“What… what is happening?” She was not certain how she managed to say the words.
Leighton looked at her coolly. “We are here to find you a husband.”
The way he said it, with a casual glance in the direction of the platform, shot fear right through her.
“This is madness,” she protested. “You cannot simply sell me.”
“Not sell,” Leighton corrected. “Auction. There’s a difference.” He smiled, a thin curve of his lips. “And I am not selling you. I am merely facilitating an introduction between you and a man who will appreciate your… assets.”
Before she could respond, Leighton’s hand was at her back, propelling her forward toward the platform. The steps were narrow and steep. Augusta’s legs felt leaden as Leighton guided her up them, his hand firm on the small of her back.
“Stand straight,” he hissed as they reached the top. “Shoulders back. Chin up. These men are paying for quality.”
Augusta wanted to spit in his face. Wanted to claw off his grip and run. But the reverend was already shoving her toward the stage.
Leighton stepped forward, his posture shifting subtly. His shoulders squared, his chin lifted, and when he spoke, his voice carried the practiced projection of a man accustomed to pulpits.
“Gentlemen,” he began, his tone smooth and confident. “Tonight, I present to you a rare opportunity. A chance to acquire not merely a companion or a mistress, but a wife of unimpeachable breeding.”
The wordwifesent a jolt through Augusta’s body.
“May I present Miss Augusta Booth,” Leighton continued, gesturing toward her with a flourish that would not have been out of place in a drawing room introduction. “Daughter of the Viscount Whitfield.”
The murmuring began immediately. Voices rippled through the crowd, phrases floating up to the platform like poisonous flowers.
“Whitfield’s daughter…”
“The murderer’s girl…”
“Ruined stock…”
Leighton raised his voice over the noise. “Despite recent… unfortunate events… in her family, Miss Booth remains a lady in every sense of the word. Pure, of excellent breeding, and…” He paused, letting the word land with deliberate weight. “Still quite fertile.”
Augusta’s chin jerked toward him. Her hands curled at her sides, nails digging into her palms through her gloves. Still, the vicar’swords moved through her like cold water, leaving her numb and clear-headed in its wake.
She was being sold as breeding stock. A vessel for a man’s seed, valued only for her ability to produce an heir with noble blood. The same purpose her father had valued her mother for, the same purpose that had gotten her mother killed.
The crowd had grown louder, more animated. Men called out questions about her age, her health, her “purity.” Leighton answered each one with the smooth confidence of a man selling a horse.
“Perfect health, never a day’s illness…”
“Completely untouched, as befits a lady of her station…”
Augusta turned toward the steps at the edge of the platform and walked toward them with deliberate speed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained composed.
If she could reach the door, if she could make it to the street?—
“One thousand pounds!”
The voice came from near the front of the crowd.
A man with a florid face and a waistcoat stretched tight across his substantial middle. The bid hung in the air for a momentbefore two broad-shouldered employees of the Nightingale stepped into Augusta’s path before she reached the bottom step.
She forced herself to look out at the room, to assess her situation with clear eyes.
There were four exits that she could see: the side door through which she had entered, a larger door at the front, and two smaller ones behind the bar. An employee stood near each one, all of them watching the platform with the alert readiness of men who were paid to prevent exactly what she was contemplating.
Rough arms pulled her back onto the platform, and the bidding continued as though the interruption had never happened.
