Page 24 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

With Mrs Charters disappearing down the stairs, Pitch made his way along the corridor, skirts hushing as he moved. He refused to be bothered by how much the dimly lit passageway also reminded him of Gidleigh House. By the gods he was not about to be cowed by those memories. Onoskolis could be as damned as Seraphiel. He paused outside the closed room he’d seen Edward’s mother exit and leaned close to the mahogany door. A shuffling came from within, a rustle of papers, a clearing of a throat, which was followed by a nauseating snort as they vacated their nose as well. Pitch’s foot tapped its incessant rhythm, and he wished he had brought another glass of champagne with him. His mouth was dry. He touched at his bodice, made sure all was in order, set his best look of innocence upon his superbly made-up face, and opened the door.

CHAPTER EIGHT

PITCH CAUGHTMr Fothergill by surprise. The Charters’ financier was bent over an open drawer on a green-topped pedestal desk, a bulky thing that dominated the room. The fireplace was unlit, shutting Isaac’s eyes to what might go on in here. Lucky perhaps, for Pitch intended to use enchantment to get this over with. He’d no doubt have heard the cursing in the carriage from here if Isaac had to watch him play with cock.

Fothergill was a striking man, even with his rather wild head of light brown hair that seemed unable to decide what direction to point. His pronounced square jaw gave him the look of a stern army captain. Fothergill jerked upright as Pitch swanned into the room, papers slipping from his grasp and fluttering to the desk.

‘My goodness, madam, you startled me.’

‘Pardon me, I’m so sorry.’ Pitch played at being startled. ‘I’ve quite gone and headed into the wrong room.’ He laughed, high and merry, touching fingertips between his make-do breasts.

Mr Fothergill’s shrewd eyes followed the path of Pitch’s hand unabashedly. ‘No mind, no mind at all.’ The man gathered his paperwork, tapping it into an ordered pile atop the desk before he slid the pages into a drawer, locking it with a tiny key.

He sauntered out from behind the desk, bumping against a corner as he went. There was a distinct sweet air in the room. Pitch would wager the man had been downing more than a sherry or two as he worked at seeing Edward vanished from society.

‘I was actually looking for somewhere to freshen up,’ Pitch continued with his airy helplessness. ‘I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you.’

Mr Fothergill’s stovepipe pants showed off all the bulges and curves the man had to offer. His tailoring was admirable, Pitch had to admit. His double-breasted tailcoat was a green so deep as to be almost black, with a subtle trim of silver that was quite fetching.

‘My dear, if I may be so bold, you are entirely perfect as you are. Nothing whatsoever needs freshening.’ His smile had something of the wolf in it, far too many teeth by half. Pitch considering trying to wipe that smile away by declaring that freshening up simply meant he needed to take a piss, uttering words that should never cross a lady’s lips. His own drunken smile rose at imagining it.

‘You are a vision, my dear,’ the wolf declared.

‘You are far too kind…Mr…?’

‘Oh, my apologies, I’ve been rather neglectful.’ He stopped in front of Pitch, and the waft of sherry moved with him. His cheeks were far redder than the stuffy but not overly warm room accounted for, and he was glassy-eyed. Mr Fothergill extended his hand. He had extremely slim fingers, and rather too long. ‘Whom do I have the delightful pleasure of meeting here?’

‘Miss Margaret Cargill.’

‘And you are from somewhere far beyond the Cliffs of Dover, I dare say.’ He pressed his lips to the back of Pitch’s gloved hand and remained there too long to be proper.

‘I am indeed. The United States, as I’m sure you have guessed.’

‘Well, I’m ever so glad you left them and found your way into this room.’ He probably thought his tilted smile was charming. ‘Perhaps we could linger here a while, away from the madding crowds as it were, so I might speak with you more easily.’

Pitch’s laughter was suitably coy as he put up a weak protest. ‘I’m not sure that would be proper, are you?’

One of Mr Fothergill’s teeth was a shade darker than the others and a tad crooked, like a tottering soldier.

‘You are quite safe with me, Miss Cargill. I would be appalled to think you believe otherwise.’ Mr Fothergill’s eyes widened with false alarm as he pressed a hand to his belly in a suitable display of horror.

‘Of course not.’ Pitch fluttered and preened. He caught the edge of his lip between his teeth and ran his fingertips over the place on his glove where the man had kissed him. Sending all the signals that said although Miss Cargill might appear proper and respectable, she was not averse to straying. This was just like the many of the days, since Lucifer had dumped him here, and before, when Pitch had no cares in the world but besting his own record for purebreds bedded in one night. He’d revelled in the mindlessness of it, the lure of the base nature of desire. But here his pulse was too quick for comfort.

The tincture, he was sure.

‘We could indulge in a quiet sherry, perhaps?’ Mr Fothergill read all the signals loud and clear. He shifted on his unsteady feet, tugging at his vest as though it were suddenly too tight for him.

‘Oh, you have found my weakness, I’m afraid. Sherry is my very favourite.’ Pitch abhorred the stuff, which was odd considering how sweet it was. He spied a half-filled decanter, its stopper sitting by its side and a glass with the dregs of a previous drink sitting nearby. The drinks cabinet sat between two windows that looked down onto a back alley running past the house. There was a courtyard between the house and the alley, an entrance for deliveries and servants. Mr Fothergill watched him, like Dickens’s Tiny Tim eyeing the turkey.

‘I shall pour us those drinks, then.’ He might as well have licked his lips.

Pitch would barely need to flex an enchantment to have this man at his mercy. Normally, that would have given him a thrill. A tryst where the other party needed little convincing of what they desired. But in place of a tightness in his belly, a heat down low, there was just a plain knot. Cold and tight and irritating.

By the gods, this was hardly the time for reticence.

It was not as though he needed to bend and spread for the man. Fothergill’s tongue was already loose and wet enough thanks to the sherry. At most the unpleasant chap may require a little handwork, likely a kiss or two would do it. No need for Jane’s rose oil here.

The knot made itself known, twisting tighter.