Jonathan took a few breaths, glancing from his father to Hammond and to the window, which still stood open, its curtains billowing in the slight breeze mockingly. Charlie wished he could put words into Jonathan’s mouth or give him the courage to face the danger in front of him, but he could barely pull air into his lungs.
“I no longer wish to be here,” Jonathan answered after a protracted silence.
Hammond chuckled. “You see, Moorgate? Your apple has not fallen as far from your tree as you think.”
“I am nothing like my son,” Jonathan’s father said, but quietly, like he’d already lost an argument. “I will not allow you to tempt me into perdition.”
Jonathan’s eyebrows rose. “Do you need tempting, Father?” he asked. “Or did you come to this place knowing full well what you would find?”
Jonathan’s father glared at him, going so far as to bare his teeth. If they had been on the street, Charlie was certain the man would have flown at his son and strangled him.
Neither Jonathan nor his father moved an inch, though.
Hammond grinned between the two of him. That grin turned into a chuckle, which turned into a laugh. “I do so enjoy observing the moment when a father’s stranglehold on his son is broken.”
“This is not—” Jonathan’s father began.
“All this time,” Jonathan interrupted him, stepping forward, his face a mask of hatred. “All this time, you have berated me and told me I am nothing, that I am lower than nothing. But here you are, at the very heart of this den of iniquity, and you still have the gall to pretend as if I am the one who should be despised?”
“I am not?—”
“At least I have had the courage to be who I am,” Jonathan cut him off once more. “I have never hidden anything. I have lived as myself without apology or shame. Can you say the same?”
“This is a misunderstanding,” Jonathan’s father barked, body quivering rigidly, hands clenched into fists. “I did not know what I was walking into.”
“And what have you walked into?” Jonathan demanded, spinning to face Hammond. “What sort of madness have I been coaxed into photographing? Was this only about Frome’s house and gardens, or did you influence him to hire me so that I might document something else entirely?”
A shiver shot down Charlie’s back. Jonathan was feigning innocence with ferocious conviction. He was weaving his own version of the net they’d been caught in, perhaps hoping Hammond or Frome or whoever was the mastermind of the game they were in would think him harmless and let him, let both of them, go.
But Hammond threw his head back and laughed loudly, finding everything amusing for some reason. “I knew my brothers were soft-hearted fools, but I did not think they would send someone of such little wit to do their work for them.”
The shivery feeling coursing through Charlie burned hotter.
“I’ve no idea what you are talking about,” Jonathan said, adjusting his grip on the bag he carried. “Just as I’ve no further wish to be here. As I doubt Lord Frome will lend me his carriage in the middle of the night, Charlie and I will take our leave any way we can. I will send for the rest of our things later.”
He started toward the window, which was more than a little absurd. The seriousness with which Jonathan moved was a testament to how determined he was to get Charlie to safety.
“My brothers hired you to photograph Lord Frome’s guests,” Hammond called after them.
Jonathan stopped before they were halfway across the room. He and Charlie both turned to Hammond.
Whether Jonathan saw it immediately or not, Charlie grasped the truth of things at once. His first impression of Hammond was that the man looked familiar. Now he had an idea why. He had the same dark hair, pronounced bone structure, and dark eyes as Brutus and Titus.
“Whatever George and Arthur, or whatever they call themselves now, promised you, I will give you double,” Hammond said, walking slowly toward Jonathan. “Whatever shelter they offered, I will extend it. They will not be able to keep you, either of you, safe once I truly begin to attack them.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jonathan growled, jaw clenched.
The only thing that hinted at his fear was how tightly he held Charlie’s hand.
“You do,” Hammond said. “You are precisely the sort of man my brothers like to court. Prideful, charming, and dim.”
“He is not dim,” Jonathan’s father surprised Charlie by saying.
“I do not need your defense,” Jonathan snapped at him. He turned back to Hammond. “Nobody has offered me anything. Lord Frome commissioned me to photograph his house and gardens. If the rest of you would like to play games or build salacious empires by seeing who can gain the most members to whatever clubs you are thinking of starting, and if you think you can purchase my apprentice away from me with insults to his character, then you can do it on your own.”
“I’d wager the only reason they sent you is because you have your collar around young Charlie here’s neck,” Hammond said, stepping closer.
Jonathan shifted to block Charlie from the man with his body. “You will not insult him with your insinuations.”
