Chapter 9 #2
“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.
Bryght took a leisurely pinch of snuff and pitched his voice to carry. “Carrying our family feud a little far, aren’t you, Walgrave? I have a wager here. I win double the price if I can make this morsel beg for consummation without so much as removing her clothing.”
That caused a wave of amused comment. The jaded company was intrigued, but now they would no longer wonder at events. In wagers no one looked for reason.
Fort strolled forward. “A wager, eh? And you worked the bidding high in the security that you would win.”
“I only ever play for high stakes, as you know.”
“Then overbid me.”
Bryght gritted his teeth. Fort had deep pockets and was in the mood for mischief. He would push the bidding into the thousands out of pure malice. Bryght would be happy to squeeze that sort of money out of Prestonly, but the matter would then be the talk of the town for months.
“It would be absurd to pay this chit a fortune, not to mention Mirabelle’s twenty percent. I’ll play you for her.”
Fort was now at Bryght’s side. “Play?” he queried.
“Dice. Highest roll.” Bryght proffered his snuff box and Fort took a leisurely pinch. Bryght murmured, “You recognize her?”
Fort’s eyes sharpened and he studied Hippolyta. Bryght realized then that he’d made a serious miscalculation. Fort had not recognized Portia, but had been motivated solely by a desire to thwart a Malloren. Damn.
Fort’s eyes widened. “Hell and the devil, you can’t buy her.”
“What alternative?”
“Get her out of here.”
“Please do. I can’t see a way to rescue her without raising speculation.”
Fort muttered something. “I always knew her bold nature would land her in trouble.”
“Gentlemen,” Mirabelle chided. “This is collusion!”
Bryght turned to her. “Indeed it is. But if you and Hippolyta want the money you will have to put up with it. Lord Walgrave and I are establishing a side bet. He claims his amatory skills are at least the equal of mine. We are going to dice for the honor. Highest roll.” He turned back to the earl with a challenging look.
Fort’s lips tightened. “Better I maul her than you.”
“I doubt it.” Bryght snared a pair of dice from a nearby table and rolled them. “They seem true. Well, Walgrave? One each. Highest wins.”