He was halfway there when he recognized the brutes following him. The same three thugs who had ambushed him in the alley behind Tavistock’s were now armed with knives and cudgels. Unlike that night, however, Quinn had some advance warning this time. Additionally, Hawk and his men were highly proficient at their assignments.
It was simpler than Quinn expected to subdue the three thugs. Before they could barely blink, they were trussed and gagged and secured in a wagon. Their capture won a few looks from curious bystanders, but no one came to their rescue as they were carted to a nearby tavern and carried down to the cellar.
“Well done,” Quinn told Hawk with genuine admiration.
Hawk returned a faint smile and shook his head. “Save your praise until we learn the name of their employer. Their tongues will likely loosen once they have stewed awhile. Let us go above stairs and enjoy an ale.”
They left the three louts twisting and fighting to break free of their bonds and returned to find them sullenly protesting their treatment with curses.
By calm reasoning Quinn presented their options. The usual punishment for attempted murder of a peer was transportation to the penal colony at New South Wales, or hanging here in England. The alternative was prison, but he might be willing to provide their release once he had apprehended their employer.
His threats were not idle, and eventually they revealed their own names—Croft, Thackery, and Beck, although at first they stubbornly refused to identify who had hired them.
Finally Beck capitulated, evidently having the most concern for his skin. “I ’ave no wish to ’ang. ’Tis a Frenchie you seek.”
“A Frenchman?”
“Aye, a Frog. But we wasn’t ordered to kill you. ’e paid us to waylay you to see if you ’ad a certain ruby and diamond pendant on your person.”
Thackery chimed in. “?’is name was Firmin. Armand Firmin.”
Hawk spoke up then. “Are you acquainted with Firmin, Traherne?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Quinn had half expected his assailant to be Montreux.
“Who is he?” Hawk asked Thackery.
“Just someone who ’ired us.”
“Where can we find this Firmin?”
“I dinna ken.”
“But you must have communicated with him recently, since you were lying in wait for me this afternoon.”
“Aye,” Croft hastened to offer. “At an inn near the Wapping docks. The Arms, on High Street.”
“Describe him for me—his age and appearance.”
“?’e was younger than me, black ’air and eyes, tall and thin with a beak nose. And ’e had a cold stare. A killer for sure. Made me skin crawl, ’e did.”
Quinn questioned them further about the other two attempts on his life—when his carriage was run off the road, and when he’d been shot in his own garden by a man disguised in the Traherne livery colors—but they professed to know nothing more.
Hawk drew Quinn aside. “We will pay a visit to The Arms and scout out the surroundings, but it might not be Firmin’s headquarters. Be aware that we may not secure him today.”
Quinn had difficulty quelling his disappointment and frustration, yet they were another step closer to identifying his deadly assailant.
—
Venetia could claim success in championing her sister’s cause, for she managed to soften their mother’s opposition to Ophelia’s favorite suitor. Now she was eager to return home and discover what progress, if any, Quinn had made.
When she descended the front steps of the house and headed down the walk toward the brick entrance gate, however, she didn’t see her carriage waiting at the street curb as expected. Her steps slowed as she reached the gate, for another closed carriage stood in its stead, driven by an unfamiliar coachman.
Venetia halted there, debating what to do. The carriage moved forward, and when it halted adjacent to her, she could see inside the lowered window. A smiling Compte de Montreux looked back at her.
Her heart started pounding reflexively, while her thoughts dashed ahead. Perhaps the compte was the Paris gamester after all—
“May I offer you a ride, Lady Traherne?”