“You should have a care for your own skin,” she murmured. “You are the one in grave danger.”
“But our villain may target you or my family to get to me. Have Mrs. Newcomb bring you an appropriate gown for the ceremony and enough clothing for an extended trip.”
His instruction gave her a jolt. “What do you mean?”
“A wedding journey will provide us an excuse to absent ourselves from town.”
Venetia’s eyes widened. “You cannot have thought this through.”
“It is the best strategy I can devise on short notice. We need to leave London for a while to let the scandal die down. It will also give me a chance to heal and permit Hawk to launch an investigation. We are too vulnerable here in London after three attacks in two days.”
His mind had clearly been working while his wound was being stitched, but Venetia did not like where he was leading. “Would it not suffice for us to remain here while Lord Hawkhurst investigates?”
“No. Cowering and hiding away isn’t my style, and if I were the only one at risk, I would stay to fight. But I have you and my family and servants to consider as well. Wounded, I make an easy mark. I cannot defend myself or anyone else when I am this weak and helpless. It is not a pleasant feeling, I assure you.”
She could well understand how frustrating Traherne would find hiding, as he was a man accustomed to ruling his sphere. But he was not sitting by and doing nothing. Amazingly, he had already contrived the basic outline of a plan.
He also was obstinate about her accompanying him. When he stated outright that he was not leaving without her, for once Venetia made no protest. She would not abandon him now. Not when he was injured. Not when he was attempting to save her family.
“Where will we go?” she merely asked.
Traherne thought for a moment. “I have a minor property in Somerset, near Bath, that belonged to my father. Perhaps that would be the best choice, since few people even know about it. The less public my affairs, the better. I don’t want to alert the assassin as to my whereabouts. Regardless, by this time tomorrow we should be on our way.”
Evidently he saw the return of her distress, for that look of extreme tenderness returned to his features. Sitting upright, he leaned closer and reached up to cup her face. “It won’t be as bad as you fear.”
That is what I am afraid of. The unbidden thought unnerved her.
Traherne searched her face. “We should seal our engagement with a kiss.”
Venetia drew back with a start. “Surely you cannot be thinking of kissing at a time like this.”
“What better time? It will give you something else to think about and distract you from your despair.”
Venetia bit back her next argument, realizing he was attempting to ease her dismay rather than bent on seduction.
He must have misunderstood her silence, for he smiled that provocative smile. “Have no fear. I am in no condition to ravish you.”
His assertion brought a return of remorse. Venetia glanced at his shirtfront, behind which the bandage was concealed. “You said your wound was not serious.”
“It isn’t lethal, but pain dampens the amorous mood.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Do you mean there is actually something that interferes with your randiness?”
He gave a short laugh. “I am rarely randy. I simply enjoy pleasure, which you will learn about me in time. But enough of the future. At present we have a dozen missives to compose.”
Since it was unwise for Traherne to leave the house in his weakened state and give the shooter another opportunity to attack, he asked Hawkhurst to visit Doctors’ Commons and apply for a special license. In addition to that and the invitations and announcements, he also wrote a letter to a gentleman in Portsmouth, saying he would be absent for a time and to proceed with testing.
By the time they finished their task and dispatched the messages through his butler, Venetia felt almost a sense of camaraderie with Traherne. Which was absurd. How could she feel the least bit sanguine about having to wed a scandalous nobleman and flee London to avoid a murderous assailant?
Traherne next summoned a disapproving Mrs. Pelfrey and gave his orders to show Miss Stratham to a room for the night.
Before Venetia took her leave with Mrs. Pelfrey, he rose from the sofa in order to kiss her hand. “Tomorrow you will make me the happiest of men.”
At his ludicrous exaggeration, she gave what was nearly a snort. There he was again, trying to lighten her mood and make her feel better. An admirable gesture considering how wretched he himself must be feeling. He looked pale and weary, with lines of pain on his face.
Venetia made him promise that he would rest as Biddowes had ordered and left him with peculiar reluctance.
Upon being shown upstairs to an elegant guest bedchamber, she sank into a chair. In general she felt numb and incredulous, but deeper down, her feelings were a welter of confusion. Quinn Wilde, Earl of Traherne, was to become her husband tomorrow. It seemed impossible.