Page 16 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle
Pitch would wager every one of the jewels that dripped from his ears that the butler knew exactly where Edward was. Thomas had been with the family a very long time. Since Edward was a boy. This dreary, stern man was as close to a father as the lieutenant managed. And what a pity that was, for Edward deserved far better.
‘Of course, I’m so looking forward to seeing her.’ Pitch tilted his head in a way he knew to be beguiling. His smile was demure and oh-so ladylike, and Thomas beamed beneath it.
He was a crotchety old bastard but no less a man. And men weren’t so hard to manipulate, even without incubus charms. Especially those men keen to see their master produce offspring and thereby ensure continuing employment. The butler knew firsthand where Edward’s preferences lay, of course. As most certainly Mrs Charters did. But so long as Edward brought home something with tits that could suckle, it hardly mattered whether they were a mousy schoolteacher or a sparkling heiress.
Pitch’s smile threatened to slip, but he was well-versed in keeping up appearances.
‘Enjoy your evening, madam.’
‘Oh, I do intend to.’
Thomas nodded and swept his hand towards the foyer, giving Pitch a sharp nod and moving away to tend to the next carriage as it arrived.
Pitch glanced at himself in the grand gilded mirror that dominated the foyer, making a few adjustments to ensure his breasts were set as they should be and that the ringlets framed his face in the most fetching way before he headed on.
The foyer itself was a wide, echoing affair of pristine white tiles which surrounded a central inlay of indigo and cream and black, a natural motif of flowers that Silas would have stopped short at seeing, no doubt.
Pitch tugged at his earring, chasing away thoughts of the ankou, focusing on the task at hand.
He exchanged names and niceties with the Honourable Ronald Piggleton, once likely a handsome man but now taxed by age’s fine scribbles. He introduced his auburn-haired wife, Mrs Piggleton, whose smile was locked to her lips. She appeared ready to burst out laughing at the slightest humorous moment. The pair were energetic in the way of those who had indulged in a glass or two of Vin Mariani, with its heaped spoonfuls of cure-all cocaine. Pitch had gone a long while without a touch of snow on his gums or up his nose. Tonight may well be the night for it. Why the blazes not? He could not shake the disquiet that came with thinking about finding Edward. The sense of finality he felt when he did so.
There would be a change, he was sure. An end to the life he had here, for what that life was worth. A pity. He’d just begun to enjoy some parts of being a Horseman. One in particular took his fancy, but he’d not even bothered to wave him off at the gates. Pitch pushed aside his annoyance and swept into the hub of the evening’s activities in the drawing room.
The room was clad in wallpaper of cloying shades of orange and blue, an eyesore Pitch had always abhorred. Usually the room was overstuffed with couches and armchairs of all designs, but most of them had been removed to accommodate for an assortment of card tables, two large, round mahogany tables at the centre, with seating for six at each, with smaller setups at the perimeter of the room, nestled in between display cabinets that held all manner of items: everything from dried flower arrangements beneath glass domes, to delicate sculptures of ballerinas and shepherdesses with their crooks. Mrs Charters thought herself a collector. Pitch had always thought her more of a hoarder who had no idea of what a pain it must be for the household staff to keep dust away from all her knickknacks.
All the seats at the tables were full, players deep into their glasses and hands. They sat beneath hanging paraffin lamps on pulleys, lowered so that the light was most concentrated on their cards. From the next room, a smaller sitting room if he recalled, came the vigorous thumps of piano keys, someone singing along rather loudly with the music. The louder the better for Mrs Charters, who tended to drown her sorrows in parties and idle chitchat. The wealthy widow did not enjoy focusing too much time on her woes, which included her son. Edward was a disappointment to her. He was not robust like his father, capable of making a valet quiver as he bellowed unhappiness about the creases on his trousers. Edward’s father had been a bit of an arsehole by all accounts but was dead by the time his son was ten. It was Edward’s mother who had pushed him towards the military, an attempt to toughen him up, apparently. Gods knew how soft he must have been before, for Edward was still, in Pitch’s mind, like butter sat too close to the stove.
A footman offered a tray of bubbling glasses, and Pitch took one readily, gulping down half the contents before he remembered he was in a skirt and such greediness would see him judged badly. The Honourable Ronald’s gaze undressed him as Mrs Piggleton asked as to how Margaret knew Edward.
‘Mr Charters and I spent time together in the summer,’ Pitch explained. ‘Rather a lot.’
‘Lucky bloody chap.’ Ronald might as well have dribbled. Mrs Piggleton giggled, eyeing her man in such a way that it was clear she rather enjoyed seeing him hot and bothered over another woman.
‘I’m terribly disappointed he’s not here this evening.’ Pitch took another sip. Gods, he’d missed champagne. The very different warmth it put in his belly, how quickly his head buzzed with it. ‘I’ve heard he’s on the Continent?’
‘Is he just?’ Ronald disappointed Pitch with his reply. ‘Well, I dare say he’ll be kicking himself to learn he missed seeing you.’
‘You are lovely.’ Mrs Piggleton’s lips seemed to be fighting her control, wiggling about. ‘What part of America did you say you were from?’
‘Oh, I call many parts home. Would you excuse me?’
The couple’s shoulders sagged almost in unison.
‘Perhaps we can play a round later?’ Mrs Piggleton asked.
Pitch brushed his fingers over her arm. ‘Absolutely. And after that perhaps some cards too?’
His sly smile nearly killed the poor woman, who was in danger of dying from the fit of giggles that consumed her. Half the room peered their way.
Pitch sauntered off, leaving the salivating couple in his wake and doing his utmost to make his hips sway nicely. The stiffness in his muscles ruined it a little, but he thought he did quite well, even without the bloody cane. Silas could take that suggestion and shove it up his very lovely arse, Pitch decided.
He was fully aware of all the eyes upon him. The room was filled with purebreds, so far as he could see, the good lighting showing clearly the shadows that clung to their heels. He acknowledged the greetings and nods that came his way. A chap he did not recall at all certainly remembered Miss Margaret Cargill. Red-cheeked, his monocle lifting one thin brow, he spent a moment too long with his lips upon the back of Pitch’s hand, decrying what a shame it was not to have seen her for so long. His companions, a trio of serious-faced older men, crowded around for their turn at flattery. Pitch was uneasy at being so pressed in upon. There was a distinct disadvantage to being the loveliest in the room. Worse still, these men were of no use to him. They too thought Edward to be away. Taking the sun in Africa, according to the chap with a crooked nose.
‘Good thing too,’ he said. ‘Poor chap’s been mixing with the wrong type of company. Dreadful business, all that. How he passed over you, my dear, in favour of hanging about with Feversham and his vile crowd, none of us can understand.’
‘Now, now,’ Mr Monocle said. ‘The lady certainly doesn’t need to hear any of that.’
Pitch put on a suitably demure expression, lowering his head and managing to bring a blush to his cheeks. But inwardly he fumed. Could they all not stand back just a little? If Silas were here, he would have sent them scattering, knowing in that interminable way of his when his daemon was unhappy. Pitch gripped his glass tighter. Oh, for the gods’ sake. Since when did he need a damned dead man to send unwelcome suitors running? If he wished, Pitch could have this entire room fornicating on the tables, using the champagne bottles in scandalous ways.