The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,1
The ability to be oneself and to be bigger than oneself—to be a team, and a family. That was the most magical part of all. That painting was their soul on canvas.
To the Wynchesters, the painting was a family portrait…and their most cherished possession. It belonged to all of them. It was all of them.
“Once Puck comes home, we can get rid of that cherub.”
All three gazes swung to the fireplace. An angel-shaped vase stood on the mantel, right beneath the faded rectangle where Puck & Family should have been.
A blank spot that matched the empty space in their lives where Bean used to be.
Chloe swallowed hard at the injustice. Nineteen years earlier the prior Duke of Faircliffe had sold them the painting to pay one of his many gaming debts. Then, eight months ago, when he suddenly wanted it back, the family refused. Instead of honoring the original transaction, the duke stole the painting and left an ugly vase behind in its stead, as though that could possibly make up for their loss.
Neither they nor the old duke anticipated a carriage accident interrupting his journey home—or that he’d succumb to his injuries.
When Bean visited the heir to politely request the return of their painting, the newly crowned Duke of Faircliffe refused to see him.
Rebuff Baron Vanderbean! Chloe’s blood boiled. But that was hardly the first of the new duke’s endless slights and rejections. He’d always been too lofty and self-important to notice anyone of lesser rank, no matter the justification.
Later, when Bean caught smallpox, he refused to allow the children into his sickroom lest he expose them to the disease. They threw themselves into retrieving the painting, and cursed Faircliffe when Bean slowly slipped away, without the safe return of their heirloom. Then or now, the Wynchester family couldn’t command a single second of the new duke’s time. She ground her teeth.
According to the society papers, the Wynchester children were nothing more than a dead baron’s charity orphans—someone you might toss a coin to out of pity but never deign to speak to on purpose.
She didn’t care what Faircliffe thought of her. Chloe was glad to be a Wynchester. She wouldn’t trade a single moment for the boring, buttoned-up life of the beau monde.
Chloe was used to being invisible. It was her greatest talent and often the reason for the success of their clandestine missions. It had begun as a game.
When the six siblings were children, Bean taught them to play Three Impossible Things to give them skills and confidence. They gathered information, breached barriers, and performed feats of daring.
Later, their team became the specialists to turn to when the justice system failed those in need. The Wynchesters snuck food and medicine into prisons, exposed workhouses and orphanages with draconian practices, tracked down libertines who despoiled for sport, rescued women and children from abusers, delivered aid and supplies to those who needed it most. Bean had taught them nothing was impossible. Everyone deserved their best life.
Their missions gave them purpose and adventure. Chloe loved slipping about unseen, doing good works beneath people’s noses. But being overlooked on purpose was one thing. Being dismissed out of cruelty was far worse.
“We no longer have to beg,” Chloe announced. “We can steal it back from Faircliffe, just as his father did to us.”
Graham added another tea cake to his plate. “How will we infiltrate the duke’s terraced fortress? That town house is as tightly locked down as His Loftiness himself. Do we even know where he’s keeping the painting?”
Chloe grinned at him. “We don’t have to. I know where it’s going to be.”
He set down his cake. “Where? How?”
She leaned back. “I sometimes watch parliamentary proceedings from the peephole in the attic—”
“Sometimes?” Graham rolled his eyes. “When have you missed one? And what does your obsession with politics have to do with getting Puck back?”
“Well, if you would let me finish.” Chloe pilfered her brother’s tea cake and took a bite from the corner, chewing with exaggerated slowness before swallowing. “As I was saying, today Tommy disguised us as journalists and we sneaked into the Strangers’ Gallery, where we sat behind Mr. York—”
“Wait,” Graham interrupted, his brown eyes gleaming. “Mr. York, the MP whose daughter is rumored to have caught the Duke of Faircliffe’s eye?”
“It’s more than a rumor,” Chloe said sourly. “We overheard Faircliffe say he intends to give Puck & Family to Mr. York’s daughter Philippa as a courting gift.”
Graham’s face purpled. “Give away our painting? That knave. It’s not