The Virgin's Auction

  The Virgin’s Auction

  Amelia Hart

  Kite Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Kite Publishing

  86 Kiteroa Street

  Karapiro, Cambridge

  Waipa 3494

  New Zealand

  Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Leys

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Kite Publishing.

  First Paperback printing: March 2013

  First Edition

  For Kate Oliver,

  Who has a daring heart

  Chapter One

  1802

  “I wouldn’t think of running, if I were you.” Black Jack gave her a malevolent smile. “If you do, the deal is off. I’ll take you and your pretty little brother and you’ll disappear into my most expensive brothel.” He savoured every word, leisurely and well-satisfied; a man who enjoyed his work. “I’ll make the money out of your hide.”

  Melissa breathed hard through her nose, her mind racing.

  “You have no proof of this. There is only your word and that is worth nothing set against that of a gentleman’s daughter. Get out of my house.”

  “Not until you give me what I came for.” His eyes glittered, his smile widening on his flushed face.

  “There will be no money from me now, in a week or ever.”

  “I think there will be.” His lowered eyelids and parted lips made her feel ill to look at, the visible sign that he savoured her terror.

  She tried to disguise it, to remain composed. “You are wrong, sir. Very wrong.”

  “It is you who is wrong. For I do have proof.”

  He drew a folded document out of his waistcoat pocket, taking his time as he unfolded it and held it before her.

  She tried to snatch it but he was faster, whisking it out of her reach.

  “You won’t touch it until the debt is paid in full.” He shrugged. “Then it is yours.”

  He tilted it towards her and she saw the scrawled signature of her late and unlamented father, heavy-handed as in all his doings. It trailed off in an inglorious splatter on the page; signed while in his cups, she was certain.

  Above it was the brief scribble: I, Frederic Matthew Spencer, declare I owe the sum of ten thousand pounds to the bearer of this document.

  She clenched her fists in rage and despair. The room wavered around her before she took a firmer grip of herself. Careful, careful now. This was her future hanging in the balance; and Peter’s also. There must be some path of escape.

  She raised her chin, throwing her shoulders back and declared with authority: “My father was a drunkard. His signature means nothing. No court will uphold your claim.”

  “Of course it would,” he scoffed, folding the paper again and sliding it back to its place in the fashionable but poorly made waistcoat. “His hand to it, the debt was his. Now it is yours.” He straightened the waistcoat and then the dark coat he wore over it, his thumbs remaining under the lapels, thrusting them forward. “Not that I will apply to the law. I am a businessman, Miss Spencer. And the law gets in the way of my business. So understand this,” he paused, rocked onto his heels and then leaned forward so Melissa instinctively shrank back. “If you are seen consorting with an officer of the law your brother will be taken in the instant, and you at the very next opportunity. Do not doubt me. You are watched night and day, and my men won’t hesitate to act.”

  Cool authority did not work to convince him. Would he respond to a plea? She let her stance soften, her eyes carry a hint of her dispair as she said: “Show some compassion, I beg you. My father is not yet cold in his grave-”

  But it was a mistake. He enjoyed her suffering, the macabre grin returning. “My business does not wait for corpses to cool, Miss Spencer. One week is quite enough time.”

  “There is no money.” Perhaps the stark truth of the matter was the only way through. Surely that was unanswerable? “You can give me a week or a year, I do not have ten thousand pounds.”

  “Then whatever terror you feel this week is only the beginning of a hell you can’t begin to imagine.” His eyes were hot and implacably hard above the curl of lip that was half a smile, half a sneer. She had never encountered such evil in a man’s face. “Until Friday next, Miss Spencer.”

  He bowed in a mockery of politeness then turned to leave, his two beefy colleagues hastening to pull upright, chests outthrust as his gaze fell on them.

  He led them out of the front door and down the stairs to the street, Melissa trailing in their wake, determined to be certain of their departure. They left the door open and she watched as they walked along the pavement and out of sight.

  She closed the door, then leaned against it to keep herself from falling.

  “Ten thousand pounds!” she whispered hoarsely. “Oh Father, how could you?”

  She could never hope for such a sum of money. Only yesterday she had decided to give up the rented house in Kensington. They had no funds to support it.

  Father had died a week ago. One week. That was how long it took to find out the depths of their financial straits. Her inheritance was the furnishings of their rented house, a pile of unpaid bills, her fourteen-year-old brother and ten thousand pounds of debt.

  She sobbed three quick, dry sobs, nearly choking, folding in half with her clenched fist pressed hard to her mouth. Then she cut herself off, straightened by an effort of will and pushed away from the door. On unsteady legs she crossed the hall into the small withdrawing room. A pale, watery sunshine lay splashed across the carpet. The faded floral prints of the room danced before her eyes. She sank onto the overstuffed sofa, her hands clutching convulsively at the smooth material.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she murmured. She could not think straight, could not reason this through. How could there be no way out? There must be an answer. She had only to think of it; only calm herself and think slowly and rationally. That man could not triumph. The world was not so mad as that.

  But her breath came in little pants of panic. Too well did she know the world was mad indeed, and the yawning pit opened before her was more fearsome than anything she had ever faced.

  “Miss Spencer?”

  Melissa looked up with a nervous twitch, half-rising. After a moment she absorbed it was the housemaid, Hetty, the information reaching her brain all too slowly.

  Worry was writ large on the girl’s thin, unlovely face. “Oo Miss, it’s that terrible,” she breathed, her fists bunched at her small bosom. “I’m so sorry. Is there . . . something I can do to help, Miss?”

  “Thank you, Hetty, but I’m sure I shall be quite all right,” said Melissa automatically, her eyes wide, staring fixedly at the wainscoting while her mind travelled a small and frantic circle of fear.

  “Miss, I heard everything. You’re fearful brave, Miss. That rascally fellow was nasty as never was.”

  There was silence. Melissa’s gaze sliding slowly back to Hetty, noting she was still there. The two young women gazed at each other, Melissa barely seeing her housemaid for the sick whirl in her head.

  Hetty let off the nervous nibbling on her lower lip. “Miss, if . . . if you don’t mind me being so bold, did you recognise him?”

  “Good God no. I’ve never seen the man before in my life.” There was a pause before she thought to ask: “Why? Did you?”

  “Yes, Miss,” sa
id Hetty importantly. “I’ve had him pointed out to me, Miss. He’s one to steer clear of, he is.”

  “Yes!” said Melissa, feeling this was a crushing understatement.

  “Black Jack, Miss,” Hetty continued, enunciating clearly with a heightened sense of drama. “As nasty and dangerous as can be. That’s what my cousin says.” She nodded to herself. “My cousin Simon.” She huffed a little as if drawing in courage for this unusually long speech. “Miss, you must please let me run and tell my cousin. He’s clever about handling trouble, he is. He’s . . . not a bad sort,” she hesitated, a conscious look on her face, “but you might say he . . . knows his way about the back streets. Too well, maybe. Anyhow, he watches out for me. He could maybe have something useful to say. Advice maybe, if you’ve a mind to listen. I could send for him, Miss. Or go and fetch him myself. Please say I can.”

  There was a roaring in Melissa’s ears that drowned out thought. She wanted to weep, to gibber, to collapse on her bed and not move again. Ten thousand pounds! It was an unbelievable sum. Surely Father had never seen such an amount in his life. How could he be such a fool to sign a promissory note to that tune?

  “Miss? Please Miss, I hate to see you carry this all alone. It’s not a mite fair, Miss, not to you. Please say yes. Please.”

  “Ah, Hetty,” said Melissa, rubbing the heel of one hand over her brow as if she could physically force sense in there. “What . . . ah . . . yes, certainly you may send for him, if you believe he would be helpful.” She flapped her hand in a gesture of dismissal, wanting the girl only to go, to stop talking at her so she could think.

  She had seen the note, had it thrust full in her face by that . . . wretched, foul excuse for a man. The signature was her father’s. An awkward scrawl that was difficult to duplicate, as she had good reason to know.

  Business dealings, the man had said. Business dealings, and the innuendo in his voice left it quite clear that these dealings were not fit for the light of day.

  What could her father have possibly been up to? Did it matter? No, it probably did not. All that mattered now were the consequences of his selfish idiocy.

  She moaned. She and Peter in a brothel? Unthinkable!

  She would not choose to shirk an obligation, but there was no chance of fulfilling this one. A lifetime of frenetic work and wise investment might be enough to set that much aside, but a week?

  Hopeless.

  They must flee. They must. There was no other choice; Out of the City, away from the reach of that man.

  She knew nothing about the countryside; had never travelled out of London in her life. But surely – pray God – there would be some friendly farmhouse where two willing workers would be welcome.

  Once beyond the bounds of London they could find such a place, set themselves up under false names and live in quiet retreat. Peter could learn a trade. He was clever enough, if neither big nor strong. Life on a farm might even be good for him; wholesome.

  Maybe someday – she swallowed, tears prickling the back of her eyelids – maybe they could venture back to the capital, to everything known and familiar. Maybe . . .

  She swabbed fiercely at her eyes. No. No she must not think of the things she was leaving behind. Not if she was to be strong, to act with the necessary resolve. She must set her course and never look back. She was done with this life, now. It was over.

  Implacably she pushed all hysteria aside, schooling herself to calm self-control. She had had her fit of self-pity and now it was done. Peter needed her clear-headed and able to make a plan and see it through.

  To get away: How was she to do it? And how to shelter poor Peter?

  Escaping the city posed the largest hurdle; particularly if that man had not been bluffing. She thought of his hot black eyes, like death itself with hell burning behind them.

  No, he did not seem a man to bluff.

  But she had to pray he was. She shuddered. Ten thousand pounds deserved dozens of hirelings to guard it, and if there were only half that many, flight might be impossible.

  For an instant she imagined falling to the mercies of that wicked man. It was enough to raise all the hair on the back of her neck.

  “No!” she whispered harshly. “No, never!” Not her and not sweet Peter.

  So there must be a way. Somehow she must get them out of this nightmare.

  She stood to pace, twitching her skirt out of the way with each turn, her steps hurrying with the drive to simply run, as fast and hard as she could, Peter’s hand in hers. But she must have a better plan than that. Their lives depended on her wits.

  They could stow away in the cart of some deliveryman, a few necessities strapped to their backs; or run across the rooftops under the moonlight, scrambling from one chimney pot to another; perhaps they could visit Covent Gardens, slip surreptitiously into a boat and paddle madly off down the river Thames.

  She paced, squeezed her hands together in a fierce grip, muttered aloud:

  “Unseen . . . A distraction? Misdirection . . . or disguises.”

  How would they get out of the house? Lose their pursuers in a crowd? Where should they go once they were away?

  She reached out and put her hand on the wall, stopping for a moment, dizzy with her own circling.

  “No, we must away first. And it must be safely.”

  If she put everything on sale – the few remaining paintings, the furniture, anything not nailed down – it would appear she was gathering funds for payment. Might the watchers relax? Could she and Peter escape when their guard was down?

  They would need an easily carried bag, with clothes in it, and food. Supplies so they could take advantage of any opportunity to leave, or flee if that man or his colleagues returned.

  She considered the bare essentials to get by and not perish before finding work. To be on foot travelling through an unfriendly city or the countryside in late winter with only the clothes on their back . . . that was a fearful idea. She had never thought of herself as protected in Father’s house, but there had always been food on the table and a roof over their heads. If they could not find employment they faced destitution.

  Death.

  But escape first, and let the rest take care of itself. She could put together a bag ready for flight.

  Feeling better to be doing something, anything, she ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, her skirts caught up around her knees.

  In her bedroom she flung back the wardrobe doors and rooted through, pushing aside her two pretty winter frocks. Here was a sturdy work dress in a solid russet brown. There a stern dark green gown in a thick, warm fabric. Good petticoats, shoes for walking – her only pair of shoes other than her slippers for in the house – her hairbrush and her tiny trinket box.

  The box was the size of her palm and held a lock of her mother’s hair alongside an elegant pendant and chain she had inherited when Mama died eight years ago. She clutched at it, kissed it once, a forlorn link to a security long vanished.

  Six guineas – which she had been hoarding and thinking of as prosperity before father’s death – and the bare bones of her sewing kit. That was all she could take.

  With a pang, she skimmed a palm over the spines of her collection of dog-eared books; so too the pile of fabrics and embroideries she had collected or stitched. It must all stay.

  When her fingers trembled she held before herself the grim spectre of Peter at Black Jack’s mercy. That dreadful picture made the loss of material possessions of no consequence. The pain was not so great after all.

  She put her armload onto the bed and went out into the hall and down the narrow corridor to his room, lifting a hand as always to touch the darker square on the wall where mama’s portrait had once hung, before father had sold it.

  Peter was curled up peacefully with his own book in the window seat overlooking the street, untouched by worry, a strange contrast to her inner world. As usual, the chamber was a jumble of open books, pencil sketches and crumpled paper. She pretended not to notice how h
e flinched as she swept suddenly through the doorway.

  Curse Father for that flinch! Curse him for his brutality!

  She had so hoped Peter could find peace now, in a house occupied by just the two of them and the two servants. But that was before Father’s bills had made the future so uncertain, this final one the ultimate blight.

  “My love,” she exclaimed, fixing a smile to her lips. It felt dreadfully fake, but then Peter was hardly observant at the best of times, still less when absorbed in a book. “Reading again, are you?” She could hear the shrillness lying under her tone “Come, out! I must tidy a little so this room of yours is in good order. Out, out out!”

  “But Lissa,” he protested, not even glancing up. “I’m in the middle of a good story.”

  “Yes. The Odyssey. I can see. But you can find somewhere else to read it.”

  “What did you think of the Isle of Circe? I thought-”

  “Yes darling, we can discuss it later. Not now. I am terribly busy. No arguing. Out you go!” She hauled him to his feet by main force, chivvied him into the hall with a firm push and shut the door in his face.

  It took moments to extract a bundle of various heavy clothes from the drawers, to choose Peter’s most durable shoes, to sweep like a whirlwind through the rest of his possessions and make a single pile, all too small when set against a wilderness of possible futures.

  Peter was gone from the hall; no doubt hidden away in a comfortable corner, once again deep within the pages of his book.

  It wasn’t worth telling him of their changed circumstances yet. She was the elder by far, and the responsibility of handling it fell squarely on her shoulders. Once the plan was set there would be time for a full disclosure.

  Or maybe she would not tell him at all. It would only frighten him, and he must be kept secure.

  Back in her room she put Peter’s belongings next to her own on the narrow bed and stared at them.