A week ago the prospect had been unexciting but acceptable, and he had been sure he could be a courteous and considerate husband. Now it was different. Now it would be hell.

  He could date the change to the moment in St. James's Park when he had gone from Portia to Jenny.

  Jenny had seemed coarse. Not in her manners—for though she came from merchant stock she had been raised a lady—but in her style. She really did seem to think that her fortune would buy him—buy whichever man she chose—like a slave.

  He sucked in a breath. As he had tauntingly offered to buy Portia. No wonder she had been devastated.

  Zeno looked up again.

  "Yes, my friend," said Bryght. "I did make a wretched business of it, but it is for the best. She will doubtless never speak to me again, thus saving me from foolishness. Let's hope her brother's affairs can be sorted out and she'll soon be safe back in the country on her five thousand pound estate."

  The dog continued to look at him. "You think I should ensure it? Damnation, five thousand is not exactly nothing to me, you know." He sighed. "Oh, very well. It will be a cheap price to guard against doing something a great deal worse. But it will have to be done secretly or I doubt she'll take the money. And the funds will have to come from the tables."

  Bryght gently dislodged Zeno's nose and stood up. "Let us hope there are plenty of plump pigeons ready to be relieved of a feather or two."

  Chapter 8

  After her devastating encounter with Lord Bryght, Portia was consumed by the desire never to set eyes on the man again. That meant she had to have matters settled and leave London as soon as possible.

  She hurried back to Fort's house, praying that he would have arrived. Surely he could not be far behind his possessions and servants. The haughty footman was a great deal less friendly this time, and tried to shut the door in her face.

  Portia, however, was so forceful in her demand to be allowed to leave a note that he showed her to a reception room. It was a very plain reception room—not the one she and Oliver had used before—but at least she was given pen and paper.

  Portia found her hands were shaking almost too much to write. She would be no man's whore, not even for ten thousand guineas. Not even Bryght Malloren's...

  She sucked in a deep breath and settled to write to Fort.

  Suspecting that the footman would read the note as soon as she left, Portia was discreet. She merely gave their direction and said that she needed to see Fort as soon as possible.

  Pray God he would come soon, and would help them. She had to escape.

  Portia gave the note to the servant, then headed directly home, blocking all thought of a certain man from her head.

  She entered their rooms to find only silence. Suddenly anxious, for it was the middle of the afternoon, she knocked on Oliver's door.

  "Go away. I've the devil of a head."

  Portia almost charged in anyway, but he couldn't skulk there forever. "Would you like something for it, Oliver?"

  "No. No thank you, Portia."

  Portia sighed and sat to read some Milton, but her mind kept wandering.

  It kept returning to the subject of Bryght Malloren. She tried to focus on his brutality in Maidenhead, and on his crude offer and insults today. Instead, her wanton memory threw up Bryght Malloren teasing her in the park, and comforting a grubby child.

  He couldn't be all bad....

  She was jerked out of her maudlin musings by a knock on the door. Thank heavens. It must be a message from Fort!

  She swung the door open to find two strange men there, neither of whom had the look of servants. One was tall and swarthy, the other shorter and wearing an ornate powdered Cadogan wig. They had the appearance of gentlemen except that their clothes were grubby and their eyes were not gentle at all. On instinct alone, Portia began to close the door, but the taller one put out a hand and blocked it.

  "We've come to see Sir Oliver Upcott." The accent was that of a well-bred man, but it didn't reassure her.

  "He is not at home."

  "No? You surprise me."

  "Why, pray?"

  The man smiled, showing crooked stained teeth. "You had much better let us in, Miss Upcott."

  Portia did not move. "My name is not Miss Upcott."

  The man's pale eyes sharpened. "You his doxy?"

  Portia flushed with anger. "No, sir. I am his half-sister." She tried again to shut the door. "You will have to come back later."

  He grinned and pushed the other way. Portia could not hold out against his strength, and in a moment the bullies were in.

  "How dare you!" she protested, but it was hollow. If she truly believed they had no business here she would be screaming the house down.

  Disaster had finally arrived.

  The dark man simply said, "Fetch your brother."

  Portia moved toward Oliver's room, but the door opened and he came out in his nightshirt. "What's the commotion...?" Then he saw the intruders and turned pasty as uncooked dough. "Cuthbertson."

  Cuthbertson smiled and bowed. "Sir Oliver, my dear friend." He walked toward Oliver, his companion strolling after like a well-trained dog. Despite the fine suit and powdered wig, Portia was sure the second man had no pretentions to gentility at all. To confirm her opinion, he leered at Portia in a way that made her want to empty a chamber pot over him.

  She knew that the worst had happened. Oliver had lost more than he had started with. How much? If she paid the debt, would they be left penniless without even coach fare away from here?

  Oliver was trying for his normal manner. "Good day to you, sirs. But you are here at an awkward time. I'm only just out of my bed."

  "So we see, Sir Oliver. Please, take time to dress if you wish."

  Oliver's eyes flickered uncertainly between the three people. "Not at all. Our business will not take long."

  "Excellent. You have the money, then?"

  "No," said Oliver, quite boldly. "I'll have to send to the country for it."

  "To the country, Sir Oliver? Where in the country?"

  "Zounds, man. What is this? A gentleman has time to pay!"

  "Convince us you have a chance of paying, Sir Oliver, and we'll gladly give you time."

  "Chance? Why, what is a mere three hundred?"

  "More than you have, or so I hear."

  Portia swayed on her feet. Three hundred? Three hundred!

  "My estate..." said Oliver.

  "Was lost to Major Barclay months ago."

  Oliver swallowed. "I still have funds."

  "Excellent," said Cuthbertson genially. "Then pay us and that'll be the end of it."

  "I... I don't keep my money here."

  The man in the Cadogan wig had been looking around the room as if seeking something of value, but now he turned back to Oliver. "Then we'll stay here while we wait for it to arrive, Sir Oliver." His accent was not that of a well-bred man.

  "Stay here?" Oliver asked, his voice squeaking.

  Cuthbertson spoke again. "Forgive us for being so distrustful, Sir Oliver, but not everyone is as honorable as you. It has been known for a man to take ship, or to join the army in order to escape his creditors. Some even go knocking on the doors of the Fleet, desperate to get in."

  Portia's heart began to pound and her mouth turned paper-dry. What were these men threatening if debtor's prison was a sweet alternative?

  Oliver collapsed down on a chair. "I can't pay," he whispered.

  Cuthbertson relaxed almost into bonhomie. "Now that's a shame, Sir Oliver. You really shouldn't play where you can't pay, should you?"

  "I'll find it somehow, but you'll have to give me time!"

  "But time's so tricky, isn't it? Keeping an eye on you for all that time. And the money should be mine for all that time."

  "You heartless devil," Oliver snarled.

  "Tut, tut. If you'd won, you'd have pocketed my money and whistled, wouldn't you? Now you have to pay."

  "I can't, I tell you. Do your damndest!"

  The two men flashed an almost amused look, and Cadogan Wig moved forward to stand close to Oliver. "Well, Sir Oliver, you want us to do our damndest, hey?" He pulled out a wickedly sharp knife. "Shall we take it as fingers, eyes... or balls?"

  Oliver's eyes bulged and after a moment of frozen horror, Portia started forward. "Stop this! You cannot possibly do such a thing, so stop this foolery!"

  Cadogan Wig quite calmly grasped Oliver by the hair and placed the needle-sharp blade by the corner of his right eye. "I assure you, miss, I do it all the time. You'll be astonished at how easy an eye pops out."

  A chill of horror trickled from Portia's scalp to her feet. She believed him.

  "Oh God," gasped Oliver. "Please don't. Please..."

  Cuthbertson smiled. "I do believe these dear people are ready to see reason, Mick."

  Mick nodded, but didn't move his hand or knife. Oliver appeared frozen with terror.

  Cuthbertson turned to Portia. "My dear lady, please sit down. You look a trifle pale."

  Portia sat with a thump. This good humor was no reassurance because she knew there was no way they could pay the debt If she gave them all the money in the house and then sold every last item they had here it would not amount to three hundred guineas.

  Cuthbertson sat in a seat opposite, flicking the skirts of his purple coat as he settled. "Now, let me explain this to you, dear lady. Your brother played. No one forced him to. No one even inveigled him to. In fact, he was quite desperate to play. He lost. If I had lost, I would have paid him. It is only fair, therefore, that he should pay me. Yes?"

  Portia sat frozen. In a sense he was right, but if ever she'd seen a man who cheated at games of chance, this was one.

  He sighed. "We will take your assent as read. Sending him to debtor's prison, however, will do me no good, especially as gaming debts are not legally collectible."

  "Well then!" she exclaimed.

  "Well then, we have to collect in other ways, don't we?"

  "In eyes? What good would that do you?"

  He showed his ugly teeth. "It would provide an hour or so's entertainment."

  Oliver gurgled with terror and Portia tasted bile. "What then?" she choked out. "What in God's name do you want? "

  "Three hundred guineas. There is something in this room worth that amount."

  "Then take it and begone."

  He laughed, and Mick sniggered. "I fear it is not that simple. If sold, it would be worth the money."

  "Then take it and sell it!"

  "That was exactly my intent, if you are agreeable."

  Portia closed her eyes. "Just take it and go."

  "The valuable item, my dear, is a little bit of skin between your legs."

  Portia opened her eyes slowly, hearing Oliver squawk a protest. So dulled were her wits by terror that it took a moment to register. "No."

  "No?" the man queried. Then he laughed. "Do you think I want it? No piece of kitty is worth that much to me. But there are those who think a virgin a treat."

  "Dear lord..."

  "I know a woman who will auction your treasure off to raise the money to pay your brother's debt. By past results you may even make a little profit, for I will not take one penny more than I am owed."

  "You can't...."

  "Or it's fingers, eyes, and balls, sweetheart."

  Pounds of flesh. Portia had an interest in the play, The Merchant of Venice, since she was named for its heroine. She had never expected to be acting it out.

  But here it was not a question of going into court and cleverly outwitting Shylock. Here her role was sacrifice—she was to give up her chastity to save Oliver from torture.

  She looked numbly at her brother, frozen in Mick's grip. "Don't do it, Portia. Don't." But he was waxen with terror.

  A piece of skin or major parts of Oliver's body.

  She stared at Cuthbertson. "You want me to sell myself into prostitution?"

  "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 knew 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 paneled 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 swiveled 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 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 might 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 ravisher."

  "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.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39