The toupée swelled with pride, but he seemed as ready to introduce her to the new ambassador as Rome was to surrender.
Marguerite considered her options. Reason had taken her as far as it could. Diplomacy had softened the ground. Flattery had opened the gates. Now there remained only a last piece of artillery.
Her smile. She lowered her fan by degrees, as though unveiling a state secret. Her lashes swept down, then lifted. She let warmth enter her eyes, a promise curve her mouth, and moonlight do what moonlight had been doing to men since the first shepherd looked up and forgot his flock.
Lord Pulteney had just taken a swallow of champagne, and his eyes widened.
Ha! She had him now.
His face reddened. His throat convulsed. And Lord Pulteney made a noise like a cannon misfiring in a pantry.
"My lord?" Marguerite said.
He coughed. The cough became a siege. One hand flew to his breastplate, which gave an ominous pasteboard crack.
Before Marguerite could decide whether diplomacy required assistance, alarm, or distance, an exceedingly tall man stepped from the shadow of a column and struck Lord Pulteney between the shoulder blades with the compassion of a man beating a carpet.
The contest, had it been one, would have been indecently unequal. Lord Pulteney was short, stocky, and upholstered in imperial purple, a body built less for conquest than for digestion. The stranger was athletic, dressed as a pirate with none of the theatrical foolishness such costumes usually required. His black hair was tied at his nape. His sun-darkened skin made his white shirt look whiter, his mouth more dangerous.
Through the black mask, his green eyes found hers with such direct amusement that the air seemed to change temperature. Then he flashed a very white grin, which caused all the hairs along Marguerite's arms to rise.
An absurd side effect, really. She had endured ministers, patrons, soldiers, creditors, and a Russian prince who had once compared his stamina to a siege engine. She did not get goose bumps because a pirate smiled.
Then, without looking away from her, he delivered Lord Pulteney one mighty blow between the shoulders.
Lord Pulteney jerked. The orange toupée rose from his head, wreath and all, with the sudden majesty of an empire abandoning its emperor. It made a brief arc through the candlelight, turned once as if searching for a worthier throne, and struck Marguerite with hideous intimacy.
Lord Pulteney dragged in a breath, pounded his chest, and straightened with the heroic dignity of a man unaware that his wig had defected.
"Much obliged," he rasped.
The stranger released his victim.
"Ah!" Lord Pulteney brightened suddenly. "Admiral Hill! There you are. A word, my lord. A very urgent word."
And before Marguerite could return Rome to its emperor, Lord Pulteney marched away, bald as a monk's tonsure after a thunderstorm, his bare scalp shining beneath the chandeliers.
Marguerite had been given many things by men. Jewels. Promises. Lies. But never before a prized wig.
Marguerite lowered her chin slightly. Orange curls. Gilt leaves. Lord Pulteney had cultivated this toupée as other men cultivated reputations. And she was holding it against her bodice like the spoils of war.
There had to be a way to return it. Diplomatically. One did not simply run across a ballroom crying, My lord, your hair has deserted you. Not unless one wished to murder a man socially. She could send a footman. No, a footman would laugh.
Perhaps she might intercept him near a column, lower her voice, and say—
"Madam." The pirate's voice was low, close, and amused. "Thanks are usually offered after a rescue."
Marguerite lifted her gaze. The pirate stood before her, his green eyes laughing beneath his mask as if the ballroom, the toupée, and her immediate ruin had all been arranged for his personal entertainment.
"Have you any idea of the disaster you have caused?"
His brows lifted behind the mask. He had an earring! A man who came to the Admiralty ball dressed like that certainly had no grasp of even the most rudimentary diplomatic rules.
"There is a wig in my bosom."
His gaze dropped. "Indeed."
"A prized wig," she hissed. "A wig that represents vanity, influence, naval connection, and the last remaining thread of my—"
