Laughter and teasing continued to echo all around. Jonathan took another spoon of soup and glanced down at the other men. Their faces were too flushed, their eyes too bright with shared understanding.
Something was deeply wrong with the situation Brutus and Titus had thrust him into.
“You should bring your boy, Charlie, down to the pond to swim with us tomorrow,” Copeland commented with a lurid wink. “I am quite certain he would be a favorite to win whatever competitions we set.”
The mention of Charlie sent Jonathan’s thoughts and feelings bolting in a dozen different directions. Beautiful Charlie, who was furious with him for being a coward. Charlie who had a heart as large as the ocean and who wanted to rush to rescue a man he did not know and who might not even need his help.
Wonderful Charlie, whom he’d let down with his pitiful shallowness.
“I do not know if Charlie can swim,” Jonathan muttered, glancing down.
He put his spoon down just as one of the footmen came around to collect the soup bowls in preparation for serving the next course.
“Robert here has plans to join us, do you not?” Copeland said, sending the handsome footman a sly wink.
“I do, sir,” Robert replied with an overly friendly smile.
The young man stood behind Jonathan, which meant he had to twist slightly to see the smile. Saw it he did, though. He also witnessed Chillington, who sat next to him, slide his hand up Robert’s thigh to grope his arse when the young man stepped close to take his soup bowl.
The gesture was not subtle, but no one, not even Mr. Glenn, who stood guard over the supper from the side of the room, so much as blinked.
Jonathan did more than blink. He sat back in his chair, pretending to wait patiently for the fish course. As he did, he studied the other men at the table more intensively. Were they all shameless and bent or had Frome seated that sort at his end of the table? And if there was a deeper purpose to the weekend house party, why was his father in attendance?
The more Jonathan looked for signs confirming his suspicions about the sort of party he’d been invited to, the more he found them. It was mostly there in the way the other guests interacted with the footmen. Three of them were there to serve at table, which was more than usual for the size of their company. Perhaps manners had been loosened because the party had been ongoing for some time now, from before Jonathan had arrived, but clearly the veil was beginning to drop.
As the next course was served, Jonathan engaged in the conversations around him, but only nominally. His mind raced with the possibilities for what sort of madness Brutus and Titus had sent him into and why. The more he thought about it, the more he could see certain similarities to what he’d observed at The Zagreus Den. The boys serving them might not have been dressed in togas, but as the meal wore on, their shows of subservience felt more and more similar.
And yet, not at all. Charlie was right. The sense of fun and pleasure Jonathan had felt at the nondescript house in Tyburnia was worlds away from the seedy, uncomfortable feelings he hadsitting at Lord Frome’s table. He couldn’t put his finger on what, precisely, was wrong, but it was there.
More important than all of those questions, however, was the loud one that loomed over everything. If that was the sort of party happening at Fairford House, then why was his father there?
Those thoughts had Jonathan’s blood racing too fast through him by the time the next course was served. He could hardly eat, his stomach was tied in so many knots. He needed to know what he was involved in, what his father was involved in. He suspected that, once again, Charlie was right and they needed to get away from Fairford House as quickly as possible.
In the middle of his racing thoughts, one of the footmen who hadn’t been serving entered the room and headed straight for Mr. Glenn. He looked too fearful for the mood of the dining room, and once he reached Mr. Glenn, he spoke to him hurriedly.
Mr. Glenn nodded to the young man, then gestured for him to leave, which he did with all haste. He then stepped around the table to stand at the corner between Frome and Dalhurst.
“If you please, sir,” he began, then bent so that he could speak almost directly into Dalhurst’s ear. He stood so close that even directly across the table as he was, Jonathan couldn’t hear him.
“Very good,” Dalhurst said, setting down his cutlery and wiping his mouth with his serviette. He stood as Mr. Glenn took a step back, then said to Frome. “I will return as quickly as I can.”
Frome nodded gravely to him, then ignored the man’s departure as he and Mr. Glenn left the room. “How do you find the beef, young Moorgate?” he asked, suddenly all smiles and affability again.
The transition was jarring, and Jonathan didn’t know how to react at first. “Everything your cook has served thus far has been excellent,” he said, falling instantly into an ingratiating smile, as was his instinct.
“I am glad you enjoy it,” Frome replied easily. “I think you will enjoy the pudding he’s prepared for us tonight as well.”
“I am most certain I will,” Jonathan smiled back.
He felt as if he were being watched and peeked cautiously down the length of the table.
Sure enough, his father watched him from a spot near the opposite end. The same stern disapproval was in the man’s eyes that had always been there, but somehow it struck Jonathan differently.
Jonathan smiled back at the man with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t really feel now. He reached for his wine and held the cup up slightly, nodding to the man.
Instead of sniffing or turning up his nose to sting Jonathan with disapproval, his father’s face flushed and he turned away, flustered. That could have been because handsome Robert had just leaned closer to him to take his plate away, brushing Jonathan’s father’s arm with his hip as he did.
If Jonathan hadn’t already put the pieces together, he might have choked on his wine. Everything was coming clearer by the second, though, like one of his photographs developing to show its true picture.
