It was a lie. Everything was a lie. His father, his family, the reasons he’d been expelled from everything he’d known and loved. All of it was a complete fabrication. His father was as bent as he was and his lofty friends were no purer than the pimps who trafficked young boys in the streets.
And he’d brought Charlie straight into the pit of serpents without being wise enough to protect him.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, pushing his chair back suddenly once he’d put his wineglass down.
He stood and stepped away from the table. Everyone, his father and Lord Frome included, stopped their conversations to stare at him.
“Is something the matter, young Moorgate?” Frome asked.
Jonathan grasped for the easiest explanation that would get him out of the room as swiftly as possible. “Oh, dear.” He gripped his stomach and started for the door. “I’m afraid something disagrees with me. I am terribly—oh, dear.”
“Are you well, man?” Frome called after him.
Jonathan ignored him as he ran into the hall. Let the rest of the company believe what they would about his stomach. If they all thought he’d taken ill they would be less likely to come after him and they would not be suspicious if he was suddenly absent from their company.
He needed to find Charlie. He needed to figure out how to arrange for one of Frome’s carriages to take the two of them immediately to the train station.
But what if Frome refused to give them transportation? They were essentially trapped at Fairford House if he could not hire a carriage. There would likely be someone in the nearest village who would transport him and Charlie and their equipment for a few coins, but how far was that village?
By the time he reached the stairs to head up to his room, Jonathan forced himself to breathe and think more rationally about the situation. He did not truly know what sort of danger he had walked so willingly into. It was possible that his imagination had run away with him and he was seeing ghosts and demons in the shadows where there were none. Frome could still be completely innocent and his father as much of a pillar of morality as he claimed to be.
He doubted it, though.
He’d only just made it to his room and started assessing and arranging his equipment in case he and Charlie did have to leave in a rush when Charlie burst into the room, red-faced and panting.
“Charlie?” Jonathan turned immediately away from the table and moved closer to him.
The alarm in Charlie’s eyes grew at the sight of Jonathan. Whatever discord there was between them and despite their earlier argument, Charlie lunged for him.
“Please,” he said, his voice tight and labored. “You have to help. HeisFabian. He was kidnapped. He does not want the laudanum. Please.”
Those few words contained more information than Jonathan could take in easily. He gripped Charlie’s arms, searching his face and eyes for any sign that he was overreacting. He searched for reassurance and comfort. He desperately needed to see the adoration that had been in Charlie’s eyes during those first few days they’d been together, when Charlie still thought he caused the sun to rise and set.
He saw none of that, only terror that reflected what was growing in Jonathan’s gut.
“Tell me again what you saw,” he said, breathless and frightened of the corner they were about to turn. Or perhaps the corner they’d become trapped in.
Charlie sucked in a ragged breath, his eyes filling with the light of hope. “He is being kept in the cottage, naked and shackled. Marks on his arm from morphine. Scared, sad. Please. Please!”
Jonathan nodded and swallowed sickly. “Yes,” he gasped, hardly able to believe what he was saying.
He moved toward the door, unable to release Charlie’s shirt and arm under it from his terrified grip. Charlie sobbed a bit too loudly, but not because Jonathan was causing him any pain.
He stopped with his other hand on the handle of his door and turned to Charlie.
“I’m not a hero,” he said, eyes stinging. “I do not know if I can do this. Everything tonight terrifies me. I am a lie.”
He didn’t know what made him say the last bit. It didn’t make sense, really. It was just something he felt down to the core of his being.
Charlie shook his head and gripped Jonathan’s hand. “I will help.”
Jonathan’s tears nearly spilled out. “Yes,” he said, squeezing Charlie’s hand.
He couldn’t think about things beyond that. If he thought about it too much, he would be paralyzed. The best he could do as fear roared through him like a hurricane was to pull open his door and step cautiously out into the hall with Charlie’s hand in his.
Charlie knew the way, so Jonathan let him lead down through the house and out a side door near the ballroom. It would have been quicker to exit the house through one of the doors nearer to the kitchen, but with supper still being served, they would have encountered any number of servants. Jonathan no longer trusted even the lowliest of servants at Fairford.
The night was dark and windy once they made it outside. Clouds skittered overhead, giving them bright glimpses of the moon from time to time that helped them navigate the lawn and gardens as they circled the house toward the orangery. The tennis court’s net looked like some sort of flapping spider’s web as they hurried past it. Jonathan tried not to feel like a fly about to be caught.
