“I think you’d look splendid, photographed with one of the ponds and the sunrise behind you,” Jonathan kept trying, his smile growing more ardent by the moment. “Especially if you were stretched out naked and glistening with water from the pond.”
Charlie fought not to catch his breath and be swayed by the picture Jonathan was painting, or rather, the photograph he was composing. That was what Jonathan did, he realized. He envisioned the world the way he wanted it, safe and controlled, even if it looked wild from the outside. But Charlie didn’t want any part of that sensual utopia when he knew someone else was in trouble.
“I should see if Fairford’s cook would put together a picnic for us,” Jonathan said when Charlie remained silent, not taking his bait. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to get away from the madness of this house and to go somewhere secluded, where we could enjoy each other’s company without being scrutinized?”
Charlie had just taken a plate from him and slipped it back into the box a little too forcefully, risking cracking it. It was unbelievable that Jonathan thought he could relax for a moment, knowing someone else was suffering.
It was a good thing in more ways than one that Mr. Copeland and a few other men wandered into the gallery just then. Jonathan was forced to turn his attention away from Charlie. Charlie became nothing but a lowly apprentice again as he helped Jonathan set up for a new photograph. It was also fortunate that Jonathan managed to compose the picture to include Mr. Copeland and his friends. Brutus and Titus would be happy with that.
Charlie wasn’t happy no matter what he did. It physically hurt to watch Jonathan gushing with friendship toward men who might have been very bad and done horrible things. That was why Brutus had asked them to take the photographs, after all, wasn’t it? Because he wanted to prove certain people had been at Fairford House so he could hold them accountable later?
“Once you’re finished here, Moorgate,” Mr. Copeland said as he wandered over to examine the camera, “you should join us for lunch on the lawn.”
“Frome discovered that Chillington is fond of jellied eels, of all things, and has had some brought in from the village,” one of the other men said.
Jonathan glanced briefly at Charlie, who had stepped to the side, where the box of plates and other equipment sat. Charlie pretended not to see him. “Perhaps I will,” he said. He glanced back to Charlie, who had his jaw clenched and fought to keep his hands from shaking too noticeably. “Would you mind packing up here, Charlie?” he asked.
Charlie shook his head without looking at him.
“Come along, then, Moorgate,” Mr. Copeland laughed. “Since you were so eager to sing your young apprentice’s praises last night, you might as well leave him to get on with things here today.”
Charlie lifted his head and turned. Had Jonathan sung his praises?
There was no way to know. Jonathan had already let Mr. Copeland and the others lead him off. The best he got was a fleeting look over his shoulder from Jonathan.
As soon as the men were gone, Charlie blew out a disappointed breath and busied himself tidying up the equipment. He had to make two trips up to their room to store it all. Once that was done, he headed back downstairs, intending to go all the way to the servants’ hall for lunch.
He stopped when he reached one of the doors that led outside. It was open, as if some of the servants had been using it to take food out to wherever the gentlemen guests were eating their lunch. Through it, Charlie could see the orangery and hints of the cottage beyond.
He couldn’t stand by, pretending nothing was wrong the way Jonathan was pretending. If there was even a small chance he could do something to help Fabian, he had to do it.
Quickly checking to make certain he wasn’t observed, Charlie strode outside and along the path that led to the orangery. He darted looks all around, deeply aware that not a soul could see him or guess where he was going. Davidson hadn’t been lying after all when he’d said no one was allowed to go near the orangery or the cottage, and now he knew why.
It occurred to him as he reached the edge of the orangery, where he could duck down and use the building and the greenery around it to hide as he made his way toward the cottage, that the servants must have known at least a little bit about why the area was forbidden. There was a chance the maid who had told him to go looking for Mr. Glenn there had done so in the hope that he would find Fabian and sound the alarm.
That possibility made him walk faster, which also made him a touch more careless than he should have been.
“Hello, Charlie.”
Charlie yelped and nearly fell over as he reached the corner of the orangery, only to find Mr. Hammond leaning against the side, enjoying a cigar in the midday sun.
Panic fluttered through Charlie. He wavered on his spot, glancing first to the cottage, then back toward the house. Part of him hoped Jonathan would appear, come to save him again. A more jaded part of him doubted Jonathan would ever come.
“Out enjoying this fine afternoon?” Mr. Hammond asked, pushing away from the side of the orangery and stamping out his cigar on one of the glass panes.
There was no way Charlie would be able to speak to the man. His throat was as tight and closed up as if someone had fastened a collar around it.
Mr. Hammond didn’t seem to mind. In fact, as he stepped slowly closer to Charlie, eyeing him up and down, Charlie had the terrible feeling that the man preferred that he couldn’t say a word.
“I hear you’re intelligent,” he said, “despite this little problem you have with speaking.”
“I can speak,” Charlie managed to croak out clumsily.
Mr. Hammond’s smile widened. “Of course you can, dear boy,” he said, his voice low and familiar as he moved far too close to Charlie. “I dare say you can do a lot more than talk with that lovely mouth of yours.”
He reached out and held Charlie’s chin, stroking his thumb across Charlie’s lower lip.
Twin feelings of revulsion and wicked curiosity pulsed through Charlie. This was his weakness. This was what made him evil, not only in the sight of his family and God, but in his own heart and soul. The way his pulse raced at Mr. Hammond’s touch, the way his body responded, despite how he felt about Jonathan, was what made him a monstrous creature.
