Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (17 page)

"
You
can't
...."

"Or it's fingers, eyes, and balls, sweetheart."

Pounds of flesh. Portia had an interest in the play,
The Merchant of Venice,
since she was named for its heroine. She had never expected to be acting it out.

But here it was not a question of going into court and cleverly outwitting Shylock. Here her role was sacrifice—she was to give up her chastity to save Oliver from torture.

She looked numbly at her brother, frozen in Mick's grip. "Don't do it, Portia. Don't." But he was waxen with terror.

A piece of skin or major parts of Oliver's body.

She stared at Cuthbertson. "You want me to sell myself into prostitution?"

"No, no," he declared in spurious horror. "Not at all. It will be just the once. Unless you get a taste for it."

"Just the once? And someone would pay three hundred guineas?"

"Almost certainly. But I am a fair man and auctions are chancy. If for any reason you don't bring the full amount, I will take what you raise and call it settled."

"Auction!"

"To get the highest price." He looked her over in a surprisingly objective way. "I judge you'll do well. You have that high-bred look, and you're small, especially in the tits. Mirabelle will probably be able to pass you off as quite young. A lot of men like their virgins young."

Portia covered her mouth with her hand. Her brain felt vacuous and she couldn't think clearly at all. She wished she could persuade herself this was a nightmare, but it assuredly was not. She was going to have to do this horrible thing.

"Are we agreed then?" asked Cuthbertson.

Portia stood as calmly and resolutely as she could, praying that her legs would not betray her. "What do I have to do?"

"Come with me. We can probably get it done tonight, and then you can forget all about it."

She gave a shaky laugh at that absurd notion. "Oh God..." She looked across at Oliver, still frozen in Mick's threatening grasp.

"Portia—" But his words were cut off as Mick jerked his head hard back.

"Don't worry about him, my dear," said Cuthbertson. "Mick will take good care of him, and I assure you he will not hurt a hair on his head. Unless, of course, you turn coward."

The room was not cold, and yet Portia was chilled through and trembling. Her head and feet did not seem connected at all, and that worried her. It was important—heaven knew why—to act with dignity at this moment.

"Do you have a cloak?" Cuthbertson asked with concern. "It is rather chilly outside today."

Portia forced her reluctant limbs into motion and went to get her heavy cloak.

* * *

The woman was called Mirabelle. She was tall, handsome, and very grand in yellow satin over wide hoops.

Apart from an excess of paint, she could pass for any great lady. In fact, Portia had seen great ladies who were painted just as thickly.

Her eyes, though, her eyes were hard.

She had dismissed Cuthbertson with unconcealed disdain and taken Portia to a private room. It was a handsome paneled parlor that could have graced a gentleman's house. Portia didn't know what she had expected of a brothel, but it was not this.

Mirabelle looked her over. "Are you willing?"

"No, of course not. Those men are making me do this to pay my brother's gaming debts!"

If Portia had expected compassion, she was disappointed. "That's generally the way of it." Mirabelle settled on a chaise and waved Portia to a chair. "Let me make the situation clear, my dear. I am a madam, an abbess—call me what you will. I run a house where men, and some women, buy erotic pleasures. I provide almost anything here for a price, but I am not in the business of slavery. There's not an employee in this house held by force. Behind you is a door which leads to a corridor. The corridor leads to the street. You are free to leave at any time."

Portia swiveled to look at the door. She believed Mirabelle, and in a strange way it made everything worse. Every step she took was to be by her own free will. She covered her face with shaking hands. "Have you no pity?"

"I pity you, but not enough to pay your brother's debts. In what other way can I help you? If I were you, I'd let Cuthbertson take it out of your brother's flesh, for if he's a gamester he will always be one. Tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Someday he will play again, and lose."

Portia feared that Mirabelle was right, but still she couldn't condemn Oliver to torture. A little bit of skin—that's how she tried to think about it. Just a little bit of skin as opposed to Oliver's eyes. And how long could it take? Minutes only. She could do it.

"Will they truly hurt Oliver if I don't do this?"

"Oh yes. But they will hurt him a little then approach you again. Sooner or later—a finger or eye later—you will give in. It's the money they want. Cuthbertson makes his living this way. Even bankrupts generally have a young relative somewhere—a toothsome lad, or a female with a maidenhead still to lose. Which reminds me. Lie down on the chaise, dear. I must make sure you are not trying to cheat me."

"I am a virgin!"

"I take nothing on trust. I recommend you do the same."

Portia wanted to refuse, which was ridiculous when she had consented to much worse. She lay on the long chaise and closed her eyes as the woman raised her skirts and examined her. Portia had thought her life had hit its lowest point weeks ago, but it kept sliding down and down. Could it go farther than this?

Assuredly.

And soon.

"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 I
want
this."

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. It
had
been 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't
wait
until tomorrow. Where is he?"

"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.