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Authors: Amelia Hart

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“Are you proposing we all go to this inn, Mr Tell?” she asked.

“No, no I’ve no idea like that
.” He shook his head emphatically. “You go your own way, and you don’t breathe a word of it to us. Just in case.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “It goes like this: We’ll get you into a crowd. Some event with plenty of milling about and distraction. I’ll hire chaps to make a diversion, you take to your heels, and I’ll have more hired bravos to take your followers from behind – so they’re not seen – and pound them to a pulp.” His lips had drawn back to bare his teeth in a fierce grimace, and Melissa forced herself to breathe calmly at this savagery and keep listening. “You run for a carriage and make away into the countryside. Give the direction to the driver as you climb aboard. And wherever you go, blend in. Disappear.”

“You . . . ah . . . you appear to have given this some thought, Mr Tell.”

“I’ve watched it arranged before. Mind you, them was villains getting away from a hired detective, but the thing’s the same when you come down to it.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to come back, Mr Tell?” She thought she knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.

“No, never. It will likely cost you your life if you do be that stupid.” He shook his head with a scowl, then leaned back in his chair, a man ready to come to terms. “Now none of this will come cheap, Miss. You’ve got us to establish, yourself as well, and the men I’ll be hiring will risk their lives. So the money better be good.”

Melissa found it reassuring that he should declare himself a fair fee up front. Better he should intend to collect payment from her above board than attempt some sort of swindle. At least, it was reassuring if she could actually afford to pay what he asked. “How much think you, sir?”

“I’m thinking near on a thousand, Miss.”

Melissa’s eye
s widened and she leaned back in her own chair, stunned. “So much?” she gasped. It was well nigh as impossible as the
ten
thousand!

“Oh Simon, never say so! Surely we can take less-”

“Hetty, I say you hush. I
won’t
be taking less, Miss.” He stuck his jaw forward pugnaciously. “I’ll be leaving behind what took me years to set in place. And I’m only doing it for something better. Sweet woman you may be, and kind, and I’m glad to help such, but I has to take care of me own first.” He nodded again, prodding his knee with an index finger as punctuation.

“Yes, yes I quite see how it is. You need not fear, Mr Tell. It is not to
o great a price to pay for our lives.” She shook her head helplessly. “If only I had the money. But I swear, I do not.” Her hands were squeezing each other so hard they hurt. With an effort, she separated them and lay them palm down, flat on the chaise lounge on either side of her skirt. “Surely I could find some way of slipping my brother and myself out unnoticed? It can’t be
that
difficult.”

“Miss, you don’t want to be taking no chances,” said Mr Tell grimly. “If he thinks you’re planning to run, or catches you at it, he’ll cut his losses and take you in payment.”

“So he said,” she murmured.

“Miss, you won’t be able to stop him.
There’s some real nasty things as go on in this city.” He shook his head in foreboding. “A nice lady such as yourself shouldn’t never know about them. I swear you need to hire you some eyes of your own, to find them as spy on you. Fighters to take ‘em out, and others to create a diversion so you can run. You
got
to find the money.”

She looked up at the paint flaking from the ceiling as she mentally tallied how much she might
raise if she were to pawn or sell the household contents. She could do that as she had already planned, without raising suspicions. Black Jack’s men would assume she was working to raise the money owed to him.

Yet the entire household contents might fetch three or four hundred in a hurry, maybe as much as five
hundred if she was lucky. As much as a thousand? Never!

There was a pause. Mr Tell looked concerned
at the expression on her face, though for her fate or his disappearing prospect of employment she could not be sure.

“You can’t manage that, Miss?”

“No, no, I’m afraid I can’t. Half of it perhaps, but I cannot count on more than that.”

“Well you’re done for without it,” he said, implacable.

“My God,” she said, “my God,” and put her head in her hands. Her stomach turned over in fear, and bile rose to her mouth.

Mr Tell leaned forward with his hands clasped and elbows on his knees, jogging them up and down a little. He started to speak, hesitated,
then began again carefully:

“I don’t like to say this to you, Miss. It’s not much different from those
nasty things I was talking about nice women not ought to be knowing.” Again he stopped, as if wrestling with himself.

Melissa waited, her eyes raised to his
, desperate for hope.

Mr Tell glanced at the floor, out the window,
then gazed back at Melissa. He cleared his throat.

“You might sell your virgin night,” he said baldly, his ruddy cheeks going even redder.

“My . . . what?” said Melissa.


Simon
!” exclaimed Hetty in rebuke. “That’s no way to be speaking to Miss Spencer!”


Hetty, hush now!’ he said sternly. “This is past nice talk. Miss Spencer needs help, not pretty words.”

“Virgin
night?” Melissa repeated. “What on earth is that, may I ask?” She had a dreadful feeling she already knew.

“It’s . . . well . . . it’s . . .” he stammered, now lost for an explanation.

“It’s the night you stops being a virgin, Miss,” said Hetty flatly with pursed lips.

“One can sell such a thing?” Melissa asked in sick wonder.

“Miss, you can sell
anything
in London.”

“For certain, Miss,” said Mr Tell. “There are parts of town where it’s done every night.”

“Good heavens,” said Melissa.

“Sometimes
it’s girls selling themselves, sometimes their fathers selling them, sometimes girls stolen from off the street. There’s always more money for a willing one. Most of all for a pretty woman.”

“That’s repulsive!”

Mr Tell ploughed on as if determined to get it all out there now he had started down this way. “I should think it’s the first place you’d end up if Black Jack took you, Miss; though the auction would happen in one of his brothels. Your brother too.”

“My
brother
!” Now Melissa really
did
feel sick

“It’s not as common. But there’s some places a good-looking boy can fetch a fair sum. And the lad is usually not heard from again.” He looked unhappy but
certain.

Melissa wrapped her arms tighter around her middle. She rocked
back and forth. There was silence in the room.

Then
Hetty burst out: “You can’t ask that of Miss Spencer, Simon. She’s a right nice woman. A real lady. She couldn’t be doing such a thing! There must be some other way!”

“If there is, then you tell it to me,
Hetty,” his voice was harsh. “You tell me where else she’s to find that sort of money, if she hasn’t got it about her! At least she’d be choosing it. Not having it chosen for her.”

“This
ain’t a choice!”

“It’s better than what she had an hour ago. You got a fitting way to get her out of this, go ahead.”

“Would it raise a thousand pounds though?” said Melissa hollowly.

“What?”

“Selling my virgin night. Would it be enough to raise a thousand pounds?”

“It might do, Miss. I can’t be making
no promises. It all depends on who’s there that night. A lady like yourself, a Nob, and a real looker,” his eyes skittered down and away, “might fetch a thousand.”

“Could you arrange it then?”

“Miss?” He looked surprised.

She could barely bear to contemplate it, but she
was a logical woman. She could see there was no other way through. Mr Tell’s plan seemed sound; straightforward and effective. He had seen it done before; he was confident about his contacts. If the only hurdle was funds and he had an answer to that too . . . well, could she truly balk at the surrender of her virginity, set against hers and Peter’s lives?

“Miss
Spencer
!” If he was surprised, Hetty was absolutely shocked, her mouth hanging wide open.

She addressed herself to the
maid, not really seeing her, feeling as if she said the words to her own self, trying to silence the instinct that screamed out the price was too high. “I must. I can see I must.” She could imagine Peter before her; sweet, innocent Peter with his gentle ways. Pretty Peter, his shining gold hair a mass of curls, his long lashed, bright blue eyes, with their shadows and fears; his seldom-seen, charmingly dimpled smile.

If Father had had any wealth at all, it was his looks. He had passed them on in full measure to his two children.

Melissa had no doubt Peter would fetch a very, very good price.

And that must
never
happen.

If her own virtue was to be sold to keep him safe, then so be it.

“Yes, Miss,” he agreed with her, his tone sympathetic. Hetty lifted the hem of her apron and began to cry into it, great gusty sobs that irritated Melissa till she wanted to scream at the girl to stop. What had she to cry about? She wasn’t the one who . . . Melissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Yes, I can arrange it all
,” continued Mr Tell. “For tonight, if you want.”

“Not tonight!” Melissa said swiftly, feeling like she leapt back from a precipice. Not so quickly! “Tomorrow night should be soon enough.” She hesitated, pressed her lips together then asked: “Will Black Jack’s men try to stop it happening, Mr Tell?”

“I don’t know, Miss; but likely not. By the time they see the plan, it’ll be too late to run to Jack for instructions. They’ll have to let it go ahead.” He had started to look sure of himself again, now the unpleasant suggestions were out of the way and a course of action had been decided. “After all, you’re doing it to raise the money you owe, they’ll think. If we’re real lucky, orders will be keep you from leaving London. They might not even tell Jack.”

“We can hope. Is there anything else I should know, Mr Tell?” She was operating on a very tight little window of sanity right now, waiting for the other two to go so she could fall apart in private.

“I’ll come for you tomorrow night at ten, Miss. I’ll collect the money for you afterwards, use it to gather up the men you need. You just,” he flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture as if trying to tell her it was a small matter, “stand on the block.” He cleared his throat, stood, placed his hat firmly on his head and touched the brim without meeting her eyes. “Good day, Miss.” He turned to go, but at the door he pivoted to say: “An’ Miss Spencer?

She lifted her chin bravely, meeting his gaze when it flicked to her face. “Yes, Mr Tell?”

“If you have a white dress, Miss, you better wear it tomorrow. It’ll go down real nice with the bidders.”

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The night was a lon
g one; long and terribly slow. If she slept even one moment, she was unaware of the relief. Over and over she turned, churning the bed sheets into a mass. Oh, how could she be about to sell herself? It could not really be true.

Surely they
had endured enough? Surely now Father was dead and they were free of him, they deserved a chance at happiness?

Even from the grave his hand reached out to mar their lives.

She herself was not – oh,
incredible
– about to place herself on an auction block in front of a crowd of men who wanted to buy her body for a night of . . .

She broke out in a cold sweat.

Shuddering, she flung herself from the bed. She wrapped a robe around her clammy form and went out into the hall. The house was still and silent. On bare feet she padded towards Peter’s room. She put her hand on the door handle and turned it gently. The door swung open.

Melissa crossed the room to look down at her brother in the dim moonlight.

He was curled up tight, as he had always slept since he was a little baby. One hand was under his cheek, the other lay in a loose fist. With a single finger she lifted a curl back from his face. She loved him with a love that was surely as fierce as any mother’s. He had been her child to rear since he was six. Since Mama had died.

No harm must come to him.

When she looked at Peter there was no question in her mind she would do anything to keep him safe. She carried the certainty away with her, a hard, cold knot in her chest, heavy with the weight of everything she would force upon herself.

But back in her room the doubts and fears surged back. Could she go through with it? Was she brave enough? And even if she did manage to sell herself, would there be enough money raised to get them out and away?

Late into the night, in torment, she acknowledged the other part of this: as a fallen woman, she could never have a family. It was then she wept, in long, shuddering gasps. No good man would take a fallen woman to wife. No man would want such a woman to take on his name and bear his children. And she could never have children out of wedlock. It was too cruel to force the stigma of bastardy on some innocent.

With this one act she was condemning herself to a life alone, with no family except Peter. And as
time passed he would turn away from needing her, to start a family of his own.

She had never believed she could feel passionate love for a man after growing up in the same house as Father. But she had dreamed of being first a scholar and then as she matured and grew to womanhood, a mother, and accepted that somewhere down
that
road lay a marriage – no matter how unpleasant – and the congress that would give her the children for which she longed. Now there would be no fat, happy babies to cuddle and care for, to call her ‘mama’ and run to her with their arms outstretched and nothing but happiness on their unclouded little faces.

In anguish
she cried the hours away, sobbing until her eyes and throat ached, the hole within her gaping and ragged with pain.

Finally morning came. Melissa was exhausted. Her face in the looking glass was grey and tearstained, and her eyes looked dead. I am dead, she thought. That person I was, with hopes and dreams, she is dead.

I still have Peter though, and he has me. I will get him safely away; protect him from all this. He will never know. He can stay innocent, gentle and happy. His future lies ahead of him, not so bright as that of a gentleman’s son, but a future with perhaps some prosperity, and a family of his own.

He will never cast me out, not dear Peter.
I will always have a place in his home as his spinster sister, an aunt to his children.  I will . . . I will make that enough for me.

And for now I will be whatever I need to be, to get us through this.

She could not bear to look at her reflection for long.

She sent
Hetty off to her father’s man of business, requesting he visit her that day. She was not certain he would come, was prepared to go to his offices if Hetty returned with a refusal. But he did come. When he bustled into the library, an ugly little man with a pursed mouth and bifocals, thinning hair stretched over his balding pate, he spoke without preamble:

“I thought I made myself clear, Miss Spencer. Until you pay your father’s outstanding bill there is no commission I am prepared to undertake. And there’s little enough I can do for you even then. There never was such a wretchedly careless man as your father. Never would he take my advice. Never-”

“Mr Beaseley,” Melissa cut him off. She had no need to listen to him babble the same litany again. “I want you to take charge of selling the last of our household effects. Everything must go, as we will be moving into rented rooms. A shrewd man such as yourself will make perhaps several hundred pounds-”

“Oh, one or two hundred perhaps,” he interrupted with his eyes darting about the room, taking stock of the contents.
Such an awful creature he was, immediately trying to minimise her expectations Still, he would serve her ends.

“And this will clear our account with you,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “And I do expect
an itemised accounting, of course,” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking down her nose. He would think it odd if she didn’t ask for one. “The remainder you may deposit with Lloyds bank in an account in my name-”

“Not
your
name, Miss Spencer.
Master
Spencer’s name.”

“Yes, certainly in Master Spencer’s name,” she gritted her teeth to stay calm and polite.
Toad of a man. “The proviso is that this must be started today.”

“Tod
ay? That simply is not possible,” he said with an authoritative flip of his hand. “I have too many-”

She lost her patience. “That is unfortunate. Never mind then. We shall find another agent to handle the sales. Good day to you Mr
Beaseley.” She stood to signal she had finished with him, and immediately he became placating.

“But for th
e sake of your sad loss I could – out of compassion – find time to serve you today, Miss Spencer.”

Rather out of compassion for your own pocket, and the paid bill you see escaping from it, she thought grimly. Yet his motives were immaterial. None of these funds would be available before they left London.

What she wanted was the comings-and-goings of a house cleared and all goods sold off, not to mention father’s businessman about the place. Every appearance must be of a great push to raise ten thousand pounds. The more bustle the better, to make the task of the watchers as complicated and wearying as possible.

“Very kind, Mr
Beaseley,” she said in a clipped tone, meaning nothing of the sort. “You may consider every single item for sale, other than the contents of my bedroom and Master Peter’s room. I shall not delay you further, as there’s much to do. Good day.” She disposed of him gladly. If she never had to talk to him again, it would be too soon.

“Of course, Miss Spencer.
I shall return within the hour. Good day.” He gathered himself up and left, examining the hallway furniture as he went, obviously already adding up numbers in his head.

 

The day dragged endlessly onwards. Melissa tried to keep busy. Time and again she found herself staring blankly into the middle distance. Her mind was churning through the same thoughts, desperately seeking some other solution; any sort of reprieve.

She found nothing.

Mr Beaseley came and went. She stayed out of the way as much as she could. He created all the stir she could have wanted, ordering his staff members around and running up and down the stairs, poking his head and the rest of himself into any room, overseeing the loading of wagons out in the street and generally being a nuisance.

Peter emerged from his bedroom to ask what was going on. He took in her explanation about selling off furniture to pay bills with a vague frown then drifted away again. She was glad he didn’t see
Beaseley in the small library, taking notes and pursing his lips as he contemplated the shelves. 

Melissa paced. Through the halls, the stairwells, the emptying rooms she walked, over and over. She couldn’t settle to any task. Her restless mind drove her body to move. She stopped at mealtimes, for appearances sake ate a few bites and pushed the rest about her plate. When Peter left the table so did she.

Tonight. Tonight. Tonight. It was a chant in her head. She balled her hands into fists and rubbed them into her eye sockets as if to grind it out of her ears, but she could not.

Tonight.
Tonight. Tonight.

Shadows shifted across the carpets until the carpets too were taken. The day dimmed. Night arrived. Mr
Beaseley gathered up his minions and departed with a final load. He had been unexpectedly effective. The house was more than half empty.

But then the furnishings had been scant to start with. Not much of value had survived Father’s slide into the arms of Bacchus.

Melissa’s footsteps echoed oddly, raising little puffs of the dust disturbed by all the removals. Dust from a house inadequately tended by a single maid and herself. She would have cried about the loss of everything, freighted with so many memories of a lifetime, but there was no room for sentiment. They were just things, and she would not need them where she was going.

She poked her head into Peter’s room, vaguely surprised to find everything here untouched, just as she had ordered. His candle burned by his bedside
and he lay sprawled inelegantly across the bed, tilting his book towards the light to read.

“Time you were asleep, love,” she chided gently.

“Perhaps, but this is interesting. Shan’t be much longer, Lissa.”

“Good night.” She stroked a curl back from his eye,
then stooped to lay a kiss on his temple. He smiled up at her. Her heart turned over with love for him. Dear Peter. He must be kept safe, at all costs.

She left his room with leaden feet,
went back out into the silence of the still house. Hetty and Cook were already abed; or at least in their rooms.

It was almost
time.

She w
alked to her bedroom. Like Peter’s everything was still in its place. She paused on the threshold, took a deep breath and entered. She was dry-eyed and numb, yet her heart was beating oh, so fast.

With her mind carefully blank she
took out her pretty white dress, with little sprigs of flowers scattered across it; stockings, plain white cotton small clothes. She laid them out on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles over and over again. Then she stood and stared at them.

Finally she dressed herself, forcing each limb to move as it should to complete the accustomed task. It was difficult. The leaden weights of her hands refused to cooperate. When it was done she bundled her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, hardly caring that it immediately began to escape from the poorly placed pins.

Downstairs she went, to the entrance hall. She sat on the lowest step of the staircase and waited. Each minute was an eternity.

At last
came the fateful knock on the front door.  Melissa answered it. Mr Tell was there with an expression she could not interpret and a hired carriage, shabby and cheap. He touched the brim of his hat to her respectfully.

What was there left to respect? In the eyes of the respectable world she was about
to put herself beyond the pale; a fallen woman.

“Evening, Miss,” he said gruffly.
“Aherm. Best to go openly. Not give them rotters reason to think you’re trying to hide something.”

“Yes, quite,” she replied, going down the front stairs then taking his hand so he could help her up into the carriage. He stepped in after her. Briefly the thought of propriety crossed her mind. Then it was gone. What point worrying about such things now?

In silence they travelled, the dim carriage rocking back and forth over the uneven cobbles. It was nearly half an hour before they reached their destination.

Deathly afraid, Melissa gathered up her skirts and her courage, and stepped out into the night.

 

 

 

The auction room was the bar room. Pipe smoke swirled thickly through the air. The scent of ale was heavy, as was the reek of unwashed bodies. The fire crackled. Men’s voices were raised in cheerful conversation, with occasional shouts of laughter.
Every now and again there was a feminine shriek that might have been pain or pleasure; it was hard to tell which.

Melissa stood to one side of the door, her face shrouded by her hooded cloak, fingers clenched in the fabric, eyes wide and staring. It occurred to her to wonder which of these jovial louts might have a
thousand pounds in their pocket. Might be able to afford to buy her for the night; to take her home, and use her body . . .

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