The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  Food! That was essential. She stuffed all she had collected so far into a disreputable portmanteau – faded and torn but the only piece of luggage she owned – and took it down to the kitchen.

  She carefully wrapped up a wheel of cheese still fully enrobed in wax, several carrots and onions, and contemplated the rest of the stores. They were scant. Cook had taken to buying only what was necessary and, with Melissa’s encouragement and a wary eye on the ever-dwindling budget, serving the plainest of fare.

  Melissa added a jar of vinegar pickles and a smoked sausage to her small hoard. That would have to see them through until they could safely seek out a public inn.

  She set the scant supplies in the portmanteau and put it in the butler’s cupboard under the shelf where the silver had once stood. There was no butler anymore, and nothing to polish. It would be safe there, and quick to grab if they must run.

  There Melissa paused, stymied. What now? Which plan of escape could they follow?

  There was no one to turn to for help, no friends she could call on for aid. Oh, girlfriends she had in plenty. Friends to walk with in the park, chat with after church, or call on in the mornings to share a pot of tea and biscuits. Not to lend her ten thousand pounds.

  While one of those kind young ladies might hide her and Peter away, if Melissa was followed she was simply directing trouble to come knocking on the friend’s door and threatening the unfortunate girl to find out where the fugitives had flown.

  Men would kill for ten thousand pounds; she had no doubt. She could not lead them to anyone she knew.

  There were no relatives anywhere closer than Yorkshire. A great uncle and great aunt, living together in a decaying manor house, aging, penniless and childless. No connections that could provide any real assistance at all, in fact.

  Never had she felt more alone, more forsaken. But sorrow would get her nowhere. Anger was a more potent force for strength.

  Stupid Father; reckless, heedless, selfish, awful man. Tipping himself and his children into this fearful hole from whence they might never escape. Or escape only in death, as had he.

  It was up to her. She must accomplish their escape, though God only knew how

  At that moment she heard a stir from the back door of the house, which led directly into the kitchen. There was the sound of low voices, and fear leapt up inside her. Had Black Jack returned early, deciding there was no point delaying their seizure?

  “Who is there?” she called out harshly, taking up a heavy candlestick from the nearby table, her heart beating hard.

  Hetty opened the outside door, flushed and out of breath, and Melissa lowered the candlestick, then put it carefully back on the table, her hand shaking with relief.

  “Miss, we was in luck. My cousin was home. I brought him direct.” She stepped aside to make way for a blunt-featured fellow, solidly built, with ruddy cheeks and ash brown hair. He held the brim of his hat loosely in one hand, and when he came to stand before her he stood with his weight on one leg, his face solemn.

  “Your cousin?” repeated Melissa, puzzled for a moment. Then she remembered their brief exchange, driven completely out of her head. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  She wished fervently he had never come. What could this man possibly offer her, really? And it was shameful, shameful to have this sorry business known.

  But he had come to aid her, a stranger, and she was polite by habit, so she swallowed down her desire to push him right back out of the door.

  “I . . . thank you for coming, sir. You are uncommonly kind.” And truly, she acknowledged, this was no time for false pride. She was desperate. Any mite of help might tip the scales. “Perhaps you will come to the drawing room?” She gestured and led the way.

  The man followed in her footsteps, and as he entered the room he cast a searching glance about it and then went to stand facing the door, as if to watch for anyone else entering. “Might you close the door, Miss?” he said gruffly, and Melissa, who had been standing staring at him blankly, gave a start and then followed his advice.

  Did he think others might be listening? Perhaps that was not so foolish an idea, in a world where she was being followed and watched by strangers who might abduct her at any moment. Heaven knew she had no experience with any of this.

  Mr Tell did not mince words. As soon as the door was closed he said: “Scuse me coming here to you so sudden like, Miss Spencer. But when I heard what Hetty had to say I knew you’d be in a hurry.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr Tell. Do please sit down.”

  Melissa sat down herself. Mr Tell followed suit, and Hetty stood by awkwardly until she was also gestured to a seat. She plonked down obediently, all big eyes and elbows.

  “It’s some fearsome bad luck you’ve had, Miss,” said Mr Tell, his brows drawing down into a frown. He shifted a little in his chair as if not used to upholstery. “There be plenty of scallawags to chose from in this town, but Black Jack be near the worst. He runs most half the rotten brothels and opium dens in the docklands, has gangs of thieves roaming the street and I don’t know what other nastiness. Lending money – which Hetty said is what nabbed your Pa – isn’t the half of it.”

  “Good heavens,” said Melissa, her eyes widening. “Is he that notorious?”

  “In my neck of the woods it pays to know him and his lot.” His eyes flicked away from her and gazed at the blank wall, narrowed grimly as if seeing some other room, some other scene. “Nasty pieces of work, every last one of ‘em. No one would want to have dealings with them, that was an honest gent. No disrespect meant to your late father, Miss,” he added a moment later, returning his gaze to her face and shifting again in his seat, this time with a hint of embarrassing.

  “Yes. Quite,” said Melissa stiffly. Oh, it was humiliating to have others know this sordid tale, and Hetty too looked uncomfortable to be in unpleasantly intimate conversation.

  “Now I don’t rightly like to be interfering, and I’d never do it for just anyone, Miss. Only a fool crosses that man if there’s no need.”

  “Yes. Quite. I’m sure I-”

  “But you’ve been a right solid sort to Hetty, hiring her at first and then turning off that footman as was bothering her improper-like,” he carried on implacably, obviously determined to get out what he had to say. “And only on her say-so, her word against his. I marked that, Miss. I marked it for sure.” He nodded in firm agreement with himself. “Hetty’s my little angel. I’m right fond of her and she’s crying and snivelling about this and saying her heart’s fit to break and I must do something.”

  “Simon!”

  “Hush now, Hetty,” he said, holding up a commanding hand to the girl, who pressed her lips together and was silent again. “I’ll say my piece.” He turned back to Melissa. “I’ve a mind to help you; and,” his bow beetled, his eyes sparking dangerously, “to spike Black Jack’s guns for my own reasons. But that’s ten thousand pounds you’re talking about owing Black Jack. There ain’t no way he’s letting that slip through his fingers. I’ll wager anything you like this house is being watched by at least four men, night and day.” He pursed his lips. “He’ll mark us. He has already, us coming here like this. And once you take off for good he’ll have us to see if we’ll sing for him, that he will. If we’re to get you clear away, Hetty and I must go too. So I’ll help you, but you’ll need to pay us for it.”

  “Simon. What are you saying?” It seemed Hetty had no idea of attaching a price to their assistance.

  “We’ll hie ourselves to Brackenby Village, Hetty. James Crocker has a offer of an inn to buy, if he has a partner. I turned him down, but I’ll take the chance, and you can come too. You in an apron and cap, the mistress of a snug wee inn of your own. It’ll be just right. Straight and honest for us both.”

  Melissa listened to this byplay, her eyes narrowed, trying to judge if this was a man to be trusted. She did not trust men easily, but she was frighteningly short of options, and it seemed he had a far better idea than she of how to dea
l with this problem. She could hear him out, at the very least.

  “Are you proposing we all go to this inn, Mr Tell?” she asked.

  “No, no I’ve no idea like that.” He shook his head emphatically. “You go your own way, and you don’t breathe a word of it to us. Just in case.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “It goes like this: We’ll get you into a crowd. Some event with plenty of milling about and distraction. I’ll hire chaps to make a diversion, you take to your heels, and I’ll have more hired bravos to take your followers from behind – so they’re not seen – and pound them to a pulp.” His lips had drawn back to bare his teeth in a fierce grimace, and Melissa forced herself to breathe calmly at this savagery and keep listening. “You run for a carriage and make away into the countryside. Give the direction to the driver as you climb aboard. And wherever you go, blend in. Disappear.”

  “You . . . ah . . . you appear to have given this some thought, Mr Tell.”

  “I’ve watched it arranged before. Mind you, them was villains getting away from a hired detective, but the thing’s the same when you come down to it.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to come back, Mr Tell?” She thought she knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.

  “No, never. It will likely cost you your life if you do be that stupid.” He shook his head with a scowl, then leaned back in his chair, a man ready to come to terms. “Now none of this will come cheap, Miss. You’ve got us to establish, yourself as well, and the men I’ll be hiring will risk their lives. So the money better be good.”

  Melissa found it reassuring that he should declare himself a fair fee up front. Better he should intend to collect payment from her above board than attempt some sort of swindle. At least, it was reassuring if she could actually afford to pay what he asked. “How much think you, sir?”

  “I’m thinking near on a thousand, Miss.”

  Melissa’s eyes widened and she leaned back in her own chair, stunned. “So much?” she gasped. It was well nigh as impossible as the ten thousand!

  “Oh Simon, never say so! Surely we can take less-”

  “Hetty, I say you hush. I won’t be taking less, Miss.” He stuck his jaw forward pugnaciously. “I’ll be leaving behind what took me years to set in place. And I’m only doing it for something better. Sweet woman you may be, and kind, and I’m glad to help such, but I has to take care of me own first.” He nodded again, prodding his knee with an index finger as punctuation.

  “Yes, yes I quite see how it is. You need not fear, Mr Tell. It is not too great a price to pay for our lives.” She shook her head helplessly. “If only I had the money. But I swear, I do not.” Her hands were squeezing each other so hard they hurt. With an effort, she separated them and lay them palm down, flat on the chaise lounge on either side of her skirt. “Surely I could find some way of slipping my brother and myself out unnoticed? It can’t be that difficult.”

  “Miss, you don’t want to be taking no chances,” said Mr Tell grimly. “If he thinks you’re planning to run, or catches you at it, he’ll cut his losses and take you in payment.”

  “So he said,” she murmured.

  “Miss, you won’t be able to stop him. There’s some real nasty things as go on in this city.” He shook his head in foreboding. “A nice lady such as yourself shouldn’t never know about them. I swear you need to hire you some eyes of your own, to find them as spy on you. Fighters to take ‘em out, and others to create a diversion so you can run. You got to find the money.”

  She looked up at the paint flaking from the ceiling as she mentally tallied how much she might raise if she were to pawn or sell the household contents. She could do that as she had already planned, without raising suspicions. Black Jack’s men would assume she was working to raise the money owed to him.

  Yet the entire household contents might fetch three or four hundred in a hurry, maybe as much as five hundred if she was lucky. As much as a thousand? Never!

  There was a pause. Mr Tell looked concerned at the expression on her face, though for her fate or his disappearing prospect of employment she could not be sure.

  “You can’t manage that, Miss?”

  “No, no, I’m afraid I can’t. Half of it perhaps, but I cannot count on more than that.”

  “Well you’re done for without it,” he said, implacable.

  “My God,” she said, “my God,” and put her head in her hands. Her stomach turned over in fear, and bile rose to her mouth.

  Mr Tell leaned forward with his hands clasped and elbows on his knees, jogging them up and down a little. He started to speak, hesitated, then began again carefully:

  “I don’t like to say this to you, Miss. It’s not much different from those nasty things I was talking about nice women not ought to be knowing.” Again he stopped, as if wrestling with himself.

  Melissa waited, her eyes raised to his, desperate for hope.

  Mr Tell glanced at the floor, out the window, then gazed back at Melissa. He cleared his throat.

  “You might sell your virgin night,” he said baldly, his ruddy cheeks going even redder.

  “My . . . what?” said Melissa.

  “Simon!” exclaimed Hetty in rebuke. “That’s no way to be speaking to Miss Spencer!”

  “Hetty, hush now!’ he said sternly. “This is past nice talk. Miss Spencer needs help, not pretty words.”

  “Virgin night?” Melissa repeated. “What on earth is that, may I ask?” She had a dreadful feeling she already knew.

  “It’s . . . well . . . it’s . . .” he stammered, now lost for an explanation.

  “It’s the night you stops being a virgin, Miss,” said Hetty flatly with pursed lips.

  “One can sell such a thing?” Melissa asked in sick wonder.

  “Miss, you can sell anything in London.”

  “For certain, Miss,” said Mr Tell. “There are parts of town where it’s done every night.”

  “Good heavens,” said Melissa.

  “Sometimes it’s girls selling themselves, sometimes their fathers selling them, sometimes girls stolen from off the street. There’s always more money for a willing one. Most of all for a pretty woman.”

  “That’s repulsive!”

  Mr Tell ploughed on as if determined to get it all out there now he had started down this way. “I should think it’s the first place you’d end up if Black Jack took you, Miss; though the auction would happen in one of his brothels. Your brother too.”

  “My brother!” Now Melissa really did feel sick

  “It’s not as common. But there’s some places a good-looking boy can fetch a fair sum. And the lad is usually not heard from again.” He looked unhappy but certain.

  Melissa wrapped her arms tighter around her middle. She rocked back and forth. There was silence in the room.

  Then Hetty burst out: “You can’t ask that of Miss Spencer, Simon. She’s a right nice woman. A real lady. She couldn’t be doing such a thing! There must be some other way!”

  “If there is, then you tell it to me, Hetty,” his voice was harsh. “You tell me where else she’s to find that sort of money, if she hasn’t got it about her! At least she’d be choosing it. Not having it chosen for her.”

  “This ain’t a choice!”

  “It’s better than what she had an hour ago. You got a fitting way to get her out of this, go ahead.”

  “Would it raise a thousand pounds though?” said Melissa hollowly.

  “What?”

  “Selling my virgin night. Would it be enough to raise a thousand pounds?”

  “It might do, Miss. I can’t be making no promises. It all depends on who’s there that night. A lady like yourself, a Nob, and a real looker,” his eyes skittered down and away, “might fetch a thousand.”

  “Could you arrange it then?”

  “Miss?” He looked surprised.

  She could barely bear to contemplate it, but she was a logical woman. She could see there was no other way through. Mr Tell’s plan seemed sound; straightfo
rward and effective. He had seen it done before; he was confident about his contacts. If the only hurdle was funds and he had an answer to that too . . . well, could she truly balk at the surrender of her virginity, set against hers and Peter’s lives?

  “Miss Spencer!” If he was surprised, Hetty was absolutely shocked, her mouth hanging wide open.

  She addressed herself to the maid, not really seeing her, feeling as if she said the words to her own self, trying to silence the instinct that screamed out the price was too high. “I must. I can see I must.” She could imagine Peter before her; sweet, innocent Peter with his gentle ways. Pretty Peter, his shining gold hair a mass of curls, his long lashed, bright blue eyes, with their shadows and fears; his seldom-seen, charmingly dimpled smile.

  If Father had had any wealth at all, it was his looks. He had passed them on in full measure to his two children.

  Melissa had no doubt Peter would fetch a very, very good price.

  And that must never happen.

  If her own virtue was to be sold to keep him safe, then so be it.

  “Yes, Miss,” he agreed with her, his tone sympathetic. Hetty lifted the hem of her apron and began to cry into it, great gusty sobs that irritated Melissa till she wanted to scream at the girl to stop. What had she to cry about? She wasn’t the one who . . . Melissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Yes, I can arrange it all,” continued Mr Tell. “For tonight, if you want.”

  “Not tonight!” Melissa said swiftly, feeling like she leapt back from a precipice. Not so quickly! “Tomorrow night should be soon enough.” She hesitated, pressed her lips together then asked: “Will Black Jack’s men try to stop it happening, Mr Tell?”

  “I don’t know, Miss; but likely not. By the time they see the plan, it’ll be too late to run to Jack for instructions. They’ll have to let it go ahead.” He had started to look sure of himself again, now the unpleasant suggestions were out of the way and a course of action had been decided. “After all, you’re doing it to raise the money you owe, they’ll think. If we’re real lucky, orders will be keep you from leaving London. They might not even tell Jack.”