The maid studied Jonathan warily for a moment, then nodded and dashed off into the dark.
Jonathan watched her go, praying that she made it to her destination, but deeply worried that the shadowy figures who now seemed to patrol Fairford House would catch her before she got far.
“We need to be inside,” Jonathan told Charlie quietly.
Charlie nodded slowly as he, too, watched the maid go, likely as fearful for her safety as Jonathan was.
There was nothing they could do to help her, but she had inadvertently helped them. The window she’d climbed out of was still open, and with a bit of effort, Jonathan was able to give Charlie a hand up and over the sill into the house, then to climb in after him.
The parlor was dark, but there was enough light spilling in from the hall that Jonathan noticed at once they had a problem. Their trek through the ground of Fairford House had left both him and Charlie damp from dew and decorated with bits of grass and dirt. Anyone who intercepted them as they tried to make it up to their rooms would know they’d been outside.
“This isn’t ideal,” Jonathan sighed, bending to brush his trousers off.
Charlie did the same, but neither of them got very far before the sound of footsteps and men talking echoed from the hall. Jonathan straightened and grabbed him, tugging Charlie to the wall just beside the doorway so they wouldn’t be seen if the men passed them.
“—jolly good time,” Copeland’s voice became distinct as the footsteps grew near. “And my membership is secure, I take it?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Hammond’s voice answered him moments before the two men crossed by the doorway. “Provided you pay your dues.”
Copeland laughed. “Oh, yes, my dues. I think we both know what that means. But if you’re able to provide entertainment nearly as interesting as Frome has provided, then I would be?—”
Their voices faded as they disappeared down the hall.
Jonathan let out a breath and sagged against the wall for a moment. He and Charlie had gone unnoticed, and they were not the immediate topic of conversation. He could hold onto hope a bit longer.
He reached for Charlie’s hand again, and once he felt the security of Charlie’s warm palm against his and their fingers entwined, he started out into the hallway.
Immediately, he stood straighter and walked as if he owned the house. It stood to reason that if they were seen before they made it upstairs, he could pretend that nothing at all was amiss.
That plan lasted until they came near the front hall and the main staircase, the most exposed part of their flight to their rooms. As soon as Frome stepped out from the opposite hallway, a worried frown creasing his brow, Jonathan remembered that his excuse for being absent was supposed to be illness.
“Moorgate?” Frome flinched slightly at the sight of him. His gaze shot straight to Jonathan’s and Charlie’s joined hands. “Wherever have you been, man? The entire house is fretting about your health.”
Jonathan glanced to Charlie, then hunched over slightly. “They should be worried,” he said with what he hoped was a nauseated smile. “Though perhaps they should be more worried about the turtle soup than about me.”
Frome glanced him up and down, his frown returning, more puzzled than anxious now. “None of the others were taken ill.”
Jonathan thought he’d gotten away with something until Frome stepped closer to him and said, “You’ve been outside.”
“Yes,” Jonathan said with a wobbly smile. Keep smiling. Always smile. “I, er, I did not make it as far as my rooms when I departed supper earlier.”
“Did you not?” Frome’s expression tightened as he closed the remaining gap between them with calculated slowness. “The servants did not note your presence in any of the gardens.”
Frome knew. There was no chance at all that he was merely a pawn in someone else’s game, someone who was using his estate for their own purposes. He knew that Jonathan had, at some point, become aware of everything as well.
Jonathan stalled facing that truth and finding a way out of it by doubling over, his free hand held to his belly. He groaned as if he might be sick.
Frome stepped back, whatever certainty he’d had moments before faltering. “Are you certain you’re quite well?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Jonathan moaned.
“I found him near the laundry,” Charlie whispered, his voice shaky. “In the weeds.”
Frome hummed and took another step back. “No wonder they couldn’t find you.”
A jolt like electricity slithered across Jonathan’s skin. Frome could have meant something else, but it seemed very much as if he knew Dalhurst’s men had gone searching for him.
“I apologize for my illness,” he said, making a show of being in pain as he straightened. “I very much regret imposing upon you, but I request the use of one of your carriages to take me and Charlie and our things to the station with all due haste. We may still be able to take the last train to London tonight, where I might find some relief.”
