“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.
