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.