Fresh yearning sprang up in Venetia, so sudden and sharp it frightened her. She had no earthly idea how to proceed from here, now that she was willing to acknowledge the depth of her feelings for Quinn.
She only knew that she intended to fight for his love with every ounce of strength and determination she possessed.
Quinn found himself lingering in bed the next morning, holding Venetia as she slept. It was nearly impossible to leave her side, with her body so warm, so soft, her sleek, dark hair entangling them.
Once again he’d spent a night with her that was different from any in his experience. He could still feel her tight sheath clenching around his cock in a violent climax. Still feel himself sinking under sensation. Still feel the afterglow that was unique with her. Still marvel at how perfect she felt in his arms.
He could so easily lose himself in her—
Quinn felt a constriction around his heart. If he wasn’t careful his emotions would be so hopelessly tangled he would never break free. And yet…the prospect didn’t unnerve him as it should have.
His fingers playing in her hair, he gently stroked back the wispy tresses from her face. He would have to sort out his feelings soon, but now was not the time.
On that resolute thought, Quinn forced himself to rise. He had major work to do this morning.
While he washed and dressed, he took great pleasure in watching Venetia. He left her still sleeping in his bed. Upon descending the stairs, he wrote her a note, saying he would be gone all morning, expending some of his frustrated energy at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. Over breakfast, Quinn checked the morning paper and smiled grimly to see that the bit of gossip he’d planted had made the society news.
He wouldn’t, however, tell Venetia until the last moment because she would disapprove or would demand to be involved, and he didn’t want to put her in any more danger than was necessary. She would likely spend the morning in her studio, and her sculpting should keep her occupied until he could return and put her mind at ease.
At Jackson’s, he met with Hawk to set plans for flushing out his assassin. They discussed options and contingencies in minute detail, and then spent another satisfying hour in a bout of fisticuffs.
Upon returning home, Quinn was told that Lady Traherne was indeed in her studio. He started to climb the stairs in order to share his scheme, but just then the butler admitted a visitor. When he saw who it was, he gave a mental start.
“Speak of the devil,” Quinn murmured under his breath. Only yesterday, Phillipe Rieux, Compte de Montreux, had been a prime subject on his mind.
Quinn turned around and descended the stairs in order to greet his unexpected guest. Montreux was a slightly built, elegant gentleman, with graying dark hair, olive complexion, and serious features. However, he smiled broadly at Quinn before speaking in perfect English with only the barest of French accents.
“Lord Traherne, it has been some years since last we met. Perhaps you remember me?”
“Certainly, monsieur le compte,” Quinn replied, accepting the proffered hand to shake. “Will you accompany me to the drawing room, where we can be comfortable? Wilkins will bring refreshments.”
“Merci, I would like that.”
“Would you prefer tea, or something stronger?”
“Wine, if you please.”
Quinn nodded at Wilkins, who silently heeded the request.
“I confess to curiosity,” Montreux said as he accompanied Quinn down the corridor from the grand entrance hall. “You have many footmen in your employ. I encountered several who were armed. May I inquire as to why?”
“I recently escaped a few accidents that seemed intentional.”
Montreux’s expression registered dismay. “Mon dieu, I trust you are unharmed!”
“Thus far, yes. I am surprised to see you, Compte. Only yesterday I was speaking to my wife about you.”
“Ah, oui, I received news that you had wed. I hope to meet your lovely bride today.”
Entering the drawing room, Quinn waved his visitor toward a sofa and took an adjacent armchair for himself. “What brings you here to London?”
“I had business affairs that required my attentions. Also, I confess, you provoked my interest. I received your query about the de Chagny jewels—in particular, the prize pendant of diamonds and rubies. Yet I never heard what progress you made in determining ownership.”
Quinn proceeded to tell the compte about the pendant being won by an elderly Frenchman, possibly a
nobleman, at a Paris gaming club called Le Chat Noir.
Montreux frowned. “But yes, I know of it. I have played there myself upon occasion. But you have no more information about who would give up such a magnificent piece?”