She gazed at him in silence for a moment, then said quietly, “Is that why you’re really here? You think whoever came after my cousin was actually trying to hurt me?”
“We don’t know yet that anyone other than Quentin is involved in his disappearance,” he reminded her.
“And yet you’re looking at me as though you cannot quite fathom why I haven’t been murdered.”
“You’re not at all worried about your own safety?”
“No one has any clueI’mthat Vivian. The paper wants to keep that secret even more than I do. Besides, I have Rufus, and other defensive measures. And I never respond to the letters written by madmen.”
“You receive letters from madmen?”
“Weekly. Names and identifying details redacted, of course. These are the questions that get replies.” She gestured toward one pile of correspondence, then pointed at a different stack across the table. “Those are the answers that will be going back to the newspaper clerk in the next batch.”
“Might I review them?” he asked.
She crossed her arms. “Is it relevant?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.
She hesitated, then waved him toward the letters. “They’re going to be printed in the newspaper anyway. You’re just getting to see them a few days early.”
“You don’t mind people looking at your unedited work? I just… If it were me…”
“I’m not you, thank God.” She gestured at the sideboard behind her. “Iwantpeople to read what I write. I have duplicates of every play I’ve ever written. I send a fresh copy to every theater manager in England every time I write a new script. You can read those, too, if you like.”
He stared at her. “Really?”
“Then at least someone will. You can memorize each line and put on a one-man play at Vauxhall for all I care, as long as you credit me as the author.” Her face brightened. “In fact, I’ve written several anti-Wynchester plays. It would be the most delicious irony to hear an actual Wynchester perform the monologues.”
The very thought of a public performance nauseated him. Or rather, the thought of the audience’s inevitable rejection. “I don’t perform in front of crowds.”
“Well, read the lines in your parlor with your siblings, then, if it amuses you.”
“I don’t read in front of them, either,” he admitted.
“Just the poetry group your siblings mentioned?”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re not an ‘aspiring’ writer if you don’t let anyone read your work. What is a publisher supposed to publish, your good intentions?”
His voice hardened. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Her eyes flashed. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
He should have saidyesand walked away. It was the perfect chance. Abandon this human hedgehog and her attack badger. Flee home to the safety of his barn, where a menagerie of furry friends awaited him.
But he could be stubborn as an ox himself. It was how he’d lived through those early years. How he’d managed to find and rescue and train hundreds of wild animals. Jacob did not take the first growl as the final answer. He never gave up. He kept trying until all that he heard was purrs.
“No,” Jacob responded firmly. “We’re not done with each other quite yet.”
He sank into the seat next to her and settled in.
10
Viv glowered at the dashing, maddening Wynchester making himself at home at her breakfast table. Also known as the nuncheon table, coffee table, tea table, supper table, worktable, ironing board, and escritoire. She had only the one surface, and his presence was taking up all of it—despite him not touching a single thing.
Unlike her habitually correct posture, he slouched casually in one of the hard wooden chairs as though this were his space and not hers.
