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.”