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Synopsis
Regency meets adventure in this enemies to lovers romp from a New York Times bestselling author.
Advice columnist Miss Vivian Henry despises the Wild Wynchesters her young cousin idolizes. A privileged, wealthy family might get away with murder, while ordinary people are stuck firmly in their place. But when her beloved cousin goes missing and the authorities shrug, Viv has no choice but to beg for help from the vigilantes she hates.
Animal trainer and secretive poet Jacob Wynchester prefers to stay behind the safety of a quill. The last thing he wants is to be lead investigator for his brilliant but prickly new client. As they team up to rescue her kidnapped cousin, they fall in love despite themselves. But when Jacob’s grand gesture backfires, everything they care about is thrown into jeopardy. Together, they must not only save the day, but also decide how far they’re willing to go to be who they really are. And determine whether their partnership is a mistake… or the missing piece that completes them.
Release date: August 26, 2025
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 368
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A Waltz on the Wild Side
Erica Ridley
Whilst Miss Vivian Henry’s mind was busy plotting how best to steal the Crown Jewels, she fried a pan of bubble and squeak with her left hand, pulled down cups and saucers with her right hand, knocked the silverware drawer shut with her left hip, and kicked her cousin’s round leather football out of the kitchen with a well-practiced swing of her right boot.
In other words, it was an utterly ordinary Sunday.
“Breakfast is ready,” Viv yelled as she set the table.
“Coming!” came her cousin’s muffled voice through the thin walls. “Have you seen my daggers?”
“On the mantel, between your faux spectacles and the pile of rope,” she called back, refraining from additional comment.
The long-running jest that Viv was the only one who learned anything from Quentin’s special-interest tutors had stopped being funny for both of them. Perhaps today was the day her cousin would finally practice. She hoped he didn’t hurt himself.
“Aha!” came Quentin’s triumphant shout. “Found you.”
Someone brown, furry, and impatient darted beneath Viv’s skirts and between her legs.
“Not now, Rufus, you roly-poly glutton,” Viv scolded him as she served bubble and squeak onto two porcelain plates. It wasn’t how she’d broken her fast when she lived in Demerara, but it would do. Even Rufus thought it smelled tasty. She rubbed his furry head with her toe. “Sorry, sugar. You must wait until supper for more.”
Quentin darted into the room. He flung his arms wide with dramatic flair. “What do you think?”
Viv kicked a chair in his direction as she poured the tea. “What the devil is in your hair?”
“Chalk,” he answered happily. “It’s to make me look older.”
“It makes you look ridiculous. Do you know how long it took me to set all those twists in your hair just so?”
“Hours,” he replied with feeling. “I was there.”
“Then why would you spoil all of my effort with powdered chalk?”
“I’m Godfather Wynchester today,” he explained. “The white hair is to make me look distinguished.”
Quentin looked like an eighteen-year-old itinerant with powdered sugar in his curly black twists and inexpertly drawn “wrinkles” on his golden-brown forehead. Nonetheless, Viv knew from experience that if she voiced such observations, she would be the one tasked with improving the disguise. This morning, she simply had no time to spare.
“Eat,” she commanded her cousin. “Grandfather Wynchester can’t save the day if he passes out from malnutrition.”
“Godfather,” Quentin corrected her with his mouth full. “You could be Grandmother Wynchester.”
“I’m ten years older than you, not fifty.” Though sometimes eight-and-twenty did feel like a lifetime.
Her young cousin pointed to his head. “Try chalk dust.”
“Try again. I refuse to have anything to do with that family. As should you. Won’t you please let the Wynchesters perform their own skullduggery?”
Quentin flashed hurt eyes at her. “I’ve told you a hundred times; my secret club and I have sworn a solemn oath to help them.”
And Viv had pointed out a hundred times that the real Wynchesters had no idea Quentin and his costumed friends existed. Not that inconvenient facts had ever stopped her cousin from spending his days in search of adventure.
“Please remember to say ‘friends,’ not ‘secret club,’” she reminded him. “The newest Seditious Meetings Act explicitly forbids secret societies. No solemn oath will save you from the noose.”
“We’re being careful,” he promised her. “That’s why we use false names and disguises, just like the Wynchesters.”
“That’s not enough protection. Do you have a powerful duke for a brother-in-law, like they do? Or access to the Wynchesters’ lawyers and endless piles of gold?”
Quentin shoved eggs into his mouth rather than respond.
As Viv turned back to the sink, Rufus burrowed between her skirts again. She hiked her hem up to her shins. “Summon your creature. He’s in my way.”
“Maybe he wants you to sit down, too. Eat something. You’re always doing a thousand things at once.”
“If I don’t do them all, who will?” she pointed out.
But Viv’s belly chose that moment to let out a lusty growl. In surrender, she set the pans she was scouring aside and took her seat at the breakfast table.
Rufus immediately tried and failed to hop up into her lap.
“By all that’s holy, Quentin, if you do not call your creature away from me—”
“He’s not mine anymore and you know it. Anyone can see he’s adopted you. You’re his pet now.”
“Did I ask to be anyone’s pet?” She nudged the toast and blackberry preserves toward her cousin.
“Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about the matter,” Quentin said peevishly. “Rufus hates me, just like Sally does.”
“You can’t keep acquiring animals and pawning them off on me,” Viv began.
“I’ll raise your pin money,” he interrupted, chewing with his mouth open. “Sally feeds herself anyway. I’m too busy fighting crimes.”
As far as Viv was concerned, the worst crime was the horror Quentin had committed against his hair. She would be the one spending her evening washing and restyling it instead of penning Act Two of her play, in which her villain du jour made an attempt upon the Crown Jewels.
Perhaps if she could finish this bloody script, she could earn enough income not to need to siphon any pin money from her younger cousin’s limited quarterly trust.
“Oof.” Quentin slumped backward in his seat and patted his nonexistent belly. “That was good.”
Viv scooped up the dishes and headed for the sink. “Can you see if the newspaper has arrived?”
He brightened. “Perhaps there are more articles about the Wynchesters!”
“What is left to say about them? Six orphans adopted by a rich foreign baron, who had nothing better to do than spoil them rotten—”
“—and instill lifelong values of empathy and philanthropy. He gave them a purpose in life: helping those who have nowhere else to turn. Of course they’re mentioned in every newspaper! Everyone loves to read about the powerless beating the powerful, and the oppressed triumphing over their oppressors.”
Viv couldn’t argue with the last part. Many of her plays featured unlikely protagonists rising out of hopeless circumstances. She swung a heavy pot filled with simmering water from the stove to the sink, so she could soak the soiled dishes and scour them clean.
Her cousin soon returned with the newspaper and a stack of correspondence.
“More post than usual today,” Quentin said cheerily, then waggled his eyebrows. “Are you receiving love letters from your adoring fans?”
“I’m not known for my sweet and warm personality. Lately, it’s been mostly comedians and a few nutcakes wanting help with their crimes. No one adores me but you.”
“Someone out there will appreciate your sharp edges,” Quentin assured her. “And isn’t your reputation the newspaper’s fault, anyway? They specifically asked you to be harsh and direct, because it generates bigger reactions from subscribers.”
“They didn’t have to ask,” she said dryly. “Plain-spoken and brutally honest is the only way I know how to be.”
This was also one of the many reasons why a suitor was not in Viv’s foreseeable future. Her minimum requirements were high. If a man did not meet her qualifications, she would not waste either of their time with a prolonged courtship. Telling him he didn’t suit would be the first words out of her mouth.
Which unfortunately meant, she didn’t meet the average gentleman’s minimum requirements, either.
It didn’t matter. Viv didn’t want average. She expected more from a partner, and from herself. Besides, she was far too busy managing her own affairs to worry about an alleged phenomenon as unlikely as true love.
Quentin glanced up from the newspaper with a sour expression. “Only a tiny little paragraph on the front page today. What a travesty. Their successes are so inspiring.”
Viv said gently, “I admire your big heart, and your friends’ unflagging compassion, but living the same lives as the rich and well-connected isn’t an attainable goal.”
“They’re role models,” Quentin said stubbornly. “And they’re mostly not aristocrats. Many started out poor. Several are Black, like us, or have other characteristics that society spurns. But they made a name and a place for themselves anyway! They’re respected. They have value.”
That was his usual response to any criticism against his idols, but something was different today. There was an unusual tenseness in his shoulders. A vein she’d never seen before pulsed at his temple. As if whatever they were talking about was no longer just about the Wynchesters.
“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, ‘They came 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 problem we need 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’s how they 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 what I wrote. 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 all women should 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 all men the 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.”
“How does he know, if he just got here? Are other lords required to submit their receipts to him?”
“He’s had her on the line for years, apparently. Mistresses count on gifts as much as wages, and since Uppington is gone so often, he can’t be showering her with jewelry, so he pays her an exorbitant stipend instead.”
“I’ll wager the mistresses he keeps in Demerara don’t see a bloody penny,” Viv muttered.
Quentin glanced up sharply. “What?”
“Nothing. Keep reading. I’m almost done washing up.”
“The rest of the news is boring. Some lady snubbed some lord at Almack’s. The Prince Regent is remodeling one of his palaces yet again. And… oh, this is interesting. A politician in the House of Commons was burgled last night.”
“Why is that so interesting? What did they steal?”
“He refuses to say, which is intriguing enough. But apparently, the robbery involved balloons, shepherd’s pie, and a whooper swan. What in the world is a whooper swan?”
Viv stopped cleaning dishes. She turned around slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Anas cygnus, as described by famed zoologist Carl Linnaeus in his 1758 tome on natural systems. You’re certain the robbery utilized those specific items? Balloons, shepherd’s pie, whooper swan?”
“Mad, isn’t it? Who would even come up with something like that?”
Viv would have. And did. Last week she’d finished a comedic play in which the malefactors stole an ancient scroll in just that manner. But it hadn’t fully been her idea.
Instead of the usual domestic concerns, one of the more preposterous letters sent to her daily ask-me-anything advice column had enquired how to steal a treasure map from an aristocratic Mayfair town house. Viv never responded to such ludicrous queries, but she did use their absurd contents as fodder for future manuscripts.
Well, bollocks. Now theater managers would think she’d copied the idea from the real-life case, rather than believe her imagination had come up with these twists on its own.
Except… had she?
“Gah.” Viv slumped her hips against the wet sink. “Now I’ll never be able to sell that play.”
Sometimes unique ideas seemed to float in the air, occurring to multiple people at once. However, these unlikely crimes were too similar to be a coincidence.
Perhaps she and the thief had both been inspired by the same source material. Or perhaps what had happened was—
“You wrote about a robbery?” Her cousin reached for Viv’s notebook on the table.
“Quentin, no!” She tried to snatch her journal out of the way, but she was too late. A perfect blackberry-preserves-stained thumbprint now marred the bookmarked page she had been revising. “How many times do I have to ask you to wash your hands before touching my things?”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. Quentin rose from his chair and trudged over to the sink, where the wet bar of soap shot from his hands and nearly whacked Viv in the eye.
She caught it with her left hand seconds before impact and handed it back in silence.
When his hands were clean, Quentin consulted his pocket watch. “I must hurry. The club is waiting on me. Don’t worry, I already collected the new advice column responses from the table. Anything else you need me to post for you whilst I’m out?”
“That’ll do.” She glanced toward tall stacks containing copies of the play she’d finished the month before. “I have to pen the perfect letters to accompany my latest script.”
“You’re absolutely brilliant, cousin.” Quentin seemed his sunny self again. Perhaps her overactive imagination had exaggerated the earlier tension. “Someone will recognize your genius soon.”
“I certainly hope so,” she muttered, dipping her hands back beneath the sudsy water. “I’m getting tired of—ow!”
His eyes went wild with panic. “What? What happened?”
“Nothing.” She held up her finger, upon which a single bright red bubble of blood protruded. “Nicked myself on the paring knife.”
Quentin’s eyes went glassy and his knees buckled.
Viv wiped the blood on her apron and dashed forward just in time to catch him. “You haven’t changed a bit. What kind of would-be Wynchester faints at the sight of blood?”
“Can’t let anything happen to you,” he mumbled. “Don’t scare me.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle,” she assured him as she settled him back on his feet. “Have fun, and don’t break any laws. The Wynchesters may live outside of society’s rules, but people like us cannot. Please be safe. And come back home in time for dinner.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Quentin kissed her cheek. “I’m beating you at cards afterward.”
She snorted. “That would be an improbable twist, wouldn’t it.”
Mr. Jacob Wynchester spent all morning scowling at the same handwritten poem. Immersed in the worn leather-bound notebook in his hand, he exited the rear of his family’s three-story house and glanced up just in time to avoid being decapitated by a pair of large, very sharp swords.
“Watch out!” yelled his sister Elizabeth as she danced to the right.
“Isn’t the person swinging the sword the one who ought to be watching what they’re doing?” Jacob asked.
His sister-in-law Kuni parried, her long black braids swinging. She and Elizabeth zigzagged across the rear lawn amid a clatter of curses and clanging blades.
Jacob headed left, toward a big, whitewashed wooden barn almost half as wide as the Wynchesters’ sprawling house.
The barn door was visibly ajar. Jacob’s heart pounded. He always ensured it remained locked tight when he wasn’t there.
He shoved his poetry notebook into the pocket of his leather apron and cupped his hands around his mouth as he sprinted up to the open door.
“How many times must I remind you ne’er-do-wells not to access the barn without me present?” he shouted. “Insecure openings are exactly how we lose a python, and you remember how long it took the last time—”
A trim white man wearing a leather helmet fitted with mismatched goggles poked his head out of the door. “Sorry. I got distracted. Shutting now.”
The door closed in Jacob’s face.
He sighed and yanked it back open. “I was coming inside. Please remember that everything in this barn is a wild animal, with fangs or claws or venom. It is a privilege and a responsibility—”
And a fire hazard.
He gaped at the absolute chaos his brother-in-law Stephen had installed in Jacob’s private barn.
Slippery chutes and knotted ropes and grooved tracks covered every solid surface, and most of the space in between. Each pathway was dotted with random objects: old boots, lined-up dominoes, feathers, wheeled trolleys, glass vials and bottles with varying quantities of colored liquids, hammers, razors, pulleys, trapdoors, and what looked like an entire row of fresh strawberries.
Most baffling of all: the dozens of precarious lit candles.
In a wooden barn.
Here, where a hundred different terrestrial or winged wild animals might bang into them and set the entire neighborhood on fire.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Stephen.
“You really do not,” murmured Jacob, “or you would be running as fast as your legs could carry you.”
“This version is much more pragmatic than the last prototype,” Stephen assured him, peering at Jacob with one overly magnified light-gray eye. “The first item of note is the goose-launching station.”
Jacob enunciated, “Extinguish the candles.”
Stephen beamed at him. “I knew you would say that. I installed them specifically so you could see how quickly the flames can be doused. Watch this.”
He pulled a lever.
The entire room came to life. Every pulley in Stephen’s contraption dropped or lifted or tugged, sending all the objects crashing into one another, one at a time, until hoses sprang forth from a central cylinder like snakes from Medusa’s head. Water gushed forth from each hose, not only extinguishing each flame with enough force to knock the candles over, but also drenching Jacob and Stephen and every other animal or object in a five-yard radius.
Stephen grinned in satisfaction. “What do you think?”
Jacob swiped water from his face. “I think I’ll kill you.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? Elizabeth says—”
“Listen to me. Those flames never should have been lit in the first place. This barn is ninety percent wood. And I am one hundred percent opposed to unexpected indoor downpours. Dismantle this abomination at once.”
“It’s just a draft,” Stephen said quickly. “You haven’t seen its final form.”
“If so much as a single gear remains after nightfall—”
“All right, so you can’t see the vision. But there is a need for a mongoose launcher, right? You said so yourself.”
“I said we frequently utilize avian talent in our missions. Which are ongoing, and the reason I’m in this barn. The animals and I have to work today, Stephen. We’ve a disaster to quell across town, a freshly forged statue to replace inside a walled garden, a stolen heirloom to recover, and a young mother who badly needs our—”
“Meow!” A small calico cat nudged open a square leather flap high overhead. Tiglet squeezed through the opening and dropped lightly to the dirt at Jacob’s feet, without banging into any of the newly installed chutes and tubes crisscrossing the barn like a mechanical spiderweb.
“Clever boy!” Jacob scooped the orange-and-black speckled cat into his damp arms, and despite some wriggling, was promptly rewarded by a wet-sandpaper lick to his cheek.
Tiglet had been the first of Jacob’s messenger kittens and was now a fully grown, multi-talented part of the Wynchester family.
“Take this, for example.” Jacob placed the cat back onto the ground and strode toward the rear of the barn, ducking all the tracks and pulleys. “Tiglet’s presence here means Tommy and Philippa need more feline firepower. That cues me to release Dionysus.”
Stephen took a step backward. “Is Dionysus a cuddly little messenger kitten?”
“Dionysus is a Highland tiger.” Jacob prodded the wildcat to follow Tiglet, who pranced ahead with a self-important sway, his calico tail waving high in the air.
The much-larger wildcat prowled right behind, claws out and teeth bared.
“Only scare the villains, please,” Jacob scolded the duo as he pushed open the door to let them out of the barn. “No mauling this time.”
Tiglet and Dionysus took off, streaking over the grass and out of sight.
Elizabeth and Kuni didn’t even pause their sword fight.
Taking advantage of the opening, a tiny, plump hedgehog waddled into the barn.
Before Jacob could reach for him, the audible clink of swords fencing on the other side of the walls ceased abruptly. He stepped out of the way just as the barn door flew open and his sister Elizabeth barreled inside, sword strapped to her hip.
“Tickletums!” she squealed. “My baby! My heart!”
She scooped up the hedgehog, pressed him to her ample bosom, and swirled around the barn’s interior in wide circles, the blade of her sword bumping into absolutely everything she passed.
“My love,” Stephen chastised his new bride gently. “Please have a care for my craftsmanship, or I shall be forced to launch the integrated self-defense sequence. You won’t like it.”
“But my little Tickletums made it all the way back from Regent’s Park,” Elizabeth cooed, still waltzing. “That’s his farthest distance yet. A personal record. Our sweet Tickletums has now graduated into a full homing hedgehog.”
Kuni poked her head into the barn, her black eyes sparkling in her pretty brown face. “Beth, if we’re done fencing, then we have to get back to our cases. My client will return in an hour, and I—” She caught sight of Jacob and made a sympathetic expression. “I’m sorry you’re always stuck in the barn with the animals.”
“I like the animals,” he said. “And I’m the only one able to train them.”
“I could build—” began Stephen.
“No,” Jacob said flatly.
“But you never even leave the property,” Kuni insisted. “Just because you’re the only one who can do a thing doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a respite once in a while.”
“I respite,” Jacob said.
Elizabeth nodded. “Once a week, at your poets meeting.”
“Just like you and Kuni only spare an hour a week for sword and dagger training.”
Stephen took off his goggles. “I could go to a poetry meeting with you, if you want company.”
“No,” Jacob replied.
“If you’d like to hear Jacob’s work, forget it,” said Elizabeth. “Even his poetry group probably hasn’t heard any of his poems yet, and he’s attended their sessions for ten years.”
Twelve years. Jacob was a founding member of the Dreamers Guild. And no, he did not share his poetry there, either. No matter how much his friends prodded him.
“It’s not good to be stretched so thin all the time,” Kuni insisted. One of her hands rested on her own stomach, just below the row of hidden blades stitched beneath her bodice.
Jacob knew she and her husband, Graham, were hoping for children of their own. He also knew better than to ask about it. If there were any news, he would be the first to hear. Some things took time—and luck. He understood how uniquely frustrating it was to be hounded about when he planned to achieve something that was ultimately outside his control.
“We’re all stretched thin. So if you’ll excuse me—” His head jerked toward Elizabeth, who had taken a step backward to whisper to her husband. “What did you just say?”
“It’s this fellow Sir Gareth Jallow,” Stephen said helpfully. “Elizabeth is obsessed with—”
Elizabeth elbowed him in the ribs. “I said not to mention him out loud.”
Jacob’s entire body tensed. “I thought you didn’t read poetry. Balderdash for romantics, you said.”
She coughed into her fist. “I don’t. That is, not usually. But everyone reads Sir Gar… who must not be named.”
He sighed. “I can hear the man’s name.”
“You really can’t,” said Kuni. “You explicitly warned us never to say those syllables in your presence.”
Jacob crossed his arms. Was he jealous of Sir Gareth Jallow? Absolutely. Bone deep. But did he hate Jallow? Yes. Maybe. Sometimes. With self-loathing. And anger. This was not who he wanted to be.
In other words, it was complicated. Which was why Jacob would rather not discuss his feelings. There was no telling what unedited words might burst from his mouth.
He glanced at his pocket watch. Blast the interruption! It was time for the next mission already. “Stand clear of the exit, please.”
The others scrambled aside.
Jacob pushed the barn doors open wide and gave the whistle.
Ferrets began to stream down the barn’s walls and across the dirt floor from every shadowy nook. They arranged themselves in rectangular formation behind Jacob as he marched from the barn like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
“Close the door when you’re done cleaning up!” he called out without looking back. There was no time to delay.
He and his scampering furry army had a legal trial to disrupt.
The next morning, with Rufus underfoot, Viv cooked breakfast while straining to read snippets of the new novel she was enjoying. The book was propped up against a water pitcher and held open with a rolling pin. Between cracking eggs and flipping fried potatoes, the sce. . .
In other words, it was an utterly ordinary Sunday.
“Breakfast is ready,” Viv yelled as she set the table.
“Coming!” came her cousin’s muffled voice through the thin walls. “Have you seen my daggers?”
“On the mantel, between your faux spectacles and the pile of rope,” she called back, refraining from additional comment.
The long-running jest that Viv was the only one who learned anything from Quentin’s special-interest tutors had stopped being funny for both of them. Perhaps today was the day her cousin would finally practice. She hoped he didn’t hurt himself.
“Aha!” came Quentin’s triumphant shout. “Found you.”
Someone brown, furry, and impatient darted beneath Viv’s skirts and between her legs.
“Not now, Rufus, you roly-poly glutton,” Viv scolded him as she served bubble and squeak onto two porcelain plates. It wasn’t how she’d broken her fast when she lived in Demerara, but it would do. Even Rufus thought it smelled tasty. She rubbed his furry head with her toe. “Sorry, sugar. You must wait until supper for more.”
Quentin darted into the room. He flung his arms wide with dramatic flair. “What do you think?”
Viv kicked a chair in his direction as she poured the tea. “What the devil is in your hair?”
“Chalk,” he answered happily. “It’s to make me look older.”
“It makes you look ridiculous. Do you know how long it took me to set all those twists in your hair just so?”
“Hours,” he replied with feeling. “I was there.”
“Then why would you spoil all of my effort with powdered chalk?”
“I’m Godfather Wynchester today,” he explained. “The white hair is to make me look distinguished.”
Quentin looked like an eighteen-year-old itinerant with powdered sugar in his curly black twists and inexpertly drawn “wrinkles” on his golden-brown forehead. Nonetheless, Viv knew from experience that if she voiced such observations, she would be the one tasked with improving the disguise. This morning, she simply had no time to spare.
“Eat,” she commanded her cousin. “Grandfather Wynchester can’t save the day if he passes out from malnutrition.”
“Godfather,” Quentin corrected her with his mouth full. “You could be Grandmother Wynchester.”
“I’m ten years older than you, not fifty.” Though sometimes eight-and-twenty did feel like a lifetime.
Her young cousin pointed to his head. “Try chalk dust.”
“Try again. I refuse to have anything to do with that family. As should you. Won’t you please let the Wynchesters perform their own skullduggery?”
Quentin flashed hurt eyes at her. “I’ve told you a hundred times; my secret club and I have sworn a solemn oath to help them.”
And Viv had pointed out a hundred times that the real Wynchesters had no idea Quentin and his costumed friends existed. Not that inconvenient facts had ever stopped her cousin from spending his days in search of adventure.
“Please remember to say ‘friends,’ not ‘secret club,’” she reminded him. “The newest Seditious Meetings Act explicitly forbids secret societies. No solemn oath will save you from the noose.”
“We’re being careful,” he promised her. “That’s why we use false names and disguises, just like the Wynchesters.”
“That’s not enough protection. Do you have a powerful duke for a brother-in-law, like they do? Or access to the Wynchesters’ lawyers and endless piles of gold?”
Quentin shoved eggs into his mouth rather than respond.
As Viv turned back to the sink, Rufus burrowed between her skirts again. She hiked her hem up to her shins. “Summon your creature. He’s in my way.”
“Maybe he wants you to sit down, too. Eat something. You’re always doing a thousand things at once.”
“If I don’t do them all, who will?” she pointed out.
But Viv’s belly chose that moment to let out a lusty growl. In surrender, she set the pans she was scouring aside and took her seat at the breakfast table.
Rufus immediately tried and failed to hop up into her lap.
“By all that’s holy, Quentin, if you do not call your creature away from me—”
“He’s not mine anymore and you know it. Anyone can see he’s adopted you. You’re his pet now.”
“Did I ask to be anyone’s pet?” She nudged the toast and blackberry preserves toward her cousin.
“Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about the matter,” Quentin said peevishly. “Rufus hates me, just like Sally does.”
“You can’t keep acquiring animals and pawning them off on me,” Viv began.
“I’ll raise your pin money,” he interrupted, chewing with his mouth open. “Sally feeds herself anyway. I’m too busy fighting crimes.”
As far as Viv was concerned, the worst crime was the horror Quentin had committed against his hair. She would be the one spending her evening washing and restyling it instead of penning Act Two of her play, in which her villain du jour made an attempt upon the Crown Jewels.
Perhaps if she could finish this bloody script, she could earn enough income not to need to siphon any pin money from her younger cousin’s limited quarterly trust.
“Oof.” Quentin slumped backward in his seat and patted his nonexistent belly. “That was good.”
Viv scooped up the dishes and headed for the sink. “Can you see if the newspaper has arrived?”
He brightened. “Perhaps there are more articles about the Wynchesters!”
“What is left to say about them? Six orphans adopted by a rich foreign baron, who had nothing better to do than spoil them rotten—”
“—and instill lifelong values of empathy and philanthropy. He gave them a purpose in life: helping those who have nowhere else to turn. Of course they’re mentioned in every newspaper! Everyone loves to read about the powerless beating the powerful, and the oppressed triumphing over their oppressors.”
Viv couldn’t argue with the last part. Many of her plays featured unlikely protagonists rising out of hopeless circumstances. She swung a heavy pot filled with simmering water from the stove to the sink, so she could soak the soiled dishes and scour them clean.
Her cousin soon returned with the newspaper and a stack of correspondence.
“More post than usual today,” Quentin said cheerily, then waggled his eyebrows. “Are you receiving love letters from your adoring fans?”
“I’m not known for my sweet and warm personality. Lately, it’s been mostly comedians and a few nutcakes wanting help with their crimes. No one adores me but you.”
“Someone out there will appreciate your sharp edges,” Quentin assured her. “And isn’t your reputation the newspaper’s fault, anyway? They specifically asked you to be harsh and direct, because it generates bigger reactions from subscribers.”
“They didn’t have to ask,” she said dryly. “Plain-spoken and brutally honest is the only way I know how to be.”
This was also one of the many reasons why a suitor was not in Viv’s foreseeable future. Her minimum requirements were high. If a man did not meet her qualifications, she would not waste either of their time with a prolonged courtship. Telling him he didn’t suit would be the first words out of her mouth.
Which unfortunately meant, she didn’t meet the average gentleman’s minimum requirements, either.
It didn’t matter. Viv didn’t want average. She expected more from a partner, and from herself. Besides, she was far too busy managing her own affairs to worry about an alleged phenomenon as unlikely as true love.
Quentin glanced up from the newspaper with a sour expression. “Only a tiny little paragraph on the front page today. What a travesty. Their successes are so inspiring.”
Viv said gently, “I admire your big heart, and your friends’ unflagging compassion, but living the same lives as the rich and well-connected isn’t an attainable goal.”
“They’re role models,” Quentin said stubbornly. “And they’re mostly not aristocrats. Many started out poor. Several are Black, like us, or have other characteristics that society spurns. But they made a name and a place for themselves anyway! They’re respected. They have value.”
That was his usual response to any criticism against his idols, but something was different today. There was an unusual tenseness in his shoulders. A vein she’d never seen before pulsed at his temple. As if whatever they were talking about was no longer just about the Wynchesters.
“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, ‘They came 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 problem we need 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’s how they 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 what I wrote. 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 all women should 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 all men the 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.”
“How does he know, if he just got here? Are other lords required to submit their receipts to him?”
“He’s had her on the line for years, apparently. Mistresses count on gifts as much as wages, and since Uppington is gone so often, he can’t be showering her with jewelry, so he pays her an exorbitant stipend instead.”
“I’ll wager the mistresses he keeps in Demerara don’t see a bloody penny,” Viv muttered.
Quentin glanced up sharply. “What?”
“Nothing. Keep reading. I’m almost done washing up.”
“The rest of the news is boring. Some lady snubbed some lord at Almack’s. The Prince Regent is remodeling one of his palaces yet again. And… oh, this is interesting. A politician in the House of Commons was burgled last night.”
“Why is that so interesting? What did they steal?”
“He refuses to say, which is intriguing enough. But apparently, the robbery involved balloons, shepherd’s pie, and a whooper swan. What in the world is a whooper swan?”
Viv stopped cleaning dishes. She turned around slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Anas cygnus, as described by famed zoologist Carl Linnaeus in his 1758 tome on natural systems. You’re certain the robbery utilized those specific items? Balloons, shepherd’s pie, whooper swan?”
“Mad, isn’t it? Who would even come up with something like that?”
Viv would have. And did. Last week she’d finished a comedic play in which the malefactors stole an ancient scroll in just that manner. But it hadn’t fully been her idea.
Instead of the usual domestic concerns, one of the more preposterous letters sent to her daily ask-me-anything advice column had enquired how to steal a treasure map from an aristocratic Mayfair town house. Viv never responded to such ludicrous queries, but she did use their absurd contents as fodder for future manuscripts.
Well, bollocks. Now theater managers would think she’d copied the idea from the real-life case, rather than believe her imagination had come up with these twists on its own.
Except… had she?
“Gah.” Viv slumped her hips against the wet sink. “Now I’ll never be able to sell that play.”
Sometimes unique ideas seemed to float in the air, occurring to multiple people at once. However, these unlikely crimes were too similar to be a coincidence.
Perhaps she and the thief had both been inspired by the same source material. Or perhaps what had happened was—
“You wrote about a robbery?” Her cousin reached for Viv’s notebook on the table.
“Quentin, no!” She tried to snatch her journal out of the way, but she was too late. A perfect blackberry-preserves-stained thumbprint now marred the bookmarked page she had been revising. “How many times do I have to ask you to wash your hands before touching my things?”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. Quentin rose from his chair and trudged over to the sink, where the wet bar of soap shot from his hands and nearly whacked Viv in the eye.
She caught it with her left hand seconds before impact and handed it back in silence.
When his hands were clean, Quentin consulted his pocket watch. “I must hurry. The club is waiting on me. Don’t worry, I already collected the new advice column responses from the table. Anything else you need me to post for you whilst I’m out?”
“That’ll do.” She glanced toward tall stacks containing copies of the play she’d finished the month before. “I have to pen the perfect letters to accompany my latest script.”
“You’re absolutely brilliant, cousin.” Quentin seemed his sunny self again. Perhaps her overactive imagination had exaggerated the earlier tension. “Someone will recognize your genius soon.”
“I certainly hope so,” she muttered, dipping her hands back beneath the sudsy water. “I’m getting tired of—ow!”
His eyes went wild with panic. “What? What happened?”
“Nothing.” She held up her finger, upon which a single bright red bubble of blood protruded. “Nicked myself on the paring knife.”
Quentin’s eyes went glassy and his knees buckled.
Viv wiped the blood on her apron and dashed forward just in time to catch him. “You haven’t changed a bit. What kind of would-be Wynchester faints at the sight of blood?”
“Can’t let anything happen to you,” he mumbled. “Don’t scare me.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle,” she assured him as she settled him back on his feet. “Have fun, and don’t break any laws. The Wynchesters may live outside of society’s rules, but people like us cannot. Please be safe. And come back home in time for dinner.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Quentin kissed her cheek. “I’m beating you at cards afterward.”
She snorted. “That would be an improbable twist, wouldn’t it.”
Mr. Jacob Wynchester spent all morning scowling at the same handwritten poem. Immersed in the worn leather-bound notebook in his hand, he exited the rear of his family’s three-story house and glanced up just in time to avoid being decapitated by a pair of large, very sharp swords.
“Watch out!” yelled his sister Elizabeth as she danced to the right.
“Isn’t the person swinging the sword the one who ought to be watching what they’re doing?” Jacob asked.
His sister-in-law Kuni parried, her long black braids swinging. She and Elizabeth zigzagged across the rear lawn amid a clatter of curses and clanging blades.
Jacob headed left, toward a big, whitewashed wooden barn almost half as wide as the Wynchesters’ sprawling house.
The barn door was visibly ajar. Jacob’s heart pounded. He always ensured it remained locked tight when he wasn’t there.
He shoved his poetry notebook into the pocket of his leather apron and cupped his hands around his mouth as he sprinted up to the open door.
“How many times must I remind you ne’er-do-wells not to access the barn without me present?” he shouted. “Insecure openings are exactly how we lose a python, and you remember how long it took the last time—”
A trim white man wearing a leather helmet fitted with mismatched goggles poked his head out of the door. “Sorry. I got distracted. Shutting now.”
The door closed in Jacob’s face.
He sighed and yanked it back open. “I was coming inside. Please remember that everything in this barn is a wild animal, with fangs or claws or venom. It is a privilege and a responsibility—”
And a fire hazard.
He gaped at the absolute chaos his brother-in-law Stephen had installed in Jacob’s private barn.
Slippery chutes and knotted ropes and grooved tracks covered every solid surface, and most of the space in between. Each pathway was dotted with random objects: old boots, lined-up dominoes, feathers, wheeled trolleys, glass vials and bottles with varying quantities of colored liquids, hammers, razors, pulleys, trapdoors, and what looked like an entire row of fresh strawberries.
Most baffling of all: the dozens of precarious lit candles.
In a wooden barn.
Here, where a hundred different terrestrial or winged wild animals might bang into them and set the entire neighborhood on fire.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Stephen.
“You really do not,” murmured Jacob, “or you would be running as fast as your legs could carry you.”
“This version is much more pragmatic than the last prototype,” Stephen assured him, peering at Jacob with one overly magnified light-gray eye. “The first item of note is the goose-launching station.”
Jacob enunciated, “Extinguish the candles.”
Stephen beamed at him. “I knew you would say that. I installed them specifically so you could see how quickly the flames can be doused. Watch this.”
He pulled a lever.
The entire room came to life. Every pulley in Stephen’s contraption dropped or lifted or tugged, sending all the objects crashing into one another, one at a time, until hoses sprang forth from a central cylinder like snakes from Medusa’s head. Water gushed forth from each hose, not only extinguishing each flame with enough force to knock the candles over, but also drenching Jacob and Stephen and every other animal or object in a five-yard radius.
Stephen grinned in satisfaction. “What do you think?”
Jacob swiped water from his face. “I think I’ll kill you.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? Elizabeth says—”
“Listen to me. Those flames never should have been lit in the first place. This barn is ninety percent wood. And I am one hundred percent opposed to unexpected indoor downpours. Dismantle this abomination at once.”
“It’s just a draft,” Stephen said quickly. “You haven’t seen its final form.”
“If so much as a single gear remains after nightfall—”
“All right, so you can’t see the vision. But there is a need for a mongoose launcher, right? You said so yourself.”
“I said we frequently utilize avian talent in our missions. Which are ongoing, and the reason I’m in this barn. The animals and I have to work today, Stephen. We’ve a disaster to quell across town, a freshly forged statue to replace inside a walled garden, a stolen heirloom to recover, and a young mother who badly needs our—”
“Meow!” A small calico cat nudged open a square leather flap high overhead. Tiglet squeezed through the opening and dropped lightly to the dirt at Jacob’s feet, without banging into any of the newly installed chutes and tubes crisscrossing the barn like a mechanical spiderweb.
“Clever boy!” Jacob scooped the orange-and-black speckled cat into his damp arms, and despite some wriggling, was promptly rewarded by a wet-sandpaper lick to his cheek.
Tiglet had been the first of Jacob’s messenger kittens and was now a fully grown, multi-talented part of the Wynchester family.
“Take this, for example.” Jacob placed the cat back onto the ground and strode toward the rear of the barn, ducking all the tracks and pulleys. “Tiglet’s presence here means Tommy and Philippa need more feline firepower. That cues me to release Dionysus.”
Stephen took a step backward. “Is Dionysus a cuddly little messenger kitten?”
“Dionysus is a Highland tiger.” Jacob prodded the wildcat to follow Tiglet, who pranced ahead with a self-important sway, his calico tail waving high in the air.
The much-larger wildcat prowled right behind, claws out and teeth bared.
“Only scare the villains, please,” Jacob scolded the duo as he pushed open the door to let them out of the barn. “No mauling this time.”
Tiglet and Dionysus took off, streaking over the grass and out of sight.
Elizabeth and Kuni didn’t even pause their sword fight.
Taking advantage of the opening, a tiny, plump hedgehog waddled into the barn.
Before Jacob could reach for him, the audible clink of swords fencing on the other side of the walls ceased abruptly. He stepped out of the way just as the barn door flew open and his sister Elizabeth barreled inside, sword strapped to her hip.
“Tickletums!” she squealed. “My baby! My heart!”
She scooped up the hedgehog, pressed him to her ample bosom, and swirled around the barn’s interior in wide circles, the blade of her sword bumping into absolutely everything she passed.
“My love,” Stephen chastised his new bride gently. “Please have a care for my craftsmanship, or I shall be forced to launch the integrated self-defense sequence. You won’t like it.”
“But my little Tickletums made it all the way back from Regent’s Park,” Elizabeth cooed, still waltzing. “That’s his farthest distance yet. A personal record. Our sweet Tickletums has now graduated into a full homing hedgehog.”
Kuni poked her head into the barn, her black eyes sparkling in her pretty brown face. “Beth, if we’re done fencing, then we have to get back to our cases. My client will return in an hour, and I—” She caught sight of Jacob and made a sympathetic expression. “I’m sorry you’re always stuck in the barn with the animals.”
“I like the animals,” he said. “And I’m the only one able to train them.”
“I could build—” began Stephen.
“No,” Jacob said flatly.
“But you never even leave the property,” Kuni insisted. “Just because you’re the only one who can do a thing doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a respite once in a while.”
“I respite,” Jacob said.
Elizabeth nodded. “Once a week, at your poets meeting.”
“Just like you and Kuni only spare an hour a week for sword and dagger training.”
Stephen took off his goggles. “I could go to a poetry meeting with you, if you want company.”
“No,” Jacob replied.
“If you’d like to hear Jacob’s work, forget it,” said Elizabeth. “Even his poetry group probably hasn’t heard any of his poems yet, and he’s attended their sessions for ten years.”
Twelve years. Jacob was a founding member of the Dreamers Guild. And no, he did not share his poetry there, either. No matter how much his friends prodded him.
“It’s not good to be stretched so thin all the time,” Kuni insisted. One of her hands rested on her own stomach, just below the row of hidden blades stitched beneath her bodice.
Jacob knew she and her husband, Graham, were hoping for children of their own. He also knew better than to ask about it. If there were any news, he would be the first to hear. Some things took time—and luck. He understood how uniquely frustrating it was to be hounded about when he planned to achieve something that was ultimately outside his control.
“We’re all stretched thin. So if you’ll excuse me—” His head jerked toward Elizabeth, who had taken a step backward to whisper to her husband. “What did you just say?”
“It’s this fellow Sir Gareth Jallow,” Stephen said helpfully. “Elizabeth is obsessed with—”
Elizabeth elbowed him in the ribs. “I said not to mention him out loud.”
Jacob’s entire body tensed. “I thought you didn’t read poetry. Balderdash for romantics, you said.”
She coughed into her fist. “I don’t. That is, not usually. But everyone reads Sir Gar… who must not be named.”
He sighed. “I can hear the man’s name.”
“You really can’t,” said Kuni. “You explicitly warned us never to say those syllables in your presence.”
Jacob crossed his arms. Was he jealous of Sir Gareth Jallow? Absolutely. Bone deep. But did he hate Jallow? Yes. Maybe. Sometimes. With self-loathing. And anger. This was not who he wanted to be.
In other words, it was complicated. Which was why Jacob would rather not discuss his feelings. There was no telling what unedited words might burst from his mouth.
He glanced at his pocket watch. Blast the interruption! It was time for the next mission already. “Stand clear of the exit, please.”
The others scrambled aside.
Jacob pushed the barn doors open wide and gave the whistle.
Ferrets began to stream down the barn’s walls and across the dirt floor from every shadowy nook. They arranged themselves in rectangular formation behind Jacob as he marched from the barn like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
“Close the door when you’re done cleaning up!” he called out without looking back. There was no time to delay.
He and his scampering furry army had a legal trial to disrupt.
The next morning, with Rufus underfoot, Viv cooked breakfast while straining to read snippets of the new novel she was enjoying. The book was propped up against a water pitcher and held open with a rolling pin. Between cracking eggs and flipping fried potatoes, the sce. . .
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A Waltz on the Wild Side
Erica Ridley
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