“Your knife—give it to me!” Traherne rasped.
A powerful surge of protectiveness flooded Venetia, spurring a fury that these thugs would try to murder him right before her eyes.
Desperately she pulled the blade from her reticule and found the strength to wade into the fray, flailing her reticule over and over again with all her might at their hooded faces, their heads, their massive shoulders while shouting at them: “No! Leave him be! You will not hurt him!”
The feminine article might be flimsy, but the unexpected onslaught made one lout yelp and scramble to retreat several paces.
In his haste, he tripped and fell backward onto his duff. Venetia found herself beside Traherne, forming a defensive shield, clobbering anything in reach. With her other hand, she thrust out the knife handle to him.
He took it and unsheathed the blade as he pulled her behind him so that he was protecting her again, then swept the weapon in an arc in front of him.
“Now the fight is more even,” he declared with a humorless grin. “Would you care to have your gullets slit, lads? Come at me again and you will get a taste of my skill with a blade.”
Clearly they didn’t care to test his threat, for they picked up their fallen comrade and took to their heels, half limping, half running.
Venetia felt a swell of triumph but was too weak-kneed to express her relief just then. When she clutched at Traherne’s arm for support, he stepped in front of her and cradled her chin in his hand so that he could see her eyes through her mask.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, his voice rough with concern. “Were you hurt?”
Shock was draining away, giving her enough energy to shake her head and wheeze an unsteady, “No, I am fine. What of you?”
She was breathless and shaken, but he looked scarcely winded. He was the worse for wear, however. His hat had been knocked from his head, leaving his dark blond hair tousled, and a wicked cut had opened on one cheekbone.
Seeing the wound, Venetia inhaled in sympathy. “Your cheek is bleeding!”
“It is nothing.”
“It is not nothing. It looks extremely painful.”
“I have had far worse.”
She wanted to touch his face to reassure herself. When she reached up, though, he caught her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers.
Venetia was suddenly captivated by his expression, the inexplicable tenderness in his eyes.
The same tenderness echoed in his husky tone when he spoke. “Thank you, love. I do believe you saved my hide from a trouncing, or worse.”
Warmth filled her at his praise, but the spell didn’t last. Just then they were surrounded by two dozen anxious people…grooms, coachmen, footmen…and several issued rapid queries: “M’lord, are you harmed? May we aid you? What of the lady?”
Traherne brushed off their concern. “Our attackers escaped down the alley. Ten pounds to anyone who can follow and report on the direction they fled.”
“Aye, milord,” someone exclaimed as a number of the younger servants took off at a run in that direction.
Another helpful soul returned Traherne’s hat and asked how he could be of service.
“Summon the Watch, Robert, while I escort the lady to her rig,” he replied, ushering Venetia forward.
“Was that one of your servants?” she asked.
“Yes—my coachman.”
A path opened through the crowd to allow them to pass, and they crossed the stable yard in search of Cleo’s coachman.
Glover appeared highly worried for Venetia as he hastened to her side, but he had the discretion not to blurt out her name. “Sweet mercy, miss! Was it you those ruffians set upon?”
“Unfortunately yes, Glover. Will you please take me home?”
“Aye, miss, gladly—but do you not want me to pursue the villains?”
“Thank you, no—”
Traherne interrupted in a stern, authoritative voice. “I will handle the thieves. Take your mistress home at once and don’t let me catch you bringing her here again.”
Venetia sent the earl an exasperated frown but waited until he handed her inside the barouche before saying quietly, “You needn’t reprimand him. He only did as I bade him.”
“That is no excuse for his folly.” When she was seated, Traherne stood in the doorway and leaned in for privacy. “I told you, I want you safe.”
“You should see to your own safety, my lord,” she suggested tartly. “Those brutes were clearly targeting you, not me.”
“Indeed. If I didn’t know better, I would have suspected you of setting them after me.”
His comment made her raise an eyebrow. “Me? Why would I do such a thing?”
“To protect your sister.”
“I am not prepared to resort to violence just yet.”
His mouth curved. “What do you call what just happened? You were an avenging angel.”
“I was acting in your defense.”
“For which I am grateful. Here is your knife back.”
She took it from him and resheathed the blade for a second time. “You did not truly suspect me, did you?” she asked a trifle indignantly. “I would never behave in so cowardly a fashion.”
“That I have no trouble believing.”
Hearing the humor in his tone, Venetia realized he was enjoying himself, or at least his blood was up from the danger he had just faced.
“How can you be so calm? Those brutes could have killed you. You act as if you relished that bloody brawl.”
The grin he flashed her took her breath away. “A little peril is good for keeping reactions sharp and provides relief from boredom.”
Her exhalation was half scoff, half disbelief. “I for one would have happily remained bored.”
“They were likely thieves eager to relieve me of my gambling winnings.”
Venetia frowned. “A robbery might explain their assault, except that they never demanded your purse. They attacked right from the start. And they were obviously lying in wait for you.”
“Evidently.”
“How could they have known you would exit by the rear of the club rather than have your carriage draw around front?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible they meant to commandeer my vehicle from Robert. But I mean to get to the bottom of it.”
Her frown deepened. “What will you do now?”
“I will remain here to investigate and speak to the Night Watch. Someone may be able to provide identification of our attackers.”
“Perhaps you ought not stay, my lord. What if they return?”
“Then I will be better prepared for them.”
His careless tone vexed her. “I can see I should not have worried about you.”
“Were you worried?” he prodded in that teasing tone.
“Regrettably, yes. I want to stop you from pursuing my sister, but I don’t want your blood spilled.”
“I am gratified to know that.”
Venetia bit her lip. In all the chaos, she had forgotten that her problem was the same as it had been when she first arrived. “I meant what I said, Lord Traherne. I will not allow you to harm my sister.”
“We will discuss it in the morning. Shall I call on you at ten?”
“The sooner the better. I would prefer an earlier hour if you can drag yourself out of bed.”
“Nine o’clock, then, but it may be a late night for me here.”
“So you mean to return to the club?”
“Yes. I haven’t finished what I began.”
“And just what is that?” she asked curiously.
“As I said, I am here for the gaming.”
She couldn’t resist a taunt. “Not to sport with your latest paramour?”
He contemplated her for several heartbeats. “I feel compelled to mention, darling, that I don’t need to patronize a brothel to find female companionship. Not only can I afford someone of a higher class, but my tastes are much more discriminating.”
“I don’t doub
t it,” Venetia responded, unable to tamp down a note of bitterness.
He had clearly been enjoying their sparring, but he must have realized that he’d struck a nerve, for his expression sobered.
And then he took her wholly by surprise. Reaching in, he caught her shoulders, drew her close, and planted a slow kiss on her lips that utterly deprived her of breath.
The surge of heat that raced through Venetia was as searing as his two previous kisses, but at least she was more prepared this time. After the initial shock, Venetia pulled back and raised her hand in order to box his ears.
Traherne caught her wrist easily, though, preventing the blow and giving her another sensual smile. “I will see you in the morning, love.”
Having stunned her yet again, he stepped back and shut the door, then slapped the panel twice, giving Cleo’s coachman the office to start.
As the vehicle drove out of the stable yard, Venetia sank against the squabs, once again left totally speechless. Incomprehensibly, she wanted to curse Traherne and kiss him at the same time.
She raised her gloved fingers to her burning lips, her thoughts whirling. He delighted in setting her back on her heels and keeping her off balance, but her reaction to him was so out of character for her. She was frustrated that she hadn’t ended his courtship of her sister, irritated that she was worried for his well-being, and aghast that she not only enjoyed his kisses and tender protectiveness, she actually craved more.
Perhaps she had made a grave mistake coming here, Venetia decided, scarcely believing what had happened tonight. Together they had chased off a pack of thugs bent on malevolence, after Traherne had practically seduced her.
She shouldn’t be surprised that he had laughed in the face of danger; he had a brilliant mind but was something of a daredevil who lived on the edge of scandal. And she certainly ought not be surprised at his rakish behavior. Tonight had left her in little doubt that he would be a marvelous lover. The memory of his erotic mouth would stay with her for a very long time.
Far worse, he aroused a deep, feminine yearning inside her, damn and blast him.
Venetia grimaced. It annoyed her to no end that she could be so tempted by a rakehell. While she was betrothed to Viscount Ackland, she had never permitted herself to acknowledge her forbidden attraction for Lord Traherne, but it was there now, smoldering between them like a banked fire.
And she would have to face him in the morning, making herself vulnerable to him again.
Venetia muttered a low oath. She wasn’t certain she could withstand another assault on her senses like the ones he had delivered tonight. In the clash over her sister, she had come out the clear loser. His sharp questions and observations had made her uncomfortable and his seduction had made her melt. She was absolutely not eager to repeat the experience.
Traherne was a cocky, arrogant, outrageous, self-confident, provoking devil, and it was all she could do to hold her own with him.
And yet she had no choice. She would simply have to work harder to persuade him to break off his pursuit of her sister.
And, most important…never, ever again allow him to kiss her!
When Quinn’s carriage drew up before his Berkeley Square home in the wee hours of the morning, he was no closer to learning the identities or motives of his attackers, since questioning witnesses had yielded no clues. Nor had he won resoundingly at Faro as planned, for by the time he finally returned to the club, Lisle had already departed.
He had also failed to solve the intriguing puzzle of why he’d kissed Venetia Stratham for a third time in quick succession.
He was rarely given to impulsive behavior, but he hadn’t been able to resist her temptation. She fired his blood even more than the rush of violent emotion while repelling the assault—exhilaration, fear, triumph.
If briefly he’d suspected Venetia of plotting to incapacitate him to thwart his aims with her sister, her bravery had instantly put to rest that notion. She had come to his aid like a Valkyrie or avenging angel.
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.
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 5
