Bryght did not conceal his distaste, but having turned his mind to it he had no particular desire to allow these two very plump pigeons out of his orbit. “Why do we not all repair to Mirabelle’s? The lady has gaming tables as well as her other attractions.”
“Aye,” said Sir William with relief. “Excellent notion, my lord. What do you say, Prestonly?”
“By all means!” declared that man and it was settled.
Since Mr. Prestonly did not care to walk any further than he had to, they took a coach to Mirabelle’s. Bryght spent the journey gently assuring himself that Mr. Prestonly was as deep in the pockets as he appeared to be.
He was.
He was also a slave-trader who showed not a qualm about the business. After enduring the man’s account of slave auctions back home, and some quite revolting stories about female slaves, Bryght decided that relieving him of part of his ill-gotten wealth would be pure pleasure.
There was no clock in the room, but distant noises told Portia that the business of the house was well under way. Music played, as if this were a grand house holding an entertainment. Voices could be heard, male voices overlaid by feminine laughter.
Portia was plagued by a sense of unreality. How could this terrible thing be happening to her while nearby, others laughed?
Mirabelle swept in. She had changed into a splendid dress of deep blue silk flounced with black lace and cut very low across the bosom. Her dark hair was dressed high and decorated with an aigrette of blue flowers and jewels. Perhaps real sapphires. Other jewels adorned her neck, fingers, and wrists.
Portia couldn’t help but think that her own sacrifice tonight would put a few more baubles on the abbess’s over-adorned flesh.
“Still spirited enough to sneer, are we?” asked Mirabelle without offense. “Excellent. The one thing I don’t want from you is a state of collapse. Now, we are almost ready and there is an excellent company eagerly awaiting your appearance. Do you want some more wine or some opiate?”
It was tempting, but Portia shook her head. “I prefer to keep my wits intact.”
“I’m not sure why, my dear, but as you will. Just remember, once the auction is done, you must fulfill your part of the bargain.”
Portia said nothing, and just wished her heart would stop pounding so hard. She was determined to do this with dignity and courage but her treacherous body seemed likely to betray her and plunge her into a dead faint.
“Perhaps I will have something.” She picked up the brandy glass and drained it. She choked at the fire of it, but it did steady her head.
“It revives courage, does it not?” said Mirabelle. “And you have courage. What are you going to do about your brother after tonight?”
Portia clutched the glass. “I don’t know.”
“You would be well advised to cut loose of him. Do you think he would do something like this for you?”
“Yes, of course he would.” But Portia wasn’t sure. Some people would think preserving virtue was more noble than preserving a life.
“Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
Portia realized with surprise that Mirabelle didn’t like this situation any better than she did, and wanted her to use the door and walk to freedom. “I can’t abandon him,” she whispered. “Really, he is a good man but for this one thing.” In desperation, she refilled the glass and drained it again.
“No more,” said Mirabelle, then shook her head. “You are a veritable Joan of Arc, aren’t you?”
Portia started at that, for it stirred a memory.
Mirabelle carried on smoothly, “It is time. There is no need for you to speak or do anything but stand there.” She opened the door and gestured Portia to pass through.
Portia wondered if the brandy had been a good idea, for her legs did not seem to want to obey her head. She forced them, however, and left the room.
The passageway was carpeted and soft under Portia’s thin sandals. A couple of servants bustled by, giving Portia only a mildly curious glance. The noise of talk and laughter grew louder as she approached an open door. She felt more as if she were watching someone else than doing this herself.
Steered by Mirabelle’s hand on her back she walked through the door and stopped dead.
The large room was handsomely furnished and lit by an extravagance of candles. It was full of finely dressed people—mostly men—and Portia was buffeted by a wave of voices, and by air heavy with the smell of perfumes, sweat, and candle smoke.
The babble died. Everyone turned to look at her and Portia was dazzled by the flashes as raised quizzing glasses caught the candlelight. She froze, but Mirabelle pushed her forward, not ungently.
Portia swallowed and walked unsteadily toward a small dais or stage at this end of the room. It stood about four feet off the ground and was lit along the front by more candles backed by reflectors. When Portia mounted to the stage she found herself in bright light and could hardly see past the glare into the room. That was an improvement, but she could still hear the buzz of comment.
