“Then we must think beyond coin,” Camelia said, stopping abruptly.
Her father lifted his head, bewildered. “Beyond coin? My dear, debts are not paid with dreams. Montague will have his due, and I would rather face disgrace than see Margaret married to him.”
Margaret stood up and placed her hands on her hips. “Then let him ruin us. I would sooner live in poverty than in that man’s house. At least poverty does not leer and laugh in one’s face.”
“You speak rashly, Margaret. Ruin is not so simple. Poverty would strip us of everything—our name, our prospects, even the roof over our heads. We cannot invite it so easily,” Iris cautioned softly.
Camelia admired her elder sister’s quiet strength. Iris, more than any of them, understood the weight of ruin in Society when her husband had died on their wedding night, leaving her to bear the cruel judgment of the ton alone.
“Better to be ruined than to be bartered like cattle!” Margaret shot back.
“Peace, both of you,” their father murmured, raising a hand to silence them.
Camelia turned to her family, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “We cannot ignore the truth. Our familywillbe ruined if we cannot find a solution in a conventional way.” A heavy silence enveloped them before she continued, “We must look elsewhere.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but I cannot bear this helplessness,” Camelia whispered to herself, her hands trembling under her cloak as she crept down the dark hall.
The house was silent. Her father and sisters had retired to their beds, but sleep eluded her, as Lord Montague’s visit plagued her mind. Her heart pounded beneath her corset, each beat a reminder of his vile ultimatum: Margaret, or ruin by tomorrow evening.
I will repay him, no matter the cost. He will not have her, and he will not ruin us.
Without thinking any further about it, Camelia slipped out the side door and hailed a hackney in the shadowed street.
“Whitechapel,” she told the horseman as placidly as she could.
The destination was foreign and dangerous, but desperation drove her. She had resolved to find money the only way a woman of her station could in such dire straits.
I must have some worth.
The thought made her stomach churn.
But what choice is left? Papa cannot pay, and Margaret cannot suffer. I must do this.
The hackney rattled through London’s cobbled streets, the respectable facades of Mayfair giving way to the grimy alleys of Whitechapel. Camelia’s hands twisted nervously in her lap, and her curls escaped her hood and fell around her face.
What am I doing?
Her mind screamed at her, but she shoved the thought aside.
There is no time for doubt. I must be strong.
The carriage stopped, and Camelia stepped into a dark alley. The air was thick with the stench of refuse and cheap gin. Her good sense urged her to flee, but desperation held her fast.
“You can do this, Camelia. Youmustdo this,” she commanded herself.
Her heart thudded as she stood at the mouth of the alley, her eyes drawn to the brothel across the street. The flickering lanterns cast a warm, deceptive glow over its facade, and the muffled sounds of women’s laughter and soft moans spilled through the cracked windows.
Camelia sucked in a sharp breath.
Who should I talk to? What should I say?
The uncertainty gnawed at her.
What awaits in such a place? And what would be expected of me?
Across the cobbled street, a woman in a burgundy dress sauntered towards a gentleman lingering near a lamppost. Her hips swayed with practiced ease, and her voice carried a low, honeyed tone.
“I’ve been waiting for you, darling,” she purred as her fingers brushed the man’s arm.
