Her perceptive questions afterward about his attackers lying in wait for him had no answers, either. The reports from witnesses had proved vague and conflicting and a search of the area fruitless. The possibility that the thugs might be targeting Venetia instead seemed remote, given that they had addressed him by name. If they were set on robbery, perhaps they thought he’d taken possession of the pendant from Edmund Lisle during their Faro game.
As to how they had known he could be found at Tavistock’s—
“Are you certain you don’t need aid, m’lord?” his coachman asked as Quinn stepped down from the landau.
“Thank you, no, Robert.” He ached a bit from his assorted cuts and bruises—sore ribs, scraped knuckles, and a bloody cut on his cheekbone—but nothing worse than he’d endured growing up in a household of three rambunctious boys and two lively girls. “I will need my curricle at half past eight tomorrow morning.”
“Certainly, as you wish, m’lord.”
Quinn was admitted to the enormous entry hall by a footman, who took his greatcoat and hat. Seeing dried blood, the servant betrayed his impeccable training by frowning and repeating Robert’s question. Quinn gave the same reply and dismissed the man to seek his own bed in the servants’ quarters.
The mansion was quiet as Quinn made his way upstairs. In truth, the house seemed strangely empty since his sister no longer lived there with him. Skye had a way of brightening his day with her mere presence, and he missed that more than he ever would have expected before her marriage last autumn to the Earl of Hawkhurst.
His bedchamber was prepared for his arrival—lamp and hearth fire lit, fresh water in the washstand basin, and the bedcovers turned down. Quinn had partially undressed, removing his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt, when a soft knock sounded on his chamber door.
At his call to enter, his valet stepped into the room carrying a tray of medical supplies, followed by his middle-aged housekeeper, Mrs. Pelfrey, garbed in a robe and nightcap, although she modestly averted her eyes at the sight of his bare chest.
Quinn couldn’t repress a smile at his staff’s alacrity. Their network was highly efficient. No doubt the footman had woken the butler, who had roused the housekeeper, who had summoned his valet.
“You should not have troubled yourself to patch my injuries, Mrs. Pelfrey.”
“You know Lady Skye would be distressed if we failed to care for you properly, my lord. I made her a solemn promise before she departed.”
Mrs. Pelfrey insisted on tending to him, just as she had when he was a stripling lad making trouble with his cousins. She’d been with him for years and had treated many a scuffed knee, becoming even more fussy after his parents’ deaths when he was seventeen. In fact, she had helped their bachelor uncle, Lord Cornelius Wilde, raise the five orphaned cousins, primarily at the vast Beaufort and Traherne country estates in Kent, and accompanied them when the family regularly spent the Season in London.
Mrs. Pelfrey felt particularly protective of Skye but included Quinn in her motherly concern. He suffered her fussing patiently while she applied a liniment to his rib cage that was cool and soothing. His lower right side was the most painful, having caught a punishing blow. When she washed the cut on his cheek, she made a soft tsking sound.
“I did not go looking for a fight this time, Mrs. Pelfrey,” Quinn assured her.
“So I heard. ’Tis appalled I am that thieves assaulted you. What is this world coming to when it is not safe for citizens to walk the streets?”
When she was done, he thanked her, then sent her and his valet back to their chambers. By the time he retired to his own bed, Quinn’s body was weary but his mind remained unsettled. He lay there thinking back on the evening, alternately pondering the two mysteries.
The attack tonight was the less interesting. There had to be a reasonable explanation, if only he could discern it. Discovering his location would not have been difficult for the thieves, considering how the society pages regularly speculated on hi
s whereabouts, as Venetia had pointed out earlier tonight.
She was entirely wrong about his motives, however. He’d attended Tavistock’s in order to track down the family treasure belonging to his mother, Angelique, only child of the Duc and Duchesse de Chagny, who were guillotined during that country’s bloody revolution. The priceless collection was thought to be buried at the bottom of the sea off the southern coast of France, but when a distinctive diamond and ruby pendant appeared in London five weeks ago, Quinn wondered if scavengers had found the shipwreck and excavated the sunken riches.
To his confoundment, he’d first seen the splendid piece around the neck of his beautiful former mistress, Julia—or Lady X, as she preferred to be called. Upon recognizing the design, Quinn asked how she had obtained it. And to his irritation, Julia took pleasure in playing coy before finally admitting the pendant was a gift from her current protector, Edmund Lisle, the gentleman who had succeeded Quinn in her affections—if Julia could even be said to have affections.
Naturally, however, Lisle was tight-lipped, fearing she still pined for his predecessor. Thus Quinn had altered tactics, challenging the avid gamester at the card table, hoping either to win the pendant from Lisle outright or make his gaming debt so large, he would have no choice but to reveal the jewelry’s origins.
Which was what had led Quinn to the club this evening. Not for the carnal sport, as Venetia believed.
Her accusations still stung, particularly her comparison with her former betrothed.
You remind me of Ackland. At least he had only one mistress in keeping at a time, and he never stole another man’s inamorata.
Wincing, Quinn rolled onto his side and rearranged his pillow. He most certainly had not stolen Julia from anyone. Precisely the opposite, in fact—although the part about her causing a scene in Hyde Park the previous year was regrettably true.
During the six months Julia was his mistress, her possessiveness had grown rather cloying. Sensing his withdrawal, she’d tried to rouse his jealousy by dallying with Lisle. When Quinn announced he was leaving her, she had hurled a porcelain vase at his head.
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.