"Please," Lady Pembroke cried, her voice thin and desperate. "Please, just give me more time. I will have the money next week, I swear it."
The debt collector, a large, impassive man with cold, dead eyes, did not even look at her. He simply gestured to one of his men, who proceeded to take a heavy, silver-framed portrait of the late Lord Pembroke from the wall.
"No, not that one!" she pleaded, lunging forward, but the man's associate simply held out a beefy arm to block her. "That was my husband's favorite!"
"Time is up, my lady," the debt collector said, his voice a low, flat rumble. He made a mark in his ledger. "This should cover a portion of the interest for this month. We will be back for the rest of the payment next week." He and his men, carrying the portrait and a small, valuable-looking clock from the mantelpiece, left the house without a backwards glance.
