“Be at ease, Miss Stratham. I am merely suffering an outburst of protectiveness this evening.”
She gave an unwilling laugh. “What a singular interpretation of events. Is that how you exhibit protectiveness, by corrupting me and luring me into lewd behavior?”
He flashed her a grin. “I didn’t even begin to corrupt you. You kissed me, you will recall.”
“Technically, perhaps, but you forced my compliance. And I wound up your helpless victim.”
“Hardly.” He sent an amused glance down at her reticule, which concealed her knife. “You are one of the least helpless females I know. Besides, I wanted to demonstrate the dangers of your coming to a brothel alone.”
“That you did.”
He had warned her of the hazard from drunken gamesters like Knowlsbridge, but the greater danger by far came from Traherne himself.
“I would never permit my sister to come to a place like Tavistock’s,” he remarked.
“Fortunately you are not my brother—or any relation at all.”
“I agree, it is fortunate,” he said amiably.
“I am not your responsibility,” Venetia declared, although she had to admire him for championing his sister.
“At just this moment you are.”
Seeing the futility of arguing further, Venetia fell silent. Despite her frustration with Traherne, having his tall, solid form beside her made her feel safer as they negotiated the dark path.
They passed through a rear gate and reached the all
ey that led to the livery serving this district of London. In the distance, she could see a bustling stable yard illuminated by torches and lamplight, filled with teams and vehicles of all kinds.
As they grew closer, she could hear the male camaraderie of servants waiting for their masters, and make out small groups of coachmen, grooms, and outriders huddling together for warmth and companionship.
“Which carriage is Mrs. Newcomb’s?”
“It is a barouche,” she said, her gaze searching the crowd.
“There is my landau,” Traherne pointed out.
Glancing to her left, she recognized his crest on the door panel. Venetia was vaguely aware of the shadowy figures loitering near his carriage, leaning against the wall of the stable block, but thought nothing of it until a rough male voice called out, “M’lord Traherne?”
“Yes?” he answered.
One of the shadows detached from the group and approached them. It was a heavyset man, his face partially concealed by a low-brimmed hat and dark scarf. He looked to be the sort of prizefighter Venetia had seen at county fairs, all muscle and brute force. She barely had time to register the impression before he suddenly lowered his head and charged forward like an enraged bull, heading straight for them at a dead run.
Venetia was too stunned to react, but at the last second, Traherne pushed her aside, making her gasp. He took the brunt of the impact yet still somehow managed to spin so that the brute went flying face-first to sprawl on the ground.
It all happened too swiftly for her to comprehend, but two more beefy men jumped out of the shadows and rushed toward the earl, cudgels raised, fists swinging.
To his credit Traherne was more agile than his attackers. Raising his own fists, he let fly a punch that felled the second ruffian, then dodged a blow from a third.
Grunts and growls followed as Venetia watched in alarm, unsure if the thugs were attempting to beat Traherne to a pulp or trying to kill him. Either way she was frightened for him.
The scene was surreal, something out of a bad dream. For a moment she stood there frozen, heart pounding, shock making her sluggish. When the first bruiser climbed to his feet to join his comrades in a fresh assault, though, she finally broke out of her paralysis. Wishing she could aid Traherne somehow, she let out a piercing scream to summon help, but knew it would come too late to save him.
“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!”