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 youwant? ”
“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.”
“Youcan’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?”
