It suddenly struck Portia that it could be Prudence standing here about to be sacrificed. She thanked God it was herself instead.
Taking out the plumpers, Portia turned to face Mirabelle, determined to be practical. “What will I raise, then?”
The madam pursed her lips thoughtfully. “At least the three hundred.”
“I can’t believe that men would pay so much.”
“It amuses them, thanks be to heaven. Where would we all be if it didn’t? And, of course, they can show their friends and enemies that a few hundred guineas means nothing to them. Make no mistake, my dear, everything in London is to do with power.”
“Power? What power is there in buying a child?”
Mirabelle’s mouth turned in a wry smile. “The power of men, that they can buy and sell us? But I buy and sell men sometimes, and sometimes women are the purchasers. Perhaps it is just that they can pay such a ridiculous amount of money for such a trivial thing. You may like to think that.”
“It does not seem trivial to me.”
Mirabelle shrugged. “As you wish. Since you are ready, come back to the parlor.” Once there, Mirabelle said, “I will have a meal sent to you.”
“I couldn’t possibly eat.”
“You may find you can, and it would be wise. You may also have some wine, or even some opiate. Not too much, though. No man will want you comatose.”
“I want nothing.”
Mirabelle shrugged and left. Portia paced. It did no good, but she couldn’t help it. She repeated to herself all the reasons why this had to be, and tried to convince herself that it was not such a great thing.
But the man, the monster, who was to invade and abuse her rose up in her mind like a creature of nightmares.
She covered her face with her hands. No matter how terrible her ravishment, it could not be worse than what Oliver faced if she failed. She must go through with it.
She was burningly aware of the door, though, the door to freedom. But it was already dark outside and dressed as she was she couldn’t possibly leave. And if she did, Oliver would be horribly maimed. She, who always fought against the odds, had come at last to a battle she could not win.
Determined to hang on to her dignity, Portia tried to read from the surprisingly wide selection of books in the room. She picked up first one, then another, but was unable to settle to anything. She tossed down a book about the animals of Africa. They seemed more civilized than the animals of London.
The maid brought food, and Portia picked at it, but her throat was almost too tight to swallow. She drank some of the wine, though, and that eased her dry throat.
The door was a constant torment. Could anything be cruder than this, to have escape from horror, and not be able to use it?
Chapter 9
Bryght dined at his club with Andover and Barclay, a laconic ex-officer who wore a hook where his right hand had been. As they were leaving for the theatre, they encountered Sir William Hargrove, a wealthy Nabob whose greatest ambition was to enter the higher reaches of Society. The man had recently acquired a baronetcy, and Bryght expected to hear any day that he had bought himself into the peerage.
Well, there were worse specimens among the aristocracy. Sir William was at least clean and well-mannered.
“Lord Bryght,” said the sinewy older man with a deep bow. “I give you good evening.”
Bryght returned the bow and introduced his companions. In turn, Sir William introduced the man at his side, Mr. Prestonly, a fat sugar trader from the West Indies.
“Can we interest you in a game, my lords?” asked Sir William eagerly.
Sir William was one of Bryght’s favorite victims when Bridgewater needed money. He was wealthy enough to hardly feel the thousands he lost, and clearly thought that associating with the aristocracy was worth every penny. Mr. Prestonly seemed of the same stripe.
Bridgewater was not in great need at the moment, but Portia St. Claire was. After a communicative glance at his friends, Bryght said, “We would be delighted, sirs….”
At that point, however, Mr. Prestonly’s shiny red face grew redder. “Hey what, Sir William? I thought we were for this Mirabelle’s to see this auction.”
Sir William did not look pleased, but he said, “That is true, my lords. My friend here has a wish to attend the affair. One of Cuthbertson’s debtors. Perhaps Mr. Prestonly wishes to bid.”
Prestonly puffed his cheeks at that, but did not deny it.
