The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers 4)

As she watched, Venetia comprehended what had happened. She had been in the direct path of the bullet. Traherne must have seen the threat below and moved to shield her with his body, taking her place at the railing—

Just then she heard the sounds of running footsteps. An instant later several house servants swarmed onto the terrace to find her kneeling over their master, holding a pistol.

When they saw the earl bloodied and half-dressed, shouts followed. Before Venetia could say a word in explanation, her pistol was seized and she was dragged to her feet by the arms and held prisoner by a mob of angry, loyal employees.

Her reflexive struggle to be set free was cut short when Traherne issued a sharp command to release her at once and return her pistol. “Miss Stratham was not the shooter. The real villain took aim from below and got away.”

With skeptical looks on their faces, his servants did his bidding and freed her from restraint. Their conclusion that she had shot Lord Traherne was not surprising, Venetia thought as she stood there catching her breath from yet another shock and rubbing her bruised arms.

A gray-haired man she recognized as the butler hovered over the earl worriedly, but Traherne brushed off his concerns and waved away any help. “I will survive, Wilkins. The shooter is likely long gone, but I need you to organize a search party. Try to ascertain how he gained entry and where he might have gone when he fled.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Venetia glanced over the railing. The rear gardens were surrounded by a high stone wall, she could see, but there must be numerous ways a gunman could have entered, including the rear drive and carriage house where the horses were stabled, and the service entrance where tradesmen delivered goods and produce for the household.

Yet the shooter was not her chief concern when Traherne was bleeding so profusely.

“You should also send for a surgeon,” Venetia suggested worriedly. “You will likely need to have your wound poulticed or even stitched.”

“My lord?” the butler asked, seeking permission to follow her advice.

“Yes, send for Dr. Biddowes,” Traherne agreed. “He was just here, seeing to Giles.”

One by one, the servants left the terrace. Venetia knelt beside Traherne again. He was pressing the cravat to his side; the white linen had turned crimson.

“You ought to go inside,” she said, biting her lower lip in consternation. “Indeed, perhaps you should move to the kitchens so you don’t ruin your elegant furnishings.”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “A wise suggestion. My housekeeper would have apoplexy to find bloodstains all over my study.”

With Venetia’s help, he got to his feet. She collected his bloodied shirt, and since she wouldn’t leave him injured, she accompanied him through the house, then below stairs to the kitchens.

A half-dozen servants looked aghast when their injured lord appeared in the domestic center of the household. Venetia felt on firmer ground there, however, and asked for linen towels and water for washing, lint for bandages, and a blanket to drape around his bare shoulders.

Then she led Traherne to the adjacent dining hall and instructed him to sit on the edge of a wooden table so she could inspect the gouge in his side. The staff looked on agog from the doorway—until he curtly issued a dismissal and sent them scurrying back to the kitchens.

Alone with Traherne, she carefully washed the drying blood from the skin surrounding the raw gash.

“Does it hurt badly?” she asked, feeling profound sympathy.

“Excruciatingly.”

From his light tone, she realized he was exaggerating.

Before she could reply, though, an older woman bustled into the room, her expression fearful and angry all at once.

“Merciful heavens, I heard this…person shot you!”

“You heard incorrectly, Mrs. Pelfrey,” Traherne replied. “The perpetrator was a prowler in the gardens. Miss Stratham, this is my housekeeper and sometime healer, Mrs. Pelfrey.”

Seeing the pistol lying on the table beside him, the housekeeper ignored his introduction. “Why is she armed, my lord?”

His hesitation was barely noticeable. “She was carrying a weapon in self-defense because we were attacked last night—”

“Miss Stratham was with you in the alley last night?” Mrs. Pelfrey exclaimed, her surprise and disapproval evident.

Traherne started to reply, then cut himself off—apparently, Venetia guessed, because any attempts at explanation were just making the situation worse.

Mrs. Pelfrey also seemed to realize she had overstepped her bounds, for she changed her focus. “Forgive me, my lord. I am terribly worried for you. May I see the wound?”