He snapped his eyes up to meet Mr. Thomas’s.
Mr. Thomas nodded quickly, then pulled his hand away, resuming his harmless, somewhat silly persona.
“Sorry, friend,” he called out to Mr. Hammond, rushing to catch up with him. “I just wanted to thank young Charlie here for his service.”
Mr. Hammond frowned with the sort of suspicion that came from another man moving in on his territory. Charlie didn’t think that’s what he was after, but he didn’t like being the center of that kind of scrutiny.
He walked off, wanting to get as far away from the orangery as he could. As desperately as he wanted to visit Fabian again to make certain the young man was not in immediate danger, it was clear now was not the time. There were things going on at Fairford House that he didn’t understand. Maybe Jonathan was right to show caution instead of rushing into an ill-fated rescue attempt.
Chapter Thirteen
He shouldn’t have left Charlie. That was the only thing Jonathan could think about as he let Copeland lead him away to the luncheon picnic. Charlie was still too upset by far, and nothing at all had been resolved or smoothed between them. Laughing over a portly gentleman with whiskers that had not been in fashion for two decades at least as he sucked down jellied eels wasn’t anywhere close to the diversion Copeland and the others promised him it would be.
And yet, there was something about being included in the rowdy party of men closer to his father’s age as they behaved like children on the east lawn of Fairford House that stirred something in Jonathan that he didn’t want to think about.
“You next, young Moorgate,” Mr. Blythe, one of the gentlemen that Jonathan hadn’t had much of a chance to interact with yet, goaded him, holding out a large spoon heaped with slippery, grey chunks of eel.
Jonathan’s stomach turned at the sight of the eels. They looked like something that had come back up again rather than something he had any interest in eating.
But he laughed along with the others, took the spoon, and put the disgusting bite in his mouth as the others cheered himon. He chewed as much as he could while the guests around him twisted their faces into smiles that held no kindness and laughter that was as sharp as swords being stuck into him, then swallowed and fought to grin and laugh at himself for playing along.
“Not half bad, are they,” Copeland said, stepping over to slap Jonathan’s back hard.
“They might take a bit of getting used to,” Jonathan said in a weak voice, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist and praying the eels would stay down.
“Jellied eels are an English tradition,” Blythe said with a pretend sage nod.
“And what profession are you part of that has led you to believe this?” Jonathan asked. “Eel catcher? Eel distributor?”
The other men laughed as if they’d had too much to drink at midday. Although there were a few bottles circulating that Jonathan had been offered a sip from, to be honest. Jonathan didn’t think his jest was particularly amusing, but it might help him to learn more about the men around him and why they were at Fairford House.
“Not an eel-monger,” Blythe chuckled. “But distributor is not too far off the mark. I am an importer.”
“You are too modest, Blythe,” another of the men said, smirking and nodding at Blythe. “He is one of London’s largest and most successful shipping magnates. Owns half the warehouses in London’s dockland, he does.”
“Atherton, you are too kind,” Blythe said, winking at his friend. “Have another eel.”
The other men seemed to think that was hilarious. Jonathan laughed, too, but his attention drifted away from the increasing silliness of gentlemen who should have known better and across the lawn and gardens as if Charlie might be concealed in some of the greenery, waiting for him.
Charlie was nowhere to be found, though, and Jonathan didn’t think it was likely that his young friend would show his face anytime soon.
They’d quarreled. That’s what it had been, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He wanted to admit even less that it had been a lover’s quarrel. Nothing they’d argued about had been immediately connected to the feelings between the two of them, but that was precisely what it felt like in Jonathan’s gut.
He couldn’t be in love with Charlie. Charlie was barely more than a boy. He was a subject Jonathan had plucked out of the gutter, intending to photograph him, fuck him, then put him back. A part of him still believed he should return Charlie to where he’d found him, that it was deeply wrong of him to keep the boy as if he were a pet.
Or a slave.
Memories of the young men at The Zagreus Den filled his mind, the way they’d been so pliant and so eager to serve. Charlie had looked beautiful in a toga, imitating the others. He’d asked to belong to Jonathan, but Jonathan was so far from understanding that urge that it still set his teeth on edge to think about it.
Partially because the idea of a beautiful young man like Charlie belonging to him held more appeal than he wanted to face.
“Moorgate. I say, Moorgate.”
Jonathan blinked himself out of the paralyzed stupor his thoughts had led him into only to find Lord Frome addressing him.
“Yes, my lord?” Jonathan gave his attention to the man with a smile. It was easier than letting his thoughts continue down the path they’d started on.
“I said would you care to join us for tennis on the south lawn?” Frome asked. “I’ve just purchased a net and rackets, and I’ve been eager to have my friends give it a go.”
