viv closed her eyes and fought the tidal wave of memories. “Not with them.”
Quentin was quiet for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “It says here, the marquess’s heir—Lord Uppington—has been boasting that he keeps the highest-paid mistress in London.”
