Page 17 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Settling his shoulders, Pitch asked, ‘I wonder if you might know where Mrs Charters is? I haven’t seen her yet, and I’m longing to say hello.’

‘In conversation upstairs with Mr Fothergill. Some paperwork to be signed, I understand.’ Mr Monocle’s hands twitched, sensing that his beloved Miss Cargill was about to abandon him. Astute man, he was.

‘Mr Fothergill?’

‘Her business man. Been handling the family’s affairs for years, since just after Graham Charters died.’

‘Handling a good deal else, I’d wager.’ The crooked-nose gentleman guffawed, his breath reeking of gin. ‘Nothing like a fresh wealthy widow to whet a man’s appetite.’

His companions feigned horror at such indelicate talk in front of a lady. Odd, Pitch thought, how they were so careful with their language around fragile females but did not think twice about hemming her in like a prize cow at a sales yard. Pitch ground his teeth behind his smile. He was fairly certain one of the men’s hands had found its way to the back of his dress and dug in, looking for a pair of ripe peaches.

‘There’s some unsavoury talk going around, that’s true. But I don’t believe a word of it,’ Mr Monocle insisted. ‘Fothergill’s kept things in order with the factory, and the estates. Edward would do well to take lessons from him.’

‘Ed’s too busy playing with rakes and listening to the fairies… Odd boy, that.’

Pitch smiled, joining the laughter with a delicate titter and blushing where necessary. This Mr Fothergill may prove useful. And if he and Edward’s mother were together, now was the perfect time for a stroll upstairs.

‘Gentlemen, it’s been lovely, but I must be moving on now. We’ll speak again, I’m sure.’ Pitch spied an approaching footman with a fresh tray of champagne-filled glasses. ‘Excuse me.’

He pushed from the dinner-suited cage with a sharp inhale, feeling a fool for allowing the press of bodies to unsettle him. He’d been in orgies with more people, buried under bodies, held down with a cock in both orifices and a lady’s mouth on his pillar, and not been troubled in the slightest.

Curse the Alp for making a fool of him even here.

Pitch waggled his empty glass at the waiter. ‘Might I trouble you for another?’

The lad nodded eagerly. He had lovely amber eyes, full lips, and teeth that were very cutely bucked, but he was far too slight. Pitch had a taste for a larger man now, bearded and uncommonly thoughtful.

He snatched the glass off the tray and downed a very unladylike mouthful. Perhaps if he had curbed his taste for such a man sooner, he’d not have been so vulnerable to those infernal Gidleigh House éclairs.

He took another substantial swig, appreciative of the footman’s turn of the head that afforded him some privacy in his gluttony, and doubly thankful that the lad did not wander away, waiting until Pitch downed the empty glass and took another.

‘Good boy.’ Pitch winked from behind his raised glass. That did send the man scurrying, his neck blooming red.

Gods, Pitch had missed champagne and all this pointless frivolity and flirtation, the laughing at nothing. The gossip and lies and general vapidness of society was really quite wonderful. Far better than angelic quests and maniacal sorcerers. He was as nearly invisible here as he would ever be. Tobias Astaroth was buried beneath taffeta and Prince Vassago beneath Satty’s elixir.

He was…dare he even think it…quite free.

Well, as near to free as this was, compelled to wear a disguise and sneak about in an old lover’s house at the behest of a bloody piece of jewellery gifted to him by a dead angel.

Pitch swallowed down his irritation with another mouthful of bubbles. Mrs Charters and Mr Fothergill were likely to be upstairs in the study, where all the business was done. He’d go through to the sitting room and take the smaller staircase at the rear of the house.

It took a little while to travel even that short distance, for every few steps there was a pause to offer up a how-do-you-do to a variety of people. A few he recognised from about town. He was fairly certain the brunette with jewels the size of plums in her hair was the same one who had watched on, one bright spring evening, as Pitch was sucked off by her husband in their marital bed. An earl, if he recalled. Pleasant evening that one. Very satisfying assortment of mint chocolate after dinner.

Pitch took a sip from his champagne and found it empty again. He was scowling at it when the buck-toothed footman appeared, filled tray at the ready.

‘Madam.’ He was breathing a little harder than tray-carrying warranted.

‘Goodness, what impeccable timing you have, my dear.’ Pitch beamed, and the lad lit up like the blazing fire in the hearth. Isaac must be intolerably bored with watching all this, which was one small highlight of the evening out.

An exuberant older woman with wide-blown pupils and a faint shadow of hair upon her top lip pushed herself in between the footman and Pitch. The servant, appearing a little glum, took his leave.

‘Oh my, you’re as lovely as I recall, Miss Cargill. I’m Daphne…Daphne North…I don’t know if you recall? Lovely, lovely to see you again. What a night that was, eh? We’d all had rather a lot of wine when we last met.’ And a good deal else, Pitch would wager, which may account for why he had absolutely no recollection of this woman. ‘And can I just say what a delightful couple you and Mr Charters made. I’ll not hold back in saying, I was most disappointed we did not see an engagement between you two.’ Her eyes were glassy, her jaw working hard, and she stood far too close. ‘Such a pity the lieutenant can’t be with us, isn’t it?’

‘Terrible pity. I haven’t heard yet where he’s gone off to.’

‘I’m hearing he’s sunning himself in India.’

‘Really?’