Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (19 page)

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.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mirabelle, "your attention please." She came to stand behind Portia, using the contrast in size to emphasize Portia's supposed youth.

The silence became complete.

"My friends," said Mirabelle, "I present to you, Hippolyta."

* * *

Bryght was at the rear of the room, concentrating on whist. He heard the change of sound in the room that doubtless meant the star of the evening had arrived, but his attention was on Mr. Prestonly's next card. The man was an unexpectedly shrewd player and was giving Bryght a challenge. He was glad of it. Plucking helpless pigeons, even fat ones, was not at all to his taste.

In a rare burst of unnecessary movement, Mr. Prestonly heaved himself up and craned his neck. "Little thing. Pretty, though. Looks a mere child."

It was clear he did not consider this unattractive. Bryght fingered with satisfaction the two hundred guineas before him. He was starting slow but planned to relieve the merchants of at least two thousand before the night was over.

That would be a comfortable start to getting Portia St. Claire out of London, and out of his life.

Sir William said somewhat testily, "Pay attention to the game, Prestonly."

Mr. Prestonly sat and played low. "Nothing's happening yet." He leered at Bryght. "Don't you ever feel tempted to buy one of these innocents, my lord, and practice for your wedding night?"

"Do you think I need practice?" asked Bryght coolly, considering carefully whether Prestonly was likely to have the last spade. He made his decision and led the five.

Prestonly grimaced and discarded a diamond. "It's different with a nervous virgin, my lord. I know. Been married twice. And then there's the slave girls..."

He stopped because Bryght intended him to stop, and had sent the message with his eyes. Bryght was wondering whether getting Portia safe back in Dorset was worth this.

Prestonly paled and concentrated on his cards.

"My dear Bryght," said Andover mischievously as he took the trick and led a diamond. "I do think you should practice for your wedding night."

Bryght flicked him a look. "What wedding night?"

Sir William played the jack. "What of Jenny Findlayson?" he asked with genuine curiosity. "You've been raising hopes there."

Bryght almost denied the interest, but realized in time that Sir William was a friend of Mrs. Findlayson's brother. He could hardly tell the man that the widow was his contingency plan in case Bridgewater needed more money than they could raise by other means.

Or had been. He doubted it was possible anymore.

It was one thing to marry in cold calculation, meaning to deal honestly with a wife. It was another to marry completely against his inclinations. Hell for both parties.

He didn't care to look too closely at where his inclinations lay....

Bryght found he'd lost track of the play. When had that last happened to him? "Jenny is a very attractive woman," he said vaguely, searching his memory. Had Prestonly discarded a diamond or a heart?

"Your play, I believe, my lord."

Damnation, that was Prestonly prompting him, and not without a sneer. He pulled his mind back onto the game and banished all women from it.

A diamond. Which meant...

"I present to you Hippolyta."

Bryght froze in the act of choosing his card and swiveled, icily certain of what he would see.

At first he thought he was mistaken.

An elfin-slight figure shimmered gold and white on the dais. Long dark curls hung to her waist and her features were much coarser than Portia St. Claire's. He heard Mirabelle describe her as a fourteen-year-old who had come up from the country to learn earthy pleasures from a gentleman. It was possible. Some country girls raised a dowry this way.

She looked a mere child, though.

He should have turned back to the game, but something held him gazing at the girl. She looked young and vulnerable, and much too small to be roughly violated by one of these men.

The bidding started, low as yet, mere foolishness. Suddenly the girl straightened her spine and raised her chin as if defying the bidders to think the less of her.

Bryght cursed under his breath.

It had to be that damn brother.

"Bryght," said Andover, "it's your play."

Bryght tossed his cards on the table. "Your pardon for a moment."

Prestonly looked up with a leer. "I thought you had no interest in these auctions, my lord."

"That has just changed."

Damn it to Hades but that tunic she was wearing scarce reached her knees! At least it wasn't transparent, but without stays, hoops, or petticoats her form was clear to all.

Bryght couldn't help noticing how tiny she was—fine-boned, lightly fleshed with scarcely more hip and breast on her than a boy. He'd never been attracted to that type of woman before and wasn't sure of his feelings now except that he could not stand idly by while Portia St. Claire was auctioned off for the amusement of this crowd.

He was good at calculating options and odds, and realized almost instantly that he had few. He could not buy Portia and pretend to deflower her, because such events took place in Mirabelle's Rotunda, which had twenty peepholes in the walls for voyeurs. Since Mirabelle sold each place for twenty guineas, she'd fight to the death to preserve that tradition.

He could not snatch Portia away. Even if he paid Mirabelle the money, it could cause a riot. More importantly, it would focus attention on the affair. London would be abuzz with it, and some people were bound to remember the attentions he had paid to a petite woman in the park, a petite woman with a gamester brother.

They might as well post notices all over Town.

Simply to go through with it would cause no comment at all. He didn't know, however, if he were capable of raping Portia—or any woman—even to save her from a worse fate.

He looked again at the gold and white figure standing stiffly in the bright light, chin raised. Was it only his imagination that she was trembling?

She had reason to tremble if she but knew it. Most of the bidders were merely after amusement, but one was Lord Speenholt, who was riddled with the pox and seeking the mythical virgin cure. Another was Gerard D'Ebercall whose tastes ran to the vicious.

He didn't know whom he wanted to murder most—Oliver Upcott or his doting half-sister. Cuthbertson was doomed.

The bidding had crept up to two hundred by the time he saw a way. He turned to Prestonly. "You cast doubts upon my ability to handle nervous virgins, sir. Care to back it with money?"

The man twitched at his tone. "Money, my lord? What do you mean?"

Bryght leant forward on the table. "I'm going to buy that chit, and have her begging for it without even taking her clothes off. If I succeed, you are going to pay me twice what I bid."

The man's eyes flickered nervously, and he swallowed. "I didn't mean to call into doubt...." He smiled weakly. "By all means, my lord. Let us have the little wager."

Bryght straightened, ignoring Andover's raised brows. "Excellent." He turned toward the dais. "Three hundred."

Mirabelle's eyes flicked to his in surprise, for he had never shown interest in such affairs before. But she said, "At last, someone who knows value when he sees it. Three it is. Who will say three-twenty?"

Bryght saw Portia's eyes swivel toward his voice. Standing in the midst of bright candles, she wouldn't be able to see much of the room, and the voices would be disembodied. Had she recognized his? If so, what was she thinking?

Would she know there was no way out of this short of setting the house on fire?

He even considered it, but the chances of getting out alive were small. At this moment Portia might think death in the flames preferable to her fate, but common sense would return in time.

Even with the mask on he could see that she was tracking the betting with apprehensive, jerky movements. He desperately wanted to comfort her.

The bidding had stalled at three hundred and fifty in Speenholt's favor and Bryght would soon have to make his definitive bid. To spite Prestonly, he would have liked to drive the bidding sky-high, but that would create just the kind of notice he was trying to avoid.

He thought it was over, but then a stir at the back of the room announced new arrivals.

"You are late, gentlemen." Mirabelle raised a hand to pause the bidding. "But come and inspect this delicious charmer. Perhaps you would care to purchase the right to her education."

"I don't think so."

It was the new Earl of Walgrave and some friends. Fortitude Ware was in mourning black, but encrusted with silver and jet. From the way he accepted a kiss from an opportunistic whore, Bryght assumed he had not decided to follow in his strait-laced father's footsteps.

Bryght wondered if he could use Fort's arrival to his advantage, but he was damned if he saw how. There was some connection between the Wares and the St. Claires, but it was probably slight. Moreover, the Mallorens and Wares were outright enemies these days, only civil because Chastity Ware had recently married Bryght's young brother, Cyn.

The bidding resumed, but it was dying. Bryght bid four hundred, hoping that would be it.

Speenholt glared across the room. "Four-fifty."

"Four-seventy," said D'Ebercall.

"Five hundred," said Bryght. Damnation, the very figure involved was going to cause talk.

Speenholt pointedly turned his back on the proceedings. D'Ebercall glared at Bryght, but then shrugged. "She's yours."

Bryght waited for a moment, then moved forward, still weighing the possibility of taking his purchase out of here, but having made a wager, he had ruled that out.

The voyeurs were his main problem now. Demand for a spot would be brisk when word got out that there was such an unusual wager on the line. Mirabelle would probably raise her price.

He didn't like the situation one bit, but he told himself he'd avoided the worst of it. By the terms of the wager, Portia would not be violated or stripped naked, but he hated the thought of those avid eyes on her as he drove her to simulated ecstasy.

And what was he going to have to do to make it convincing? He hoped to heaven she was a good actress because he suspected Prestonly would want to watch the wager play out.

"Six hundred," said a new voice.

Bryght turned to stare at the Earl of Walgrave. What the devil...? Fort was no more inclined toward this sort of foolery than Bryght was.

Then Bryght realized that Fort, too, must have recognized Portia. That might be useful, but it indicated a familiarity between them that Bryght did not like. And he certainly didn't like the attention all this was causing.

A buzz of speculation was now running through the room because of the high price and the unusual bidders. Soon everyone would realize that there had to be a personal interest in this.