Beatrice blanched as his fingers bit painfully into her arm. He dragged her out of the carriage and into the dark, busy street, making her stagger and draw in a quick breath. Beatrice wrinkled her nose as she caught the heavy scents of body odor and all sorts of spirits reeking off the nearby men trying to gain access to the club.
The moment Simeon pulled her from the carriage, though, they all turned to face her. Beatrice’s stomach threatened to upend right there on the street as they all looked at her hungrily, some of them even licking their lips as their eyes roved down her person. Suddenly, Beatrice regretted opting for a prettier dress, wanting nothing more in that moment than to be invisible to those that were ogling at her.
“My lord!” Beatrice pleaded.
“Quiet,” Simeon seethed, taking her down an alley.
With his grip tight on her arm, Beatrice had no choice but follow her father until they reached a door on the side of the building. He knocked three times, paused, then knocked two more times before banging the flat of his hand against the door.
A moment later, a man dressed in a black suit, a mask, and bowler hat opened the door, and without a word, Simeon thrust Beatrice into the stranger’s arms.
“You know what do?” the stranger asked Simeon, ignoring Beatrice altogether as she struggled to free herself.
“Father!” Beatrice pled, her fear making her tremble. He paid her no mind, just nodded to the masked man.
“See you when it is over,” Simeon said. Not to Beatrice, she quickly realized, but to the man who now had hold of her. The two men nodded to one another, and with that, the door between Beatrice and her father was slammed shut.
“Please,” Beatrice begged as the masked man dragged her down a darkened hall, “someone tell me what this place is! What is going on? I am supposed to be meeting my future husband!”
The masked man jerked at her arm, sending pain up into her shoulder as he paused before a slightly parted curtain.
“You want to see your future husband? Look through there,” the masked man commanded.
Not sure what else to do, Beatrice did as she was told and only became more confused as she looked over a room filled with masked men. There was not one man but at least fifty, and by the way they were stumbling into one another, she was sure that most if not all were quite foxed.
“I do not understand,” she whispered.
“You want to see your husband? He’s out there, ready to place a bid.”
Beatrice blanched as her knees grew weak.
“Bid?” she breathed.
“Though he might not be your husband,” the masked men went on. “He could be your lover or owner as much as he could be your husband; it really is up to him.”
He said it so nonchalantly, as if he was delivering the choices of a meal instead of life-altering facts.
“Where am I?” Beatrice asked.
The man tsked his tongue as he began to drag her down the darkened hallway again.
“Ask someone in there,” he said, stopping in front of the only door in the hall. “I’m just here to keep you girls in line.”
Before Beatrice could ask anything else, the man pushed open the door and shoved Beatrice inside, quickly closing it again the moment she stumbled through. For a moment, Beatrice’s fear spiked once more as she thought she was about to go sprawlingonto the floor, but just as she raised her hands to her face and braced for it, hands came around her waist and caught her.
“Oh, you poor dear,” a feminine voice soothed as Beatrice was steadied, “Nigel is far too rough. Are you all right?”
“No,” Beatrice sobbed, taking a long look around the dimly lit room.
The small space was filled young women with one wall lined with vanities and another lined with dresses and other accessories. Beatrice’s eyes swept over the room. Some of the women seemed completely calm as they sat in front of the vanities or dressed or undressed without a modicum of shame in front of the others. Other women, however, looked as frightened as Beatrice felt and shrunk themselves into huddled positions against the wall and floor.
“Hey now,” that feminine voice came again, and Beatrice felt soft hands tug at her shoulders. She turned and found a pretty-faced woman giving her a soft, reassuring smile.
“No need to get overwhelmed, my dear,” she said, tucking a stray tendril behind Beatrice’s ear. “It is not as scary of an ordeal as it seems. My name is Deborah. What is yours?”
“Beatrice,” she answered, calmed, albeit only a little, by Deborah’s relaxed nature. “Please, will you tell me what this place is? My father brought me here, and no one will tell me what is going on. He said I was to meet my husband but thatman—Nigel I think you called him—he said it might not be my husband, and I do not understand what is happening!”
“Shhh, sweet Beatrice,” Deborah insisted, pulling her into tight hug. “I am so sorry you were treated so poorly. I am sure you did not deserve that.”