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.”