He could carry Jonathan’s things on his own. It would be better than having more of the servants poke fun at him for not speaking.
“So there you have it,” Davidson said as they stepped out through the front door, where Jonathan’s two suitcases andboxes of photographic equipment waited for them. “That’s Fairford House. Or, at least, the parts of it you’ll see.”
Charlie sighed and gazed around at the landscape. How could something so ominous stand in the middle of such beauty?
“Lord Frome owns everything as far as the eye can see,” Davidson said, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his livery jacket in a too-casual way. “He controls most of the nearby villages, too, so they leave us alone, mostly. Lord Frome has made a fortune in trade. Bought this placed off an impoverished nobleman because it wasn’t entailed.”
Charlie glanced at him in question.
“Nobility isn’t what it once was, and trade can be very profitable,” Davidson went on. “And those of us who work for Lord Frome are grateful for it. We’re loyal to a fault, some might say, but it’s a privilege Lord Frome pays for.”
The estate had been purchased as a shield for unsavory activity. The servants were paid to be discreet. Charlie wasn’t stupid enough not to know what everything Davidson had said meant.
He went back to looking out over the horizon. His attention was caught by a series of outbuildings off to one side of the house.
“The stables, the laundry, and the buttery,” Davidson explained, though Charlie hadn’t asked.
Charlie glanced the other way, to where one wing of the house jutted out slightly. There was a greenhouse of some sort in that direction and another, small, dull building.
“You donotgo there,” Davidson said with sudden vehemence.
Charlie started and turned to stare at the footman with wide eyes.
“Nobody goes into the orangery or the cottage,” he reiterated. “Any servant caught snooping around on that sideof the grounds is immediately handed their notice, without references.”
Charlie’s knees felt weak. The only reason to forbid someone from going into a building was because there was something in the building that needed to remain hidden.
Or maybe not? Davidson burst into laughter a moment later, then slapped Charlie on the back. “You’ll do well here,” he said. “As long as you know your place and keep to it.”
His joking grin turned deathly serious for a moment.
Then he laughed again and smacked Charlie on the back a little harder.
After that, he turned to go, leaving Charlie alone with Jonathan’s things.
Charlie took a deep breath and looked around again. He studied the orangery and cottage for a moment, then shook his head and bent to pick up Jonathan’s suitcases. He needed to keep his head down and assist Jonathan in taking the photographs that Brutus and Titus wanted taken. Anything beyond that was none of his concern. The sooner they could accomplish their mission and get away from Fairford House the better.
Chapter Nine
“Mr. Jonathan Moorgate, my lord.”
Jonathan put on his most affable smile and stepped forward, hand extended, as Mr. Glenn introduced him to a somewhat dissipated-looking, grey-haired man in a fine suit. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Jonathan was quick to say when Lord Frome took his hand. “I have heard so much about you and your magnificent gardens.”
He told himself he wouldn’t look, but while he was still shaking hands with Lord Frome, Jonathan peeked at the other gentlemen standing or sitting in the small circle of white chairs that had been placed in a sunny section of Fairford House’s back lawn. There was already a sizeable number of gentlemen gathered there engaged in conversation, some of them with glasses of what looked like punch or small plates of cakes and tarts, which were being served by two blank-faced footmen.
Jonathan was only marginally interested in those men. His gaze went straight to his father, who had been standing in a trio with Lord Frome and another, rather short, middle-aged gentleman Jonathan wasn’t acquainted with.
His father frowned at him, but more with an air of calculation, as if he was attempting to decide whether invitinghim to Fairford House as an official photographer was a terrible idea or not.
In the end, his father had actually been the one to issue the invitation. Personally. He’d arrived at Jonathan’s shop the week before, lip curled in a sneer, nose turned up at everything, particularly Charlie, to reveal that his praises had been sung to Lord Frome, examples of some of his previous work had been circulating around their particular circle of friends, and when Frome learned that Jonathan was his son, he’d insisted on having him out to Wiltshire for the weekend.
The way his father met Jonathan’s eyes now made it clear he was on trial. His behavior would be scrutinized at every turn, and if he put so much as a toe out of line, his father would rain hellfire down on him.
“I’ve heard quite a bit about you as well, young man,” Frome returned Jonathan’s enthusiastic greeting with a wide, toothy smile. “I’ve heard that you’re a cheeky rogue who has driven your father half mad.” He winked.
Jonathan laughed as he let go of the man’s hand, as if it really was a joke and not one of the greatest sources of pain and defeat in Jonathan’s life. “I have only ever sought to balance between remaining true to myself, as Polonius once advised us all, and being the very best second son I could be.”
He sent a look his father’s way, not even trying to pretend that he’d ever succeeded in those attempts.
