Lady Pirate (8 page)

Valoree shook her head, though she was not overly disappointed at the fact. Maybe this would be a way out.

“Well…” Henry frowned. “We'll get her some of that on the morrow. But she'll just have to do without tonight. Every shop will be closed by now.”

“You cannot really imagine that you can take her to the Beecham soiree without it?” Meg exclaimed in dismay.

Henry frowned at her. “Course we can. Who knows when the next invite will come iffen she don't show up tonight?”

“Well, if you insist on her going tonight without it,
I will not be involved.” Turning on her heel, the woman marched out of the room.

“What do you think?” One-Eye asked, and Henry scowled.

“We don't have no makeup for tonight, but we don't have no invites for tomorrow. That's what I think.”

“Hmmmm.” One-Eye made a face. “Maybe Petey can come up with something. He's got lots o' white stuff in the kitchens. Red stuff, too.”

Henry brightened at once at the suggestion. “Aye. Go tell him to see what he can do.”

Valoree sighed. It seemed there was no escape.

A buzz going around the ballroom drew Daniel's attention from John Beecham's liturgy on the importance of wise investments and renting unused properties.

Beecham was like that. Money was his main priority in life, a stricture he'd had pounded into his head by his father, who, disappointed in love, had settled for a loveless marriage and instead had poured his energies into the art of increasing his wealth. Riches, the older Beecham had often said while he lived, were never known to betray a man.

The philosophy was rather vulgar as far as the members of the ton were concerned. For them, money was to be spent, not earned, and if it
was
earned, one should never be so crass as to discuss it. Beecham's obsession with it was the reason he was considered beneath the majority of the ton. And yet, the amount
of wealth his family had was the reason no one missed one of their balls.

Thoughts of Beecham fled Daniel's mind as the murmuring began. Turning, he let his eyes follow the direction everyone seemed to be looking in, to the doorway of the ballroom. They immediately widened on the young woman standing there. She was tall and slender, wearing a simple gown of midnight blue and an expression of dismay on her face as she took in the gathering.

It took him a moment to recognize her as the woman from Whister's salon, and then all he felt was disappointment of a sort. He had thought her attractive at the lawyer's office; she'd had a sun-kissed face and natural beauty. Now she sported the death's-mask white face that was so popular, with red cheeks drawn on. Her hair had flowed down her back naturally then, but was now looped and tied and knotted atop her head. Well, sort of. Actually, it looked to be unraveling somewhat and sliding down her face. That was the reason everyone was abuzz, he supposed. Most of the nobility cropped their hair and wore wigs, but this woman's brilliant red hair was obviously all her own—and if he was not mistaken, it had been arranged using nautical knots. He couldn't be sure of that, though, for it was already escaping its confines.

“Lady Ainsely,” Beecham murmured nearby, drawing Daniel's startled gaze.

“Did you say Ainsley?” Whister had never mentioned her name.

“Yes. She and her aunt rented my cousin's town house for the season,” Beecham explained.

“Her aunt, hmm?” Daniel glanced back toward the woman. “That is not her aunt with her. Who is that fellow?”

 

“This is a
small
soiree?” Henry whispered in disbelief.

Sighing, Valoree glanced at the man sympathetically. He was all dressed up in the poofy—as he described them—clothes of a nobleman. He was “Uncle” Henry tonight, thanks to “Aunt” Meg having cozied herself up to a bottle of rum while the men were busy solving all the problems that attending this “little party” had presented. Rum, of all things! And after she'd made such a stink about Valoree drinking it.

Still, Valoree herself was much more uncomfortable than Henry, especially with her hair. Henry had tried to wake Meg to dress it, but the woman had been well sauced and beyond waking, so the sailor had seen to the task himself, snapping and cussing the whole while. At last Valoree had suggested he fix it up in nautical knots—she didn't know the first thing about style or fashion, and really couldn't care less, anyway—and after half an hour of his tugging at her hair and swearing, she had suggested he try something he knew. At least if he tied her long tresses up in knots on her head, they would stay. So she'd thought.

Her coiffure had looked good when he had finished the task, or at least all the men had said so. But the ride in the carriage had been quite jostling, and all the bouncing and bobbing around in the airless hack had loosened the knots. She could feel the heavy tresses sliding slowly to one side of her head and was positive the whole mess would come tumbling down at any second.

“Oh, just a moment.” Henry reached out to brush something from her cheek with one finger. Valoree forgot her hair and scowled. Her face was even worse.

“There's just this piece…” Henry frowned. “A raspberry seed, I think.”

Valoree grimaced. Pete had come up with some sort of white gooey substance to slather on her face as makeup, but had apparently not been able to come up
with something for red cheeks and lips. One-Eye had returned from the kitchens with a bowful of raspberries, announcing they would do the trick…. And they had, she supposed, though she could have done without the men smooshing them on her cheeks and squeezing and rubbing them on her lips. She could also have done without the hour of picking at her face to remove the seeds afterward. Apparently they hadn't gotten quite all of them.

Her eyes dropped to his hand as he pulled it away from her cheek. A seed surrounded by white and pink gook stuck to the end of his pink-stained finger. She shook her head in disgust. “I suppose you've messed up my face, now.”

“Nay, nay,” he said quickly, surely realizing that she might use it as a chance to escape. However, his frown as he peered at her was less than reassuring.

Valoree eyed him briefly, then gestured to his hands. “Try to keep those out of sight. Those stains are—What the devil are you frowning at?”

His eyes shot to hers nervously. “Oh, nothing.”

He'd answered too quickly, she decided, scowling at him suspiciously. “You'd best tell me. You know I don't like surprises.”

“It's nothing,” her quartermaster repeated, then wrinkled his nose. “It's only that your face appears to be cracking somewhat in the spots that it's drying.”

“What!”

“Don't!” he cried, but it was too late; her hands had already risen instinctively to her face. She pulled her fingers away covered with the muck Pete had made as substitute makeup.

“Now you've done it,” he muttered, and reached out with his finger again to pat and smooth her face. “Stand still.”

Valoree tried to do as he asked, forcing herself to remain still, but she couldn't withhold the question that
was now on the tip of her tongue. “How can my face be cracking when it's still wet?”

“It's drying around the edges,” he informed her, a frown of concentration on his face as he worked at hers. “And on your bosom. That's where it's crack—” He paused, cursing when she glanced down to see that, indeed, the muck they had insisted on spreading on her neck and bosom, where it wasn't covered by the dress, was now dry and beginning to crack and flake.

“Now look what you made me do. You've a streak where my finger was. I told ye to stand still,” Henry chided, using a finger at her chin to force her face up so he could repair this new damage. “I don't know how I got talked into this,” he grumbled as he worked. “Wearing a monkey suit and playing lady's maid—”

“You?” Valoree scoffed. “You and the men are the ones who voted to marry me off. Don't whine now about what it takes to do so. 'Sides, if you want something to whine over, you should try wearing this damn dress. It's about as comfortable as an iron maiden.”

“Well, at least you aren't wearing these damn ribbons everywhere. I look ridiculous.”

“Aye, you do,” she agreed with her first real smile in what felt like days. Her gaze slid over him, taking in the white breeches and shirt under a lime green waistcoat, with lime green and yellow ribbons on the knee breeches.

They had stopped at the tailor's on the way to the Beechams' soiree. It had been a desperate bid to get their hands on some lord-type clothes for Henry when they had realized that Meg was not going to recover in time to attend the “sour-ee.” It had worked, much to Valoree's disgust. Of course the man had had a proper outfit in just the right size. Well, almost the right size. It had been made for a Lord somebody-or-other and was due to be delivered the next day, but
would be delayed now thanks to Henry. He'd offered up a small fortune to be able to purchase it for his own use.

Giving a mutter, Henry tugged at his breeches impatiently. That was the only real problem with the outfit, Valoree supposed. The green waistcoat fit him in the shoulders, but it and the knee breeches were too big at the waist. Apparently the noble who'd commissioned it had something of a stomach, while Henry, who kept trim by pulling ropes and climbing rigging, did not. Now Henry was forced to constantly tug the pants up or else risk losing them. A voice interrupted her musings.

“Lady Ainsley.”

Leaning to the side slightly, Valoree peered past Henry's scowling face at the smallish man who was approaching from behind him.

“Beecham,” she said. Henry made a face, took one last swipe at her face, then turned to greet the man.

“Ah, Lord Beecham. A pleasure to meet the man who made the arrangements I requested. Good of ye to invite us to this here little swarming,” Henry began cheerfully.

“Soiree,” Valoree corrected, then forced a bright smile to her face as she nodded at their host. “Lord Beecham, my uncle Henry.”

“A pleasure, my lo—Ah…” The young man paused, his eyes fixed on the pirate, and a frown began to slip onto his face.

“Is there something wrong?” Valoree asked a touch nervously, only just now worrying over his recognizing Henry as one of the servants that had accompanied her earlier that afternoon. She hadn't thought it a problem, for she had heard that most nobles didn't trouble themselves to notice servants. It figured that Beecham would be one of the few who did.

“I am sorry for staring, my lord,” the man said. “It
is just that you look very much like one of the servants I saw with Lady Ainsley this afternoon.”

“Ah.” Henry nodded solemnly, and Valoree waited for his explanation, knowing he would come up with one. The sailor was a quick thinker. He didn't disappoint her. “That'd be me brother. Half brother, that is. My father's bastard offspring. His mother was one of our maids on the island. When he came of age, we took him on as a servant. Have to look after family, don't ye know.” He slapped their host on the back as he said that, nearly sending the slender man to his knees.

Maintaining his feet, Beecham managed a weak smile at the jovial man. Then he glanced to Valoree and asked with real regret, “Your aunt could not make it tonight?”

“'Fraid not,” Henry answered before Valoree could speak, then tried for a conspiratorial look and said, “You know how women are. Fussing over the least little problem. Well, she took to the bo—”

“Bed,” Valoree interjected quickly before he could finish. “She was not feeling well and took to her bed.”

“I see,” Beecham said, and Valoree suspected he did see—if not the whole picture, then that something was wrong with the picture they were trying to present. Sighing inwardly, she sent a quick glance at Henry, relieved when he caught the younger man's arm and whirled him around to propel him toward the middle of the room.

“How about ye introduce us around so we can size up the offerings this evening.”

“Offerings?” Beecham asked uncertainly.

“Aye. The
men
. Got to marry this little lady off, don't ye know.”

Glaring at the back of his head and following the men into the crowd, Valoree imagined she had one of
her blades with her and was sticking it into her quartermaster's arse.

 

“Have you seen Lady Ainsley?”

Daniel glanced up from the drink he had been contemplating, his eyebrows rising slightly at Beecham's distressed face. “Last I saw her, she was with you and that older gentleman.”

“Her uncle.” Beecham sighed, turning to peruse the roomful of people unhappily, unaware of the way Daniel stiffened.

“Her uncle?” he asked carefully. “On which side?”

Beecham turned back, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Which side? You mean which side of the family is he from?” The man frowned slightly. “I do not know. She merely introduced him as Uncle Henry. I imagine he is from the mother's side, however, since I do not believe that Lord Ainsley had a brother.” He paused to consider that briefly, then shrugged with disinterest.

“He does not visit London much, obviously,” Daniel said. Beecham shook his head.

“He has a plantation on one of the islands in the Caribbean. This is his first trip to London in years.”

“Which island?”

Beecham frowned at the question. “I…I am not sure. I do not think they mentioned which one,” he admitted slowly, then waved the question away. “I must find her and make sure she is all right.”

“Did something happen?” Daniel asked before he could slip away, and the other man groaned.

“Aye. There was an
incident
.”

Daniel's eyebrows rose at his pained inflection. “An incident?”

“Yes.” Beecham hesitated, then said, “I had introduced them to several people when
Mother
waved us over—”

Daniel had to smother a grin at the way the man
said the word
mother
, though he couldn't blame him. Were Lady Beecham Daniel's own mother…Well, he was just grateful she wasn't. She was a rather unpleasant woman.

“So I was forced to introduce Lady Ainsley and her uncle to her friends; then Mother sent me off to fetch her a sweetmeat. Apparently, while I was gone…Well…” He whined piteously. “Lady Ainsley's facefell off.”

Daniel blinked, bemused. “Her face fell off?”

Beecham nodded, seemingly broken. Then he suddenly straightened, an idea striking him. “Mayhap I should check—”

“Beecham,” Daniel interrupted, drawing the other man's distracted attention.

“Hmmm?”

“How do you…I mean, how is it possible that her
face
fell off?”

“Oh! Well, it was her…er…the white stuff that all the women wear.” He shook his head with a frown. “It was drying up on her skin and cracking.” His frown deepened. “I thought to give warning, but feared to embarrass her, so I did not say anything. She knows now.” He shook his head again. “It was horrible, really. I must find out where she got that makeup and warn everyone to stay away—”