by Jason
“Power? What power is there in buying a child?”
Mirabelle’s mouth turned in a wry smile. “The power of men, that they can buy and sell us? But I buy and sell men, too, sometimes, and sometimes women are the purchasers. Perhaps it is just that they can pay such a ridiculous amount of money for such a trivial thing. You may like to think that.”
“It does not seem trivial to me.”
Mirabelle shrugged. “As you wish. Since you are ready, come back to the parlor.” Once there, Mirabelle said, “I will have a meal sent to you.”
“I couldn’t possibly eat.”
“You may find you can, and it would be wise. You may also have some wine, or even some opiate. Not too much, though. No man will want you comatose.”
“I want nothing.”
Mirabelle shrugged and left. Portia paced. It did no good, but she couldn’t help it. She repeated to herself all the reasons why this had to be, and tried to convince herself that it was not such a great thing really.
But the man, the monster, who was to invade and abuse her rose up in her mind like a creature of nightmares.
She covered her face with her hands. No matter how terrible her ravishment, it could not be worse than what Oliver faced if she failed. She must go through with it.
She was burningly aware of the door, though, the door to freedom. But it was already dark outside and dressed as she was she couldn’t possibly leave. And if she did, Oliver would be horribly maimed. She, who always fought against the odds, had come at last to a battle she could not win.
Determined to hang on to her dignity, Portia tried to read from the surprisingly wide selection of books in the room. She picked up first one, then another, but was unable to settle to anything. She tossed down a book about the animals of Africa. They seemed more civilized than the animals of London.
The maid brought food, and Portia picked at it, but her throat was almost too tight to swallow. She drank some of the wine, though, and that eased her dry throat.
The door was a constant torment. Could anything be crueler than this, to have escape from horror, and not be able to use it?
Nine
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Bryght dined at his club with Andover and Barclay, a laconic ex-officer who wore a hook where his right hand had been. As they were leaving for the theatre, they encountered Sir William Hargrove, a wealthy Nabob whose greatest ambition now was to enter the higher reaches of Society. The man had recently acquired a baronetcy, and Bryght expected to hear any day that he had bought himself into the peerage.
Well, there were worse specimens among the aristocracy. Sir William was at least clean and well-mannered.
“Lord Bryght,” said the sinewy older man with a deep bow. “I give you good evening.”
Bryght returned the bow and introduced his companions. In turn, Sir William introduced the man at his side, Mr. Prestonly, a fat sugar trader from the West Indies.
“Can we interest you in a game, my lords?” asked Sir William eagerly.
Sir William was one of Bryght’s favorite victims when Bridgewater needed money. He was wealthy enough to hardly feel the thousands he lost, and clearly thought that associating with the aristocracy was worth every penny. Mr. Prestonly seemed of the same stripe.
Bridgewater was not in great need at the moment, but Portia St. Claire was. After a communicative glance at his friends, Bryght said, “We would be delighted, sirs. . . .”
At that point, however, Mr. Prestonly’s shiny red face grew redder. “Hey what, Sir William? I thought we were for this Mirabelle’s to see this auction.”
Sir William did not look pleased, but he said, “That is true, my lords. My friend here has a wish to attend the affair. One of Cuthbertson’s debtors. Perhaps Mr. Prestonly wishes to bid.”
Prestonly puffed his cheeks at that, but did not deny it.
Bryght did not conceal his distaste, but having turned his mind to it he had no particular desire to allow these two very plump pigeons out of his orbit. “Why do we not all repair to Mirabelle’s? The lady has gaming tables as well as her other attractions.”
“Aye,” said Sir William with relief. “Excellent notion, my lord. What do you say, Prestonly?”
“By all means!” declared that man and it was settled.
Since Mr. Prestonly did not care to walk any further than he had to, they took a coach to Mirabelle’s. Bryght spent the journey gently assuring himself that Mr. Prestonly was as deep in the pockets as he appeared to be.
He was.
He was also a slave-trader who showed not a qualm about the business. After enduring the man’s account of slave auctions back home, and some quite revolting stories about female slaves, Bryght decided that relieving him of part of his ill-gotten wealth would be pure pleasure.
There was no clock in the room, but Portia knew by the darkness that the day had gone. When the maid returned with cake and tea, she also lit the candles. Distant noises told Portia that the business of the house was under way. Music played, as if this were a grand house holding an entertainment. Voices could be heard, male voices overlaid by feminine laughter.
Portia was plagued by a sense of unreality. How could this terrible thing be happening to her while nearby, others laughed?
Mirabelle swept in. She had changed into a splendid dress of deep blue silk flounced with black lace and cut very low across the bosom. Her dark hair was dressed high and decorated with an aigrette of blue flowers and jewels. Perhaps real sapphires. Other jewels adorned her neck, fingers, and wrists.
Portia couldn’t help but think that her own sacrifice tonight would put a few more baubles on the abbess’s over-adorned flesh.
“Still spirited enough to sneer, are we?” asked Mirabelle without offense. “Excellent. The one thing I don’t want from you is a state of collapse. Now, we are almost ready and there is an excellent company eagerly awaiting your appearance. Do you want some more wine or some opiate?”
It was tempting, but Portia shook her head. “I prefer to keep my wits intact.”
“I’m not sure why, my dear, but as you will. Just remember, once the auction is done, you must fulfill your part of the bargain.”
Portia said nothing, and just wished her heart would stop pounding so hard. She was determined to do this with dignity and courage but her treacherous body seemed likely to betray her and plunge her into a dead faint.
“Perhaps I will have something.” She picked up the brandy glass and drained it. She choked at the fire of it, but it did steady her head.
“It revives courage, does it not?” said Mirabelle. “And you have courage. What are you going to do about your brother after tonight?”
Portia clutched the glass. “I don’t know.”
“You would be well advised to cut loose of him. Do you think he would do something like this for you?”
“Yes, of course he would.” But Portia wasn’t sure. Some people would think preserving virtue was more noble than preserving a life.
“Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
Portia realized with surprise that Mirabelle didn’t like this situation any better than she did, and wanted her to use the door and walk to freedom. “I can’t abandon him,” she whispered. “Really, he is a good man but for this one thing.” In desperation, she refilled the glass and drained it again.
“No more,” said Mirabelle, then shook her head. “You are a veritable Joan of Arc, aren’t you?”
Portia started at that, for it stirred a memory.
Mirabelle carried on smoothly, “It is time. There is no need for you to speak or do anything but stand there.” She opened the door and gestured Portia to pass through.
Portia wondered if the brandy had been a good idea, for her legs did not seem to want to obey her head. She forced them, however, and left the room.
The passageway was carpeted and soft under Portia’s thin sandals. A couple of servants bustled by, giving Portia only a mildly curious glance. The n
oise of talk and laughter grew louder as she approached an open door. She felt more as if she were watching someone else than doing this herself.
Steered by Mirabelle’s, hand on her back she walked through the door and stopped dead.
The large room was handsomely furnished and lit by an extravagance of candles. It was full of finely dressed people—mostly men—and Portia was buffeted by a wave of voices, and by air heavy with the smell of perfumes, sweat, and candle smoke.
The babble died. Everyone turned to look at her and Portia was dazzled by the flashes as raised quizzing glasses caught the candlelight. She froze, but Mirabelle pushed her forward, not ungently.
Portia swallowed and walked unsteadily toward a small dais or stage at this end of the room. It stood about four feet off the ground and was lit along the front by more candles backed by reflectors. When Portia mounted to the stage she found herself in bright light and could hardly see past the glare into the room. That was an improvement, but she could still hear the buzz of comment.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mirabelle, “your attention please.” She came to stand behind Portia, using the contrast in size to emphasize Portia’s supposed youth.
The silence became complete.
“My friends,” said Mirabelle, “I present to you, Hippolyta.”
Bryght was at the rear of the room, concentrating on whist. He heard the change of sound in the room that doubtless meant the star of the evening had arrived, but his attention was on Mr. Prestonly’s next card. The man was actually a very shrewd player and was giving Bryght a challenge. He was glad of it. Plucking helpless pigeons, even fat ones, was not at all to his taste.
In a rare burst of unnecessary movement, Mr. Prestonly heaved himself up and craned his neck. “Little thing. Pretty, though. Looks a mere child.”
It was clear he did not consider this unattractive. Bryght fingered with satisfaction the two hundred guineas before him. He was starting slow but planned to relieve the merchants of at least two thousand before the night was over.
That would be a comfortable start to getting Portia St. Claire out of London, and out of his life.
Sir William said somewhat testily, “Pay attention to the game, Prestonly.”
Mr. Prestonly sat and played low. “Nothing’s happening yet.” He leered at Bryght. “Don’t you ever feel tempted to buy one of these innocents, my lord, and practice for your wedding night?”
“Do you think I need practice?” asked Bryght coolly, considering carefully whether Prestonly was likely to have the last spade. He made his decision and led the five.
Prestonly grimaced and discarded a diamond. “It’s different with a nervous virgin though, my lord. I know. Been married twice. And then there’s the slave girls . . .”
He stopped because Bryght intended him to stop, and had sent the message with his eyes. Bryght was wondering whether getting Portia safe back in Dorset was worth this.
Prestonly paled and concentrated on his cards.
“My dear Bryght,” said Andover mischievously as he took the trick and led a diamond. “I do think you should practice for your wedding night.”
Bryght flicked him a look. “What wedding night?”
Sir William played the jack. “What of Jenny Findlayson?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “You’ve been raising hopes there.”
Bryght almost denied the interest, but realized in time that Sir William was a friend of Mrs. Findlayson’s brother. He could hardly tell the man that the widow was his contingency plan in case Bridgewater needed more money than they could raise by other means.
Or had been. He doubted it was possible anymore.
It was one thing to marry in cold calculation, meaning to deal honestly with a wife. It was another to marry completely against his inclinations. Hell for both parties.
He didn’t care to look too closely at where his inclinations lay. . . .
Bryght found he’d lost track of the play. When had that last happened to him? “Jenny is a very attractive woman,” he said vaguely, searching his memory. Had Prestonly discarded a diamond or a heart?
“Your play, I believe, my lord.”
Damnation, that was Prestonly prompting him, and not without a sneer. He pulled his mind back onto the game and banished all women from it.
A diamond. Which meant . . .
“I present to you Hippolyta.”
Bryght froze in the act of choosing his card and swiveled, icily certain of what he would see.
At first he thought he was mistaken.
An elfin-slight figure shimmered gold and white on the dais. Long dark curls hung to her waist and her features were much coarser than Portia St. Claire’s. He heard Mirabelle describe her as a fourteen-year-old who had come up from the country to learn earthy pleasures from a gentleman. It was possible. Some country girls raised a dowry this way.
She looked a mere child, though.
He should have turned back to the game, but something held him gazing at the girl. She looked young and vulnerable, and much too small to be roughly violated by one of these men.
The bidding started, low as yet, mere foolishness. Suddenly the girl straightened her spine and raised her chin as if defying the bidders to think the less of her.
Bryght cursed under his breath.
It had to be that damn brother.
“Bryght,” said Andover, “it’s your play.”
Bryght tossed his cards on the table. “Your pardon for a moment.”
Prestonly looked up with a leer. “I thought you had no interest in these auctions, my lord.”
“That has just changed.”
Damn it to Hades but that tunic she was wearing scarce reached her knees! At least it wasn’t transparent, but without stays, hoops, or petticoats her form was clear to all.
Bryght couldn’t help noticing how tiny she was—fine-boned, lightly fleshed, with scarcely more hip and breast on her than a boy. He’d never been attracted to that type of woman before and wasn’t sure of his feelings now except that he could not stand idly by while Portia St. Claire was auctioned off for the amusement of this crowd.
He was good at calculating options and odds, and realized almost instantly that he had few. He could not buy Portia and pretend to deflower her, because such events took place in Mirabelle’s Rotunda, which had twenty peepholes in the walls for voyeurs. Since Mirabelle sold each place for twenty guineas, she’d fight to the death to preserve that tradition.
He could not snatch Portia away. Even if he paid Mirabelle the money, it could cause a riot. More importantly, it would focus attention on the affair. London would be abuzz with it, and some people were bound to remember the attentions he had paid to a petite woman in the park, a petite woman with a gamester brother. . . .
They might as well post notices all over Town.
Just to go through with it would cause no comment at all. He didn’t know, however, if he were capable of raping Portia—or any woman—even to save her from a worse fate.
He looked again at the gold and white figure standing stiffly in the bright light, chin raised. Was it only his imagination that she was trembling?
She had reason to tremble if she but knew it. Most of the bidders were merely after amusement, but one was Lord Speenholt, who was riddled with the pox and seeking the mythical virgin cure. Another was Gerard D’Ebercall whose tastes ran to the vicious.
He didn’t know whom he wanted to murder most—Oliver Upcott or his doting half-sister. Cuthbertson was doomed.
The bidding had crept up to two hundred by the time he saw a way. He turned to Prestonly. “You cast doubts upon my ability to handle nervous virgins, sir. Care to back it with money?”
The man twitched at his tone. “Money, my lord? What do you mean?”
Bryght leant forward on the table. “I’m going to buy that chit, and have her begging for it without even taking her clothes off. If I succeed, you are going to pay me twice what I bid.”
The man’s eyes flickered nervousl
y, and he swallowed. “I didn’t mean to call into doubt. . . .” He smiled weakly. “By all means, my lord. Let us have the little wager.”
Bryght straightened, ignoring Andover’s raised brows. “Excellent.” He turned toward the dais. “Three hundred.”
Mirabelle’s eyes flicked to his in surprise, for he had never shown interest in such affairs before. But she said, “At last, someone who knows value when he sees it. Three it is. Who will say three-twenty?”
Bryght saw Portia’s eyes swivel toward his voice. Standing in the midst of bright candles, she would not be able to see much of the room, and the voices would be disembodied. Had she recognized his? If so, what was she thinking?
Would she know there was no way out of this short of setting the house on fire?
He even considered it, but the chances of getting out alive were small. At this moment Portia might think death in the flames preferable to her fate, but common sense would return in time.
Even with the mask on he could see that she was tracking the betting with apprehensive, jerky movements. He desperately wanted to comfort her.
The bidding had stalled at three hundred and fifty in Steenholt’s favor and Bryght would soon have to make his definitive bid. To spite Prestonly, he would have liked to drive the bidding sky-high, but that would create just the kind of notice he was trying to avoid.
He thought it was over, but then a stir at the back of the room announced new arrivals.
“You are late, gentlemen.” Mirabelle raised a hand to pause the bidding. “But come and inspect this delicious charmer. Perhaps you would care to purchase the right to her education.”
“I don’t think so.”
It was the new Earl of Walgrave and some friends. Fortitude Ware was in mourning black, but encrusted with silver and jet. From the way he accepted a kiss from an opportunistic whore, Bryght assumed he had not decided to follow in his strait-laced father’s footsteps.
Bryght wondered if he could use Fort’s arrival to his advantage, but he was damned if he saw how. There was some connection between the Wares and the St. Claires, but it was probably slight. Moreover, the Mallorens and Wares were outright enemies these days, only civil because Chastity Ware had recently married Bryght’s young brother, Cyn.