by Jason
“No, no,” he declared in spurious horror. “Not at all. It will be just the once. Unless you get a taste for it.”
“Just the once? And someone would pay three hundred guineas?”
“Almost certainly. But I am a fair man and auctions are chancy. If for any reason you don’t bring the full amount, I will take what you raise and call it settled.”
“Auction!”
“To get the highest price.” He looked her over in a surprisingly objective way. “I judge you’ll do well. You have that high-bred look, and you’re small, especially in the tits. Mirabelle will probably be able to pass you off as quite young. A lot of men like their virgins young.”
Portia covered her mouth with her hand. Her brain felt vacuous and she couldn’t think clearly at all. She wished she could persuade herself this was a nightmare, but it assuredly was not. She was going to have to do this horrible thing.
“Are we agreed then?” asked Cuthbertson.
Portia stood as calmly and resolutely as she could, praying that her legs would not betray her. “What do I have to do?”
“Come with me. We can probably get it done tonight, and then you can forget all about it.”
She gave a shaky laugh at that absurd notion. “Oh God . . .” She looked across at Oliver, still frozen in Mick’s threatening grasp.
“Portia—” But his words were cut off as Mick jerked his head hard back.
“Don’t worry about him, my dear,” said Cuthbertson. “Mick will take good care of him, and I assure you he will not hurt a hair on his head. Unless, of course, you turn coward.”
The room was not cold, and yet Portia was chilled through and trembling. Her head and feet did not seem connected at all, and that worried her. It was important—heaven knows why—to act with dignity at this moment.
“Do you have a cloak?” Cuthbertson asked with concern. “It is rather chilly outside today.”
Portia forced her reluctant limbs into motion and went to get her heavy cloak.
The woman was called Mirabelle. She was tall, handsome, and very grand in yellow satin over wide hoops.
Apart from an excess of paint, she could pass for any great lady. In fact, Portia had seen great ladies who were painted just as thickly.
Her eyes, though, her eyes were hard.
She had dismissed Cuthbertson with unconcealed disdain and taken Portia to a private room. It was a handsome panelled parlor that could have graced a gentleman’s house. Portia didn’t know what she had expected of a brothel, but it was not this.
Mirabelle looked her over. “Are you willing?”
“No, of course not! Those men are making me do this to pay my brother’s gaming debts!”
If Portia had expected compassion, she was disappointed. “That’s generally the way of it.” Mirabelle settled on a chaise and waved Portia to a chair. “Let me make the situation clear, my dear. I am a madam, an abbess—call me what you will. I run a house where men, and some women, buy erotic pleasures. I provide almost anything here for a price, but I am not in the business of slavery. There’s not an employee in this house held by force. Behind you is a door which leads to a corridor. The corridor leads to the street. You are free to leave at any time.”
Portia swivelled to look at the door. She believed Mirabelle, and in a strange way it made everything worse. Every step she took was to be by her own free will. She covered her face with shaking hands. “Have you no pity?”
“I pity you, but not enough to pay your brother’s debts. In what other way can I help you? If I were you, I’d let Cuthbertson take it out of your brother’s flesh, for if he’s a gamester he will always be one. Tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Someday he will play again, and lose.”
Portia feared that Mirabelle was right, but still she couldn’t condemn Oliver to torture. A little bit of skin—that’s how she tried to think about it. Just a little bit of skin as opposed to Oliver’s eyes. And how long could it take? Minutes only. She could do it.
“Will they truly hurt Oliver if I don’t do this?”
“Oh yes. But they will hurt him a little then approach you again. Sooner or later—a finger or eye later—you will doubtless give in. It’s the money they want. Cuthbertson makes his living this way. Even bankrupts generally have a young relative somewhere—a toothsome lad, or a female with a maidenhead still to lose. Which reminds me. Lie down on the chaise, dear. I must make sure you are not trying to cheat me.”
“I am a virgin!”
“I take nothing on trust. I recommend you do the same.”
Portia wanted to refuse, which was ridiculous when she had consented to much worse. She lay on the long chaise and closed her eyes as the woman raised her skirts and examined her. Portia had thought her life had hit its lowest point weeks ago, but it kept sliding down and down. Could it go farther than this?
Assuredly.
And soon.
“Excellent,” said Mirabelle. “A perfect hymen. Enough there to prove you are untouched, but not enough to cause you a lot of trouble. It should go quite easily for you.”
Portia sat up and straightened her skirts. It was tempting to cry, or faint, or even to have a full-blown case of the vapors, but Mirabelle’s very briskness made such reactions seem ridiculous.
“We may as well do it tonight,” said the abbess. “You won’t want to wait. If I send out the word now we should gather a good crowd and get you a high price.”
“You make it sound as if I want this!”
Mirabelle’s heavily blackened brows rose. “If you’re going to sell yourself, do you not want to gain the highest price?”
Portia swallowed. “Oh, by all means. If we are to do it, let us wring every last penny out of my foul ravager.”
“Now, now, my girl. None of that. Hate Cuthbertson, if you like. Hate your brother. But they are the only villains in this piece.”
“If men were not so vile, there would be no question of selling my body!”
“If men were not so vile, how would you pay your brother’s debts?”
And the tears won. Portia collapsed down onto the chaise and sobbed until she was dry, until her chest ached and her head throbbed. Mirabelle did not attend to her in any way and when Portia sat up again, drained and weak, the woman had gone. But she had left a glass of brandy on a nearby table.
Portia took a sip. The burning spirit did help, but not a great deal.
She put down the glass, and on sudden impulse, opened the door to the corridor. She slipped down the passage to a heavy outer door and opened it. It did indeed open onto the street. Or at least, onto a narrow alley that led to the street.
There, not many feet away, people went about their business, and coaches and carts rattled by. She could call for help. In fact, she didn’t need help. She could just walk away.
But unless she raised three hundred guineas, Oliver would suffer horribly.
She thought briefly of Nerissa, but could not imagine her chance-met cousin giving her such a sum of money. It was enough for a family to survive on for years.
Then she thought of Bryght Malloren. He’d offered her ten thousand guineas for this little bit of skin.
She stood there, fingers pressed to her head, trying to think. Bryght Malloren had not offered that vast sum for a bit of skin. He’d wanted all of her, body and soul. A slave for as long as he willed it. And it had just been a cruel joke . . .
She still had her map in her pocket and it told her that she was only three streets from Marlborough Square.
Better the devil you know . . .
With a sob, Portia plunged out into the alley. She controlled herself before she reached the street, and merely walked briskly on her way, wishing the light wasn’t beginning to go. The people she passed seemed to be servants more concerned with their own business than hers, but she was terrified of attack or pursuit.
Pursuit! She stopped dead so a footman bumped into her and cursed. If she was missed, perhaps they wouldn’t pursue, but just start
torturing Oliver.
She half turned to go back, frozen in indecision, subject to curious stares from passersby.
But this was her only chance.
She continued, speeding her pace. She was almost running by the time she entered the charming square. It had been charming, rather, for now it seemed menacing in the gloom, and the railings around the garden looked like prison bars.
Portia reached the wide steps leading up to the portico and stared up at the great doors of Malloren House. The glossy finish picked up the flames of the two flambeaux that bracketed them, making them seem in truth the gates of hell. To the right of the doors, in an alcove, sat an old man well wrapped in coat and muffler with a brazier nearby. He looked at her curiously.
Portia took a deep breath and ran up the stairs. “I have come to see Lord Arcenbryght Malloren.”
The man looked her over and Portia realized for the first time that she had neither cloak nor hat. “He’s out.”
“Please!” Portia said. “I know I look peculiar, but he will want to see me.”
The man’s expression softened a little. “Maybe that’s true, luv, but he really is out. Come back tomorrow.”
“It can’t wait until tomorrow! Where is he?”
“Now, now, you can’t go around London pestering a gentleman, me dear. You go home, and come back tomorrow.”
Dear Lord, it was true. Even if she knew where he was— at White’s, or the Cocoa Tree, or some great house—she could not gain entry there.
And there was no time.
Time!
She imagined Mick already doing rough surgery on Oliver and fled down the steps to race back through the streets to Mirabelle’s. She stopped at one point, wondering whether to try Fort’s house, whether he might have arrived.
But there was no time. No time.
She picked up her skirts and ran. Once a man did try to stop her. He grabbed her arm. “Hey, my beauty—”
Portia didn’t care if his intent were good or not. She thumped his nose and he let go of her with a curse.
She came to the alley and had to stop to catch her breath. She staggered down it and into the house, then fell into the parlor to find Mirabelle there.
The madam helped her to a chair. “You failed to find help.” It was a statement.
“Yes,” Portia gasped, sucking in breaths. “Did you tell Cuthbertson I was gone?”
“No, of course not. Until the time comes for the auction, it is no business of his.”
“Thank you!”
The woman gave a wry smile. “You have little reason to thank me, but I will help you if I can. I’m sorry you failed to raise the money elsewhere. I know for you gently bred women this is a difficult thing, but it is, in fact, no great matter. If you wish, I can repair you afterward so that you will go to a husband intact again. I wouldn’t recommend it, however. Better to trick your husband into thinking he is the first.”
“No, thank you.”
Mirabelle laughed. “Ah, my dear, do you still have the courage to sneer? Don’t try to deal honestly with men. They hold all the cards. The only way to win is to cheat.”
Portia refused to answer and just concentrated on steadying her breathing.
“As you will,” said Mirabelle. “So, do you wish the whole world to know what you are doing tonight, oh honest one? Or would you prefer discretion?”
Portia stared at the woman. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. “Can it be concealed?”
“Certainly. Your identity has nothing to do with your price. With a wig, a mask, and some paint, your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I’d like that,” said Portia humbly.
“Very well. Come with me.”
Mirabelle led the way into an adjoining bedroom and directed Portia to sit at the dressing table. Portia watched in the mirror as the madam transformed her, dressing her red hair tightly and pinning a loose, silky ebony wig on top. It reminded her horribly of Zeno’s feathery coat.
Mirabelle gave her plumpers—pads of leather to slide into her cheeks—and then blushed those round cheeks with rouge. She made her lips look fuller with a bright red cream. Then a mask was added. Just a narrow mask over her eyes, but covered with beaten gold.
“You see,” said Mirabelle. “The shimmer of the gold distracts from your eyes. No one will even know what color they are. Off with your clothes.”
Portia had begun to think of the abbess as almost a friend, now she was shocked back into reality. “What?” Her voice even sounded strange with the plumpers in her mouth.
“You’re hardly going to parade before the men in that,” said Mirabelle, indicating Portia’s plain beige dimity dress. “Anyway, something more suitable will be yet more disguise. Do you have a name you want to use?”
“You haven’t asked my real name.” With a grimace of distaste, Portia pulled out the plumpers. She’d put them back in at the last moment.
“I don’t want to know your name.”
Portia swiveled on the bench to face the woman. “You could easily find it out.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Blackmail,” said Portia coldly.
“I have my standards. Now, I hardly think you want me to announce your real name. What shall I call you?”
Portia sighed and gave the first one that came to mind. “Hippolyta.”
“The queen of the Amazons? I wouldn’t have thought you had the size for it, dear. Ariel would suit you better. I have some pretty fairy costumes. Would you not care to use one?”
Portia decided she needed the strength of a warrior name. “No, thank you.”
“As you wish.”
Mirabelle left and a few minutes later a maid came in carrying a gown and some other items. The servant was wearing a striped calico dress, an apron, and a cap. She looked surprisingly proper. She even curtsied. Portia decided she would feel better about all this if she were in a foul stew, surrounded by leering misshapen individuals.
She had stripped down to her shift. Now she saw the shift should go too, for the gown—if such it could be called—was an almost transparent wisp of creamy silk. In view of what she faced, this should not have mattered, and yet it did. She dismissed the maid, and was surprised when she went.
Portia contemplated the silk tunic and then, in a spurt of defiance, put it on over her shift. If Mirabelle wanted more than that, she would at least have to insist on it.
In fact, Portia decided, it did not look too bad. Her cotton shift was plain white and sleeveless, and came down to her knees. The tunic was a fraction longer. Without the shift it would have been transparent, which was doubtless the intent, but over the shift it was not indecent. Portia had never gone about with her legs and arms so exposed, but it could have been much worse.
There was a gilded belt to secure her garments at her waist, and a pair of delicate gold sandals. There was even jewelry of sorts—two cheap, gilt arm bands to go around her upper arms. A bow and quiver completed the costume, though neither were real.
She regarded herself in the mirror. Really, she thought wryly, if she were going to a masqued ball she might be quite proud of her costume. If, that is, she ever dared wear such an outfit in polite company.
She told herself that she’d seen outfits as daring at private balls.
This was not to be a private ball.
This was to be a public auction.
She almost panicked then, but forced herself to be practical. A little bit of skin. That’s all it was.
She looked in the mirror again and decided it was as well that Cuthbertson had agreed to take whatever she raised. She couldn’t imagine that she would bring a high price. Men liked a generous bosom and her endowments hardly broke the flow of the cloth over her chest. They liked lush curves and her hips were slim. Normally her stomacher and hoops gave some illusion of shapeliness, but this outfit disguised nothing.
But with the long dark wig, the narrow gold mask, the bold face paint, and the unlikely costume, she did doubt that
anyone would know her. Which meant that she could perhaps return home and pick up her life.
It seemed impossible. Was she to go back to Dresden Street and act as if nothing had happened? Go tomorrow to dine with Cousin Nerissa? Return to Dorset and say nothing to anyone?
She started trembling but paced the room angrily, praying that she would stop. Fear and trembling would do no good at all.
Mirabelle returned. She raised her brows slightly at the sight of the shift. “How charmingly modest. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Mirabelle’s heavy eyebrows shot up. “If Cuthbertson had known that. . . ! But you look well enough for all your age.” Her cold eyes took in every detail. “I would have put you at about nineteen, but with the plumpers and your figure we can go even lower.” She walked slowly around Portia. “A nice boyish rump, too. Fourteen. We’ll claim you’re fourteen.”
“Fourteen! That’s absurd!”
“No. Put in the plumpers and look at yourself with a stranger’s eyes.”
Portia turned to look in the mirror again and popped in the plumpers. With Mirabelle standing behind her, and having almost as much height as Bryght, and with the rounded cheeks and full lips, she did look like a pretty child. It was quite eerie, as if she were not herself at all.
“But why fourteen? It’s ridiculously young.”
“That will raise your price. Some men like young girls.”
Cuthbertson had said as much, and now Portia remembered Bryght Malloren saying something about the dangers in London for pretty sixteen-year-olds.
It suddenly struck Portia that it could be Prudence standing here about to be sacrificed. She thanked God it was herself instead.
Taking out the plumpers, Portia turned to face Mirabelle, determined to be practical. “What will I raise, then?”
The madam pursed her lips thoughtfully. “At least the three hundred.”
“I can’t believe that men would pay so much.”
“It amuses them, thanks be to heaven. Where would we all be if it didn’t? And, of course, they can show their friends and enemies that a few hundred guineas means nothing to them. Make no mistake, my dear, everything in London is to do with power.”