Her public rant peppered with vivid invectives in the middle of Rotten Row was the final straw. She’d begun by pleading with Quinn to reinstate her, claiming she had never wanted Lisle, which later had naturally humiliated and infuriated the gamester when he heard the tale. The fact that she eventually took up with Lisle permanently was a testament to Julia’s beauty and her wiles. But Quinn was quite glad to be rid of her. Consequently, he’d taken even greater care in choosing his subsequent liaisons.
He was not quite the libertine Venetia thought him, though. For one thing, his responsibilities as Skye’s brother and guardian had limited his craving for adventure and excitement and travel.
Granted, his sexual exploits had once been excessive. Bored and restless and jaded with the shallowness of society, he had played at the game of life. Ironically enough, it was the scandal of Venetia’s broken betrothal that had started him questioning his rakish lifestyle and seriously changed his focus.
Having been born with a scientific bent and an aptitude for solving puzzles, he’d channeled his energies into a revolutionary endeavor: perfecting the sort of innovation that might have saved the lives of his parents and his uncle and aunt. For the past two years, that one goal had driven him.
Quinn rolled over again, his memories of Venetia further impeding his attempt to sleep. Tasting her delectable mouth had only confirmed his intuition: She was as elegant and graceful as ever—but also pure, luscious woman.
He’d enjoyed himself tonight more than he cared to admit, not least because of the sparks flaring between them in the conflict over her sister. She was much different from Ophelia, who was unfailingly polite, even meek-mannered.
The contrast reminded him of his cousin Kate’s theory about legendary lovers and sent his thoughts winging back to a long-ago summer afternoon by the lake at the Beaufort country estate before their close-knit family had broken up so the cousins could attend various universities and boarding schools.
Still grieving their parents’ loss, twelve-year-old Kate first began her campaign to find a bride for her brother Ash—Ashton Wilde, Marquis of Beaufort.
“You need to marry and bring us home a mama,” Kate insisted.
Ash had practically choked. “Marry? Just what put that maggoty notion into your head, minx?”
“If you wed, we would have a mother to raise us, and then we would not have to go away to school in a fortnight.”
But her rationale was not so cold-blooded, they shortly learned. “Mama always said someone special is waiting out there in the world for me—indeed, an ideal match is waiting for each of us.”
In the intervening years, Kate had never abandoned her longing for true love, for herself or her family. Then, at the beginning of last Season, she’d developed her mad theory about legendary lovers and redoubled her efforts to find them all perfect mates.
“It is up to us to shape our own destinies,” she had argued. “We each must be responsible for meeting our match and making our own particular tale come true.”
Quinn profoundly agreed with the need to shape his own destiny. And so he refused to act the milksop, letting his female relatives dictate his future.
He had good reason for being so cynical about love. When he was eighteen, shortly after succeeding to his late father’s title, he’d become the victim of a grasping social climber. It was a particularly vulnerable time for him, having lost his parents and left his remaining family to attend Cambridge. Young and impressionable, he’d fallen head over heels for a conniving husband-hunter several years his senior.
Being played for a fool by a woman was one of his least proud moments. Since then he had kept his affairs strictly superficial.
Kate’s theory could not survive logical, scientific scrutiny, either. Quinn put faith in physical proof, not romantic fantasies.
And yet…over the past year, she had orchestrated a romance for Ash and then her adopted brother and first cousin, Lord Jack Wilde. Skye had pursued her own legendary tale with Hawk last autumn, and as a bonus, had found Uncle Cornelius’s long-lost love.
As soon as Skye’s vows were said, both women had ardently set their sights on Quinn. He’d fooled them with his overtures toward Ophelia, so they no longer regularly hounded him. But once they discovered his intention to cultivate other suitors for the girl, Kate would be after him again, even if she had to revise her hypothesis.
Venetia would never fit the Greek myth of Pygmalion. Although reportedly she had taken up sculpting during her exile in France, she bore no resemblance to the cold statue of Galetea. To his mind, they were closer to Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.
Venetia was far more appealing than her sister, and would make him a better match. She had a lively spirit that intrigued him, unlike the calculating, insipid debutantes who had pursued him for years. And her character was far stronger. She had faced adversity and endured censure and banishment with remarkable fortitude. And even if it made him her foe, he had to admire her devotion to her sister.
In truth, he’d felt a deep attraction toward Venetia from the very first, as much for her warmth and wit as for her beauty.
While he might have desired her then, however, lust did not justify matrimony and he had positively not been in the market for a wife. Instead, his friend and fellow peer Viscount Ackland had courted and proposed to her.
Quinn had thought then that she was too good for Ackland, and he’d always been envious of his friend—not of their betrothal, but of the chance to possess a woman like that. It was the only time he had ever coveted another man’s choice.
Tonight he had sampled Venetia’s passion, both physical and emotional, and he couldn’t deny that he was entranced. The additional irony was not lost on him, either: He was thought to be courting one sister but badly wanted the other.
An utterly inappropriate reaction, given his aversion to matrimony.
When Quinn finally dozed off, he dreamed of Venetia, of taming her and gaining her surrender. He woke hard and aching to the sound of rapping on his bedchamber door.
His valet’s entrance abruptly dissolved the pleasurable remnants of his dream.
“You asked to be awakened at eight, my lord.”
Rousing himself out of bed, Quinn made an effort to discipline his rash thoughts. Taming Venetia would prove an enormous challenge and lead to paths he didn’t wish to go down. The very thought was laughable.
Still, as he dressed and made ready to call on her, he couldn’t quell his keen sense of anticipation. It was unwise, no doubt, but he was eager for their next encounter.
—
As ordered, his curricle awaited him in the front drive, drawn by a pair of sleek bays, with his groom Giles perched behind.
Uncharacteristically, his coachman stood holding the near horse’s bridle. “Pray, take care, my lord,” Robert bade him. Apparently the servant was still worried, perhaps because the attack had occurred on his watch.
“I will, Robert,” Quinn assured the coachman as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
When he snapped the reins, the bays took off at a jaunty trot. Behind him, Giles held on to his perch tightly.
The fog had cleared, but the spring morning was cool and cloudy as he drove through Mayfair. At the southwest corner of Hyde Park, the road to Kensington became a rural thoroughfare, but there was a fair amount of traffic in each direction.
Quinn was more preoccupied with his upcoming appointment with Venetia, mentally debating how much to tell her about his courtship of her sister. He had already decided to share his reasons for visiting Tavistock’s, in the hope of improving her low opinion of him.
They had driven perhaps a mile when he caught the sound of galloping hoofbeats to their rear.
“Milord,” Giles said rather anxiously, “there is a chaise fast approaching from behind.”
“Noted, lad.” Quinn steered his curricle as far left as possible, planning to give the other vehicle ample room to pass.
Shortly the four-horse te
am drew abreast at a reckless speed. Quinn caught a glimpse of the driver, whose head was swathed in a tricorn hat and thick wool neck scarf, but concentrated on keeping his own pair steady as the chaise swept past, crowding him.
He had begun to curse the coachman’s poor driving when he realized the act was a deliberate attempt to force his two-wheeled curricle onto the verge. In only a matter of seconds, the chaise swerved even farther left, directly into his lane.
His stomach clenching, Quinn drew sharply on the reins to slow his bays and avoid a crash. The chaise pressed him relentlessly, however, and in another moment he felt his near wheel give way. The curricle lurched sideways, causing the bays to plunge off the road into a shallow ditch.
Thankfully, the vehicle remained upright as it bucked over the uneven ground, but Giles was thrown free of his perch and landed with an audible thud and a cry of pain.
It required all Quinn’s skill to bring his frightened horses to a halt. They stood there snorting and trembling as he locked the brake and tied off the reins, then jumped down from his seat to go to their heads.
Hearing the fading echo of beating hooves, he was vaguely aware that the chaise had raced on. He spoke a few soothing words and ran a quieting hand over the necks of both horses. Then he turned to his greater concern, his groom.
Giles, a small slender youth of about eighteen, lay some twenty yards away, facedown in the grass, groaning.
Going to him, Quinn knelt beside him. “Where does it hurt, lad?”
“M-my should…er,” he gasped.
“Lie still while I ascertain your injuries.”
Quinn spent the next few moments conducting a careful examination, feeling for broken bones particularly.
Having participated and viewed numerous wrestling matches in the village near Tallis Court, he could recognize the worst damage as a shoulder wrenched from the socket and a nasty scrape on the forehead.
Gently he helped Giles to roll over onto his back. “I want you to be brave and count to ten…”
On “three,” the boy let out a scream when Quinn managed to reset the limb.
Giles lay there white-faced and panting, but the pain was no longer excruciating, as evidenced by his indignation against the perpetrator.
“ ’Twas a willful crime, milord,” he declared. “Would that I could land him a facer.”
“I harbor the same wish,” Quinn said grimly, glancing around to assess how he would move his injured groom.
Fortunately, a passing farmer stopped to provide them aid. When the lad was carefully settled in the back of the wagon, cushioned by a bed of straw, Quinn was able to check further on his team and the state of his curricle.
Only when he found both fairly sound—a remarkable occurrence, considering the peril they had faced—did he allow himself to dwell on how they had barely escaped grave harm. White-hot fury filled him. Not only had the culprit endangered Quinn’s horses, he could have killed his groom or himself.
He would not be able to make his promised call on Venetia, but there was no hope for it. His servant and his horses took precedence and had to be returned home.
Quinn contemplated unharnessing the bays and leaving his curricle there, sending someone to fetch it later, but thankfully more passersby joined in the task of guiding the team and curricle back onto the road.
As he drove them slowly home behind the wagon, he had ample time to consider his new dilemma. Last night’s encounter could have been a foiled robbery, but this second deliberate attack had nothing to do with robbery.
Had this been an actual attempt on his life? Clearly someone wished him harm and had waited for the opportunity to find him nearly alone.
Whoever was orchestrating the assaults could not have known his destination this morning, though, unless…They might have bribed his staff to become privy to his private engagements. More likely, they had been closely watching his movements. The driver of the chaise must have followed him from Berkeley Square, Quinn decided.
As to why, he had no idea. To his knowledge, he had no significant enemies—at least not deadly ones.
If it came to foes, Edmund Lisle was the most probable suspect. Perhaps there was something about the pendant or Lisle’s relationship with Julia that had caused him to suddenly become vindictive. He was too cowardly to challenge an opponent to a duel, though, and would not have confronted Quinn to his face.
A more dubious possibility was a competitor in his latest enterprise. Some years ago when he’d met an idiosyncratic former sea captain bursting with novel ideas about how to revolutionize sailing, Quinn had become fascinated, perhaps obsessed, by the notion of producing a steam engine for sailing ships. But only recently had he invested significant financial resources, hiring scientists and engineers who could design such a miraculous engine and commissioning a prototype to be built in the docks at Portsmouth.
His two-year project was nearing fruition and could prove lucrative if it actually worked. But Quinn could think of no business rival who would resort to violence to prevent completion of his venture.
One thing was clear, however. Searching for the perpetrator—or perpetrators—required more expertise than he currently possessed. He would do well to rely on Hawk, who had once worked for the British Foreign Office.
A more immediate problem was Venetia herself. As soon as he returned home and saw to his groom’s welfare, Quinn pledged, he would write her with an apology and ask to postpone their meeting till this afternoon.
Meanwhile, he would be more wary in the future and begin watching over his shoulder for whatever enemy he had unwittingly made.
—
An hour and a quarter later, Venetia’s frustration was reaching a boiling point as she waited with Cleo in the green parlor. She had wanted her friend nearby during Traherne’s call should he attempt to work his devastating wiles on her again. But he had not even done her the courtesy of appearing.
“I should never have believed him,” she muttered from her post at the window. “He gave me his solemn word, but it is after ten o’clock.”
Behind her, Cleo responded with a consoling murmur as she stitched a pillow cover on her tambour frame. “Watching for his arrival will not make it happen any sooner.”
Venetia turned away from the window to resume her pacing. She had slept poorly, which had further depressed her mood and grated on her usually mild temper. Indeed, she had spent most of the night tossing and turning and stewing over her failure to make Traherne see reason, and now he had denied her a second chance to confront him.
“It is obvious he agreed to discuss Ophelia merely to placate me. Well, I am not placated.”
“Have some more tea, dearest,” Cleo suggested.
“I have drunk two cups already.”
“Then sit down. You are wearing a hole in my carpet.”
“Pacing helps to soothe me while I rant. I should have known he could not be trusted.”
“Venetia,” Cleo said with a smile, “you need to take a calming breath. You cannot let him rouse your anger and blind you to your goal.”
Pausing to glance at her friend, Venetia gave a sheepish laugh. “Must you be so reasonable?”
“I have an emotional distance and so can be more impartial. It is not my sister’s future at stake. But you must strive for dispassion if you hope to deal with Lord Traherne successfully.”
Recognizing her friend’s words of wisdom, Venetia forced herself to take a seat on the sofa. “But I feel at such a disadvantage, Cleo.”
“I warned you not to tangle with him.”
“I know. And I should have listened to you. He is just as dangerous as you predicted.”
“You ought not have kissed him.”
“I need no reminder,” Venetia replied with a sigh. “I am flagellating myself enough for the both of us.”
“Very well, my dear, I will cease badgering you. But you will have to determine how better to deal with him when you next meet.”
“If we ever meet, you
mean,” Venetia corrected in a tart tone as she picked up her sketch pad and pencil and tried to distract herself by outlining an idea for a new bust. It was best not to dwell on her embarrassingly scandalous encounter with Traherne.
Cleo was her dearest friend in all the world and they had few secrets, but Venetia had flushed hotly when recounting the events of last night. She had also left out the part where Traherne had suckled her breasts, for that detail was just too intimate to share.
But when she complained about his underhanded methods, Cleo had sincerely sympathized.
Understandably, Cleo was even more set against rakes than Venetia, having endured an unfaithful husband for three long years. To aid her spendthrift family, Cleo had made a marriage of convenience and then was widowed at the tender age of twenty-one when Mr. Newcomb was shot in a duel by a jealous husband.
The unhappy experience had left her slightly bitter, and eager for freedom from men. Cleo also longed to see Europe and so offered Venetia a position as her companion, for which Venetia was profoundly grateful.
Two years ago, Cleo had actually been the one to inform Venetia—gently and with much regret—that Ackland had spent the eve of his wedding in his mistress’s bed. Rumors that he was still consorting with—and even openly flaunting—his paramour had been floating all the previous day, but of course the bride was the last to know. Cleo, who was much more savvy about men, with servants who adored her and kept her well informed about the ton’s doings, had taken it upon herself to investigate.
Venetia’s lips tightened at the memory. At first she’d refused to believe Cleo’s reluctantly delivered report, and there was no opportunity to confront Ackland before the ceremony, since her repeated messages to his home went unanswered. When he arrived late at St George’s church in Hanover Square, where the beau monde held most society weddings, he was still partly foxed and his evening clothes stank of exotic perfume. Seeing his disgraceful condition with her own eyes had forced Venetia to accept the painful truth and relinquish her idealistic naïveté.
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 6