“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 Iwantthis.”
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.
There, not many feet away, people went about their business, and coaches and carts rattled by. She could call for help. In fact, she didn’t need help. She could just walk away.
But unless she raised three hundred guineas, Oliver would suffer horribly.
She thought briefly of Nerissa, but could not imagine her chance-met cousin giving her such a sum of money. It was enough for a family to survive on for years.
Then she thought of Bryght Malloren. He’d offered her ten thousand guineas for this little bit of skin.
She stood there, fingers pressed to her head, trying to think. Bryght Malloren had not offered that vast sum for a bit of skin. He’d wanted all of her, body and soul. A slave for as long as he willed it. And it had only been a cruel joke.
She still had her map in her pocket and it told her that she was only three streets from Marlborough Square.
Better the devil you know…
With a sob, Portia plunged out into the alley. She controlled herself before she reached the street, and merely walked briskly on her way, wishing the light wasn’t beginning to go. The people she passed seemed to be servants more concerned with their own business than hers, but she was terrified of attack or pursuit.
Pursuit! She stopped dead so a footman bumped into her and cursed. If she was missed, perhaps they wouldn’t pursue, but just start torturing Oliver.
She half turned to go back, frozen in indecision, subject to curious stares from passersby.
But this was her only chance.
She continued, speeding her pace. She was almost running by the time she entered the charming square. Ithadbeen charming, rather, for now it seemed menacing in the gloom, and the railings around the garden looked like prison bars.
Portia reached the wide steps leading up to the portico and stared up at the great doors of Malloren House. The glossy finish picked up the flames of the two flambeaux that bracketed them, making them seem in truth the gates of hell. To the right of the doors, in an alcove, sat an old man well wrapped in coat and muffler with a brazier nearby. He looked at her curiously.
Portia took a deep breath and ran up the stairs. “I have come to see Lord Arcenbryght Malloren.”
The man looked her over and Portia realized for the first time that she had neither cloak nor hat. “He’s out.”
“Please!” Portia begged. “I know I look peculiar, but he will want to see me.”
The man’s expression softened a little. “Maybe that’s true, luv, but he really is out. Come back tomorrow.”
“It can’twaituntil tomorrow. Where is he?”
