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.
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.
“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…