She threw the edges of her cloak back, revealing an evening gown cut more scandalously than the lady was herself, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Me.”
*
Never let it be said that Daniella Germaine was afraid of a challenge. Never let it be said she would back down or have her mind turned once it was set on a steady course. Although her heart thumped against her ribs and her mouth was dry, to those watching she would display only the utmost confidence and calm.
“Is this some kind of joke?” the man on the stage next to her stuttered.
“No joke, I assure you. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred pounds?”
“You can’t be serious,” someone called from the crowd.
“Are you questioning the sincerity of my purpose here, Lord Cumberland, or my virginity?”
Another voice called, “Your father would hunt down any man who dared touch a hair on your pretty head.”
She sincerely hoped so but couldn’t resist a jibe. “According to the Royal British Navy, my father is dead.” It was a good thing she was adept at telling fibs. Her father was still alive—she knew more than to believe the word of a starchy captain looking to be made a general in the war against those benefitting from smuggling and raiding. If he was dead, she would have felt it, or word would have reached her brother and he would have told her.
“No pirate as wily as Richard Germaine would let himself be had or bested by the navy.”
Daniella drew herself up to her full height of five foot two inches. “My father was not a pirate, he was a privateer. The rumours about him are wildly unfounded and laughably out of control.”
Biting down on her bottom lip to still the sudden tremble there, she inhaled, exhaled and then addressed the gentleman again. “Now, one hundred pounds is the bid and you needn’t worry about my father. He’s in a shallow grave at the bottom of the ocean and isn’t able to harm a flea, let alone a virile gentleman such as yourself.”
“In that case, I bid one hundred pounds,” the Duke of Leicestershire called, his hands rubbing together in a way that chilled her enthusiasm for her cause.
The auctioneer took over, the chance at easy money too good to give up, and bids came from the left and from the right and even the middle until the amount was a staggering three hundred and twenty pounds.
“The bid is with Mr Pendleton to my right, do I have three hundred and thirty?” the announcer called.
“Three hundred and fifty,” a voice said from the shadows at the rear.
“Step into the light, my good man, for your bid to be heard.”
Out of the darkness came John, her coachman. Daniella barely contained a shriek of outrage. How dare he intervene? He was going to ruin everything and she had neither the courage nor the funds to make a second attempt at this particular form of disgrace. “You do not have three hundred and fifty pounds,” she pointed out. “Pendleton, I do believe you have the bid.”
“Do you call me a liar?” John asked.
“I do,” she said with a firm nod. “Now hush before you lose your position as well as your pride.”
“Three hundred and sixty pounds,” Pendleton called.
“Six hundred pounds!”
All eyes swung to John, only now that she looked at him, really looked, she couldn’t be sure he was actually the man who’d driven her to the auction at all. Her skin crawled as she swung her gaze back to Pendleton with a silent plea. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her friend Percy was supposed to win her. On a normal day she would never barter her innocence unless she knew it was a gamble she would win. She wasn’t stupid. Her calculations to date had been spot-on and flawless. Having plundered Anthony’s strongbox, she had precisely three hundred pounds in her reticule to pay for her virgins, and Percy had drawn generously on his next quarter’s allowance in the knowledge that her brother would be shamed into paying him back once he learned of his sister’s newest, most irredeemable folly. A Germaine paid his—or her—debts.
“Who are you?” the announcer asked the bid holder.
Removing his cap, his hard-eyed stare never wavering from Daniella’s, he said, “James Trelissick, Marquess of Lasterton.”
“He is not,” Daniella shouted over the renewed hubbub as her careful calm shattered to a thousand pieces. “He is my coachman and his name is John. Do not believe his lies if you wish to receive your money.” But she was horrified to see him open his filthy coat, reach into his pocket and withdraw a purse.
“Six hundred pounds for Miss Germaine,” he said waving it over his head as he approached. “And another four hundred when you feed these girls and deliver them to my estate in Dover. Untouched.”
“This is outrageous,” Daniella cried. Pendleton was supposed to bid on her. Her brother would have to repay exorbitant sums and wash his hands of her; her father would hear about her antics and rise from the grave to take her in hand. That was the plan. Who the devil was the Marquess of Lasterton to bump her off course?
In a matter of seconds, the said marquess had gripped her arm in his brutish hand and was towing her towards the door. “You can’t do this,” she rasped, and tried to twist free.
“Who is going to prevent me?” He came to a dead stop, his eyes wide and fierce, his grip tightening a fraction more. “Will you stop me, Wetherington? What would your wife say? What about you, Pendleton? Your poor mother would turn a fit to hear that you bid so callously on the innocence of a lady. I’m betting not one of you will want to mention this incident over breakfast tomorrow.”
Daniella let her chin sink to her chest. He had effectively silenced any rumour that would scotch her standing in London—or save her from him.
