Robin Schone (6 page)

What is your name, mademoiselle?

Mary,
rang inside her ears.

“No,” Victoria affirmed, “I am not.”

“The street price for a woman’s virginity is five pounds.”

She clung to her pride. It was a far more comfortable emotion than fear. “I am fully aware of what a

woman’s virginity is worth.”

Her reputation. Her position.

Her life ...

“Then why did you ask for one hundred and five pounds?”

Because she had not expected to receive it.

“You do not think that a woman’s virginity is worth that sum, sir?” she challenged.

“I believe that women—and men—are worth far more than one hundred and five pounds,” he replied

enigmatically.

It was not the answer Victoria had expected.

“Because you enjoy deflowering women,” she said scornfully.

“No, mademoiselle, because I was sold for one hundred and five pounds. But you already knew that,

didn’t you?”

Words echoed inside her ears.

You auctioned off your body, mademoiselle. I assure you, that mak es you a whore.

And you purchased my body, sir. What does that mak e you?

A whore. ..

Victoria suddenly realized where she had seen his eyes: she had seen them while scouring the streets of

London in search of respectable work. Homeless people possessed that same flat gaze. Men, women and

children whose daily fare was hunger, cold and hopelessness.

Men, women and children who routinely whored, stole and killed that they might live while others died

around them.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“I told you who I am: I am Gabriel.”

Proprietor.

Whore.

But not of his choosing.

None of it his choosing.

Poverty deprived men—as well as women—of choice.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said. And instantly knew that it was the wrong thing to say.

This man who had survived impossible odds would not welcome pity.

He did not.

Silently he blocked her exit, black silk trousers brushing the pale blue leather arm of the Queen Anne

chair.

“Why are you sorry, mademoiselle?” he asked so softly she had to strain to hear him.

Victoria refused to back away, either metaphorically or literally. “I am sorry that you were sold against

your will.”

“But it was not against my will, mademoiselle,” he countered silkily. “Or did the man forget to tell you

that?”

“We do what we must to survive.” Victoria ignored his reference to “the man.” “It is not a matter of

will.”

His nostrils faintly flared. “And did you do what you must do this night?”

Victoria firmed her lips. “Yes, I did what I must tonight.”

“You agreed to come to my house and auction off your virginity.”

Anger flashed through her; she tamped it down. “I did not agree, but yes, I came to your house tonight

for that purpose.”

“So you are an unwilling accomplice,” he goaded.

“I am not an accomplice.”

“But you are here because of a man.”

Yes.

Victoria stiffened her spine, wool abrading her still-swollen nipples. “I told you, I do not know this man to

whom you are referring.”

“Then who did refer you to my house, mademoiselle?”

“A prosti”—no, Victoria would not call the woman who had befriended her a prostitute; women—and

men—did what they must to survive—”a friend advised me that your clientele would be more
...
generous

than a man on the street.”

“And this friend”—he purposely imitated her hesitation—”is it a man or a woman?”

Victoria wanted to protest that it was none of his business: reason warned her not to.

The thin wire running up between her shoulders tightened.

She did not like being manipulated.

“A woman,” Victoria said curtly.

“Did this woman tell you that you should open the bidding at one hundred and five pounds?”

Victoria refused
to
glance away from the heart-stopping intensity inside his gaze.

“I am sorry you feel that I mocked you by offering ... by starting the bidding with one hundred and five

pounds.” Victoria forced the apology out of her throat. “I assure you, neither my friend nor I knew about

your circumstances; indeed, I did not know that you existed prior to this night.”

The silver-haired, silver-eyed man was not impressed with either her apology or her ignorance.

“Answer my question, mademoiselle.”

“Yes,” Victoria snapped, “it was my friend who suggested that I start with that sum.”

His gaze narrowed. “How tall is your friend?”

“Shorter than I.” Victoria drew herself up to her full height of five feet eight inches. “If you will excuse

me, sir, I will take my leave.”

He did not step out of her way. “You cannot leave, mademoiselle.”

Victoria’s heart skipped a beat. “I beg your pardon?”

The polite phrase was a discordant ring. Three times now she had begged his pardon.

“You are well-spoken,” he sidetracked, hand reaching, finger unerringly finding a wrinkle in the pale

leather arm pad.

The wrinkle had a small island in it.

It dawned on Victoria that it resembled a woman’s vulva, lips gaping, vagina a darker depression ...

She jerked her head up.

“Proper speech is required in a governess,” Victoria said stiffly. And realized she had unwittingly

confided her former occupation.

She bit her bottom lip.

The silver glint inside his eyes acknowledged her lapse.

“How long have you been a governess?” he asked easily.

Victoria was not fooled by his sudden easy manner.

The man who called himself Gabriel was like a cat. A large, beautiful, deadly cat who played with its

prey one second and ripped its throat out the next.

Victoria defiantly tilted her chin. “I hardly think that is any concern of yours, sir.”

“But it is, mademoiselle.” His voice was a silky purr. “You sold yourself to me for two thousand pounds.

”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I sold my virginity to you,” Victoria protested sharply. “I did not sell myself.”

And he did not want her virginity. Let alone the woman who possessed it.

Dark lashes shielded his eyes. Victoria instinctively followed his gaze.

Gently he caressed the blue leather wrinkle. “How long have you been out of a position?”

An image of her naked body, legs splayed for easy access, flashed through her mind. It was chased by a

picture of a long slender finger caressing her ...

Her gaze snapped up from his caressing finger. Hot blood flooded her cheeks. “Six months.”

His silver gaze snared hers. “How long were you a governess?” he repeated.

He would repeat the question until she answered, Victoria realized.

“Eighteen years,” she bit out.

“You became a governess at sixteen?”

Victoria glanced down at his hand, away from the memories that had determined her profession.

A long finger gently prodded the dark depression of leather.

“Yes.” Sharp sensation stabbed up between her thighs. “I became a governess at sixteen.”

“And after eighteen years, you have just now realized that prostitution pays more than being a

governess?” Gabriel asked idly.

Victoria glanced up.

There was nothing idle about the silver gaze that captured hers.

Yes,
rose to her lips.

“I was dismissed from my post,” came out of her mouth instead.

Victoria had been dismissed without a reference, she did not need to add. The knowledge was inside his

eyes.

Society did not trust their children with governesses who were dismissed without a reference. Nor did

employers hire inexperienced governesses for menial positions when rural laborers migrated to London by

the flock.

There were many women in Victoria’s situation. It did not make it any easier to bear.

“The whore who sent you here”—shadow lurked inside his eyes, memories, perhaps, of his own past

—”you believe she is your friend.”

Victoria did not hesitate. “Yes.”

“You would protect her from me.”

Dolly had stopped a man from raping her when no one else had lifted a finger. She had talked to

Victoria. Confided in her. Advised her when Victoria had needed advice.

She had been a friend when Victoria desperately needed friendship.

“Yes.” Victoria squared her shoulders. “Yes, I would protect her if it were within my power.”

Without warning, the long white finger that had been idly worrying the blue leather wrinkle slid over the

padded arm of the chair and hooked the wool laces of her reticule.

For a second Victoria stared at the flawless beauty of his hand and the squat, graceless purse he

plucked from the chair.

The full impact of his action struck her.

He had her reticule.

Everything Victoria possessed was in that reticule. He had no
right.

She rushed forward to reclaim her property. Her life.
Her dignity.

Reaching into the wooden rim, he pulled out a small piece of tightly folded brown paper. “What is this?”

Victoria halted, remembering the pistol concealed inside his dress coat. “It is a ... a remedy to prevent

conception. Please give me my reticule.”

He did not relinquish the reticule. “Your friend ... did she give you this contraceptive?”

There were men who believed it their right to indiscriminately impregnate women merely because they

were male and women were female.

Surely he was not one of them?

“Yes, my
friend
gave
it to me.” She imperiously held out her hand. “Please return my reticule.”

Looping the twin wool laces over his wrist, he unwrapped the paper, reticule swinging, paper crinkling,

dark eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. Two white tablets spilled into the palm of his right hand.

Slowly he raised dark lashes. “Did your friend tell you what this is?”

Victoria’s silence spoke louder than words.

“It is corrosive sublimate, mademoiselle.” His silver eyes were relentless. “Did your friend tell you how

to administer the tablets?”

“You seem well informed about the product, sir,” Victoria returned, hand dropping, fingers fisting, nails

digging. “Why do you not tell me?”

“Each tablet contains 8.75 grains of corrosive sublimate. One tablet causes violent convulsions, often

followed by death. Two tablets inserted into your vagina, mademoiselle, would most certainly bring about

your death.”

Victoria felt the blood drain out of her face. Dolly had told her to insert both tablets into her body in

order to prevent conception.

She had not told her what they were or what they could do.

She had not told her that they would hurt her ...
k ill
her.

“You are lying,” Victoria said. And did not believe it for one moment. The silver-eyed, silver-haired man

did not comment.

He did not need to comment.

Dropping the two tablets onto the brown paper, he refolded the whole.

“She said many women use the tablets,” Victoria persisted.

“No doubt. However, women who use it once obviously do not do so again. And having survived its use,

a woman would certainly not recommend it for contraceptive purposes.” He crimped the ends of the paper.

Slowly his eyelashes lifted, pinning her with the truth. “Was your friend young and inexperienced,

mademoiselle?”

Dolly had been a self-proclaimed, two-pence prostitute who had whored from the time she was ten

years old. A woman with graying brown hair and missing front teeth.

She had urged Victoria to crash the opening of the House of Gabriel. No one would notice her, she had

declared, in the busy traffic of people.

Only rich, powerful men would be allowed inside, she had added. Men who would pay far, far more for

her virginity than men in a brothel or on the street.

And all the time she had plotted Victoria’s death.

Hoping, no doubt, to take Victoria’s money while her body lay cold in an alley.

All in the name of survival.

The elegant room was too close. The overhead chandelier too bright. The crackling fire too hot. The hair

hanging down her back too heavy.

Victoria needed to get away from those piercing silver eyes.

Warily she circled around him and grabbed her cloak off the back of the pale blue leather chair.

She did not need her reticule—he could keep it. The poison. Her toothbrush. Her comb.

The hairpins.

He did not stop her.

The door was constructed of mirror-shiny wood that was neither brown nor yellow, but something in

between. The governess inside Victoria identified the wood as satinwood, indigenous to India and Sri

Lanka.

The door was not locked.

It did not need to be.

The waiter who had led her to the library stood at attention on the other side. Victoria did not doubt that

he, too, wore a pistol underneath his black coat.

“Bring up a tray, Gaston.” The all-too-familiar voice skidded down her spine, smoother than satin. “And

a pot of tea. Mademoiselle will be staying with us.”

“Very well, monsieur.”

Gaston gently closed the satinwood door in Victoria’s face.

She pivoted, dress tangling about her ankles, hair swinging, heart gorging her throat. “You cannot keep

me here against my will.”

“Au contraire.
” Gabriel faced her rather than the desk. “If your life were not dispensable,