“I do,” the man said, letting Jonathan’s hand go. “And this is Phoebus.”
Brutus brought the young man forward, resting his hands on his shoulders as he positioned him, as if for Jonathan’s viewing.
“It’s Phoebus who I’d like to have photographed,” Brutus said.
“I see,” Jonathan said with a slow nod.
He did see. A quick sweep of Phoebus’s form and he definitely saw.
“I generally choose my own subjects,” Jonathan confided in Brutus quietly.
Brutus grinned. “It’s not what you think.”
Jonathan’s brow lifted. “It isn’t?”
“Not precisely,” Brutus said, his grin widening.
“I see.” Jonathan wasn’t certain he saw at all. “If you would come this way, we can discuss what you have in mind,” he said, turning to walk through the curtain and gesturing for Brutus and Phoebus to come with him.
The sun had barely risen, but already the day was unraveling in a dozen unexpected ways.
Chapter Four
At first, Charlie panicked when he was abandoned in Jonathan’s kitchen. The knock on the door could be the police. They might have tracked him to the studio in Marylebone for trying to steal that apple, or for his tearful attempts to suck men off for a few coins. They could even have been sent by his father to apprehend him for sodomy, since he’d fled Bermondsey before truly facing his and Rossindale’s crimes.
He should have run. The kitchen had a door that led out to what appeared to be mews. He could make his escape through the back gardens and sheltered alleys behind the shops and houses of Marylebone.
Except he didn’t know that part of the city at all. And he wasn’t dressed appropriately by any stretch of the imagination. And it was chilly and dreary, despite being nearly summer, with a heavy grayness that hinted the day would be full of rain.
On top of that, there was more food on the table in front of him than he’d seen in weeks, and Jonathan had offered it all to him.
He couldn’t leave. Jonathan had saved him from death, and if he ran away from the man now, if he displeased his savior inany way, he would be back on the streets, cold, unprepared, and alone.
A new sort of fear seized him as the sound of voices wafted in from the studio portion of the house. He would die if Jonathan turned him out, even if he had a full belly and five shillings in his pocket. He didn’t have the fortitude to survive a rough life in the streets of London. At best, he’d end up in the workhouse. At worst, he’d be dead by the time the sun went down, his throat slit for the five shillings.
He rose abruptly, gathering up the plates and cups from the table with shaking hands and taking them to the counter beside the sink. He had to be of use to Jonathan. His survival depended on being of use to his savior in every way. His life was in the man’s hands, and as absurd as it was, all things considered, Charlie valued his life enough to want to preserve it.
He washed the dishes quickly, then put away the leftover food and scrubbed the table. All of that was accomplished within five minutes as voices came through the doorway to the studio. Jonathan was speaking with another man, most likely about business.
A fresh wave of panic filled Charlie once the kitchen was tidy. He wasn’t going to be able to make himself indispensable to Jonathan if all he could do was tidy up an already neat kitchen. Despite his profession, perhaps because of it, Jonathan’s home, as far as Charlie had been able to observe in his short time there, was fastidiously clean and orderly.
There had to be another way he could make it impossible for Jonathan to turn him out onto the street again.
He glanced to the door leading into the studio, then took a deep breath as a wave of fear filled him. There was no telling who Jonathan was speaking with or what they wanted. If he stepped through that door, he might be walking into danger. Jonathanmight be ashamed of him or angry that he would interrupt business.
But he might also be able to help.
Once again in his life, there was no choice. Charlie swallowed his fear, squeezed his eyes shut to fight off the sting of tears trying to form, then forced himself forward.
He made it to the door and peeked through into the studio, trying to make himself as small as possible as he did. His face flared hot when he saw there was a third man with Jonathan and the other with the deep voice, a young man.
The heat from Charlie’s face stretched down his neck to his chest as he noted the third man was close to his own age and beautiful in a delicate way. He sat on the chaise in the staged part of the studio room, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, glancing serenely up at Jonathan and the other man as they spoke.
“I will need certain safeguards if I take this commission from you,” Jonathan was in the middle of saying to the other man. “As I am sure you understand, this kind of work cannot be advertised openly.”
“No, of course not,” the dark man said.
He was dark in more ways than one. His hair, his close-cut beard, his long coat, and the air around him. At the same time, he radiated an allure that had Charlie caught between wanting to step out and make himself known so that the man would notice him and hiding forever.
