“Now, now, you can’t go around London pestering a gentleman, me dear. You go home, and come back tomorrow.”
Dear Lord, it was true. Even if she knew where he was—at White’s, or the Cocoa Tree, or some great house—she could not gain entry there.
And there was no time.
Time!
She imagined Mick already doing rough surgery on Oliver and fled down the steps to race back through the streets to Mirabelle’s. She stopped at one point, wondering whether to try Fort’s house, whether he might have arrived.
But there was no time. No time.
She picked up her skirts and ran. Once a man did try to stop her. He grabbed her arm. “Hey, my beauty—”
Portia didn’t care if his intent were good or not. She thumped his nose and he let go of her with a curse.
She came to the alley and had to stop to catch her breath. She staggered down it and into the house, then fell into the parlor to find Mirabelle there.
The madam helped her to a chair. “You failed to find help.” It was a statement.
“Yes,” Portia gasped, sucking in breaths. “Did you tell Cuthbertson I was gone?”
“Of course not. Until the time comes for the auction, it is no business of his.”
“Thank you!”
The woman gave a wry smile. “You have little reason to thank me, but I will help you if I can. I’m sorry you failed to raise the money elsewhere. I know for you gently bred women this is a difficult thing, but it is, in fact, no great matter. If you wish, I can repair you afterward so that you will go to a husband intact again. I wouldn’t recommend it, however. Better to trick your husband into thinking he’s the first.”
“No, thank you.”
Mirabelle laughed. “Ah, my dear, do you still have the courage to sneer? Don’t try to deal honestly with men. They hold all the cards. The only way to win is to cheat.”
Portia refused to answer and just concentrated on steadying her breathing.
“As you will,” said Mirabelle. “So, do you wish the whole world to know what you are doing tonight, honest one? Or would you prefer discretion?”
Portia stared at the woman. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. “Can it be concealed?”
“Certainly. Your identity has nothing to do with your price. With a wig, a mask, and some paint, your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I’d like that,” said Portia humbly.
“Very well. Come with me.”
Mirabelle led the way into an adjoining bedroom and directed Portia to sit at the dressing table. Portia watched in the mirror as the madam transformed her, dressing her red hair tightly and pinning a loose, silky ebony wig on top. It reminded her horribly of Zeno’s feathery coat.
Mirabelle gave her plumpers—pads of leather to slide into her cheeks—and then blushed those round cheeks with rouge. She made her lips look fuller with a bright red cream. Then a mask was added. Just a narrow mask over her eyes, but covered with beaten gold.
“You see,” said Mirabelle. “The shimmer of the gold distracts from your eyes. No one will even know what color they are. Off with your clothes.”
Portia had begun to think of the abbess as almost a friend, now she was shocked back into reality. “What?” Her voice even sounded strange with the plumpers in her mouth.
“You’re hardly going to parade before the men in that,” said Mirabelle, indicating Portia’s plain beige dimity dress. “Anyway, something more suitable will be yet more disguise. Do you have a name you want to use?”
“You haven’t asked my real name.” With a grimace of distaste, Portia pulled out the plumpers. She’d put them back in at the last moment.
“I don’t want to know your name.”
Portia swiveled on the bench to face the woman. “You could easily find it out.”
