Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Jonathan was well aware that forgoing the opportunity to run with Charlie in order to see what kind of distraction was growing louder by the moment in the hallway could be a terrible mistake.
He had to know what was pressing enough to distract Hammond in his moment of revelation, which meant he and Charlie had to thrust themselves into danger once again.
The revelation of Hammond’s connection to Brutus and Titus was not something Jonathan had expected.
But as he and Charlie rushed down the hall toward the front of the house behind the man, all the signs were there.
They were in the ways Hammond carried himself, the way his shoulders were sloped, and in the shape of his mouth and nose once Jonathan could see it as they reached the light of the front hall.
Few things were more dangerous than being caught in the middle of warring brothers. Particularly when they were all, to one degree or another, criminals.
“Hammond! There you are,” Lord Frome was already in the front hall, along with Copeland, Dalhurst, and Thomas.
Three other men were there as well, including two of Frome’s footmen.
Two of them could easily have been members of the shadowy guard that suddenly seemed to be surrounding Fairford House and who had kept Jonathan and Charlie from returning straight to the house earlier.
The third wore a constable’s uniform jacket over plain clothes, as if he’d been roused from his supper table or from the armchair where he’d been reading after that meal was finished.
“More guests?” the constable asked, grim-faced and already irritated.
Frome let out an equally aggravated huff and said, “Yes, more guests. This is Mr. Charles—”
“Who are these men and what are they doing here?” Hammond cut Frome off before their host could give his full name.
The constable seemed to know when he was face to face with a person of interest. “I was just alerted to a kidnapping and a prisoner being held at Fairford House,” he addressed Hammond, sending a quick sideways look to Frome.
Frome answered with, “As I have told you, that is utter nonsense. There has been absolutely no reason for you to leave the comfort and safety of your home at an hour such as this to chase after silly tales told by frightened girls.”
Jonathan held his breath. So the pale-faced maid had roused the constable after all.
He hoped she was safe now, though he feared for her life, given the fury that flashed in Hammond’s eyes.
He was equally surprised that the constable had found whatever she’d told him credible enough to make his way directly to Fairford.
He had to have come in a hurry, given the way he was dressed.
“My lord, this is not the first time suspicions have been raised about mischievous goings on here at Fairford,” the constable said, crossing his arms and fixing Frome with a flat stare. “Surely, you must know tales have been told by members of your household who have been dismissed.”
Frome stood straighter, looking indignant. “I would have thought that a man whose salary I pay would know better than to believe the ranting of young people who have been dismissed for dereliction of duty.”
“One or two stories, perhaps,” the constable said, clearly believing he had the upper hand. “When those numbers begin to grow, it becomes my duty to sort things.”
“There is nothing here to sort,” Copeland said with a nervous laugh. “This is merely a summertime gathering of friends. If, perhaps, we have been a bit silly, well, is that not the way of gentlemen with too much leisure to contend with?”
The constable stared at him as if Copeland were a rascal and not his better. He let out a breath, dropped his arms, then addressed Frome again.
“My men will search the house and grounds,” he said, gesturing for his men to split off and do just that.
“You will kindly have all of your guests and household gather in a single room so that they might give account for themselves. I know who is purported to be here, and if they are not accounted for within half an hour, I will be forced to take further steps, my lord.”
“This is outrageous,” Frome said, puffed up and flustered, unable to do anything to stop the two men with the constable from going off to search his house. “I will not stand for this. If you do not cease this insult at once, I shall be forced to terminate your employment as constable.”
“You are welcome to try, my lord,” the constable said with a humorless grim. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have outbuildings to search.”
“I will not allow—”
“Let the man go about his work,” Hammond stopped Frome from impeding the constable.
The move did not ease Jonathan’s mind at all. It was the action of a man who already had every possible iteration of how the night might unfold planned out.
As soon as the constable left, Frome balled his hands into fists and marched over to Hammond. “What do you propose we do about this?” he hissed. “When I offered you the use of my estate, I did not think it would lead me into ruin.”
Another piece of the mystery fell into place. Jonathan adjusted his grip on his bag, squeezed Charlie’s hand, and glanced to the door, which the constable had left open when he’d gone out. They could make a break for it, but would they get very far?
Hammond looked furious and like he intended to lecture Frome about everything he was owed, but Jonathan’s father stepped in before he could say anything.
“If you think I will bow to your wishes now and become your shill in Parliament, you are sadly mistaken,” he growled. “I want no part of whatever criminal activity you are involved in, no matter the reward you offer. I am leaving.”
Jonathan’s father turned to go, but before he had taken two steps toward the grand staircase, Hammond shouted, “You will do as you are told, Moorgate!”
The command was loud enough that the entire hall went silent. Jonathan’s heart thumped hard against his ribs, and Charlie inched closer to him.
“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan’s father demanded, turning back to Hammond.
“What the devil is going on here?” Copeland asked in a quieter voice, genuinely baffled.
No one answered him, but Jonathan was increasingly certain he knew.
“If any of you wishes to leave this place alive, you will do exactly as I say,” Hammond announced, turning to meet the eyes of every man standing in the hall, including Jonathan’s.
Especially Jonathan’s. “I will not have my interests damaged by a pack of fools with the understanding of children.” He turned back to Jonathan’s father.
“You will do as I say or you will suffer the consequences.”
“You cannot dictate to me,” Jonathan’s father huffed. “I am an upstanding Member of Parliament.”
“Robert!” Hammond called out.
One of the footmen, who had shifted to stand near the open doorway as if they were now guards, stepped forward.
“I have quite enjoyed our time together, Mr. Moorgate,” Robert said with a flashing, sinister look. “Though my arse will be sore for days after the way you mistreated me.”
Jonathan’s brow shot up in indignation.
“I have done nothing of the sort,” his father protested, face as red as a sunset, sweat beading on his brow. “Not a soul will believe you if you say otherwise.”
“Ah, but your own son has photographs to prove you were here,” Hammond said, his smile growing hawkish. “What will you say when your association with men like us is made public?”
“You would not—you cannot—” Jonathan’s father stood where he was, visibly shaking. He glanced to Jonathan for help.
Jonathan met his father’s gaze with stony silence. Any chance that he might have come to his father’s defense or saved him in any way had died long ago. Even if he could have done something to help the man, he was not inclined to. His father would never raise a finger to help him.
The intensity of the moment was broken when Copeland stammered, “I still do not know what is transpiring here. Hammond, is your little Cleveland Street club more than you have intimated that it is? I do not mind a bit of rough dalliance with a telegraph boy or two, but I am beginning to question whether I should invest—”
“You, too, will do as you are told,” Hammond rounded on him, causing Copeland to jump and snap his mouth shut. “Unless you wish to lose your business and your reputation.”
“You’ve dragged us all in too deep, Hammond,” Frome warned him. “I could condone this when it was merely about pleasure and the boys, but now?”
Hammond did not have a chance to answer before the constable marched back into the house with a scowl. “I require lanterns and a few of your guests to assist me in my search of the grounds,” he said with authority. “The darkness is—”
That was as far as he got before Hammond drew a handgun he had concealed inside his jacket, aimed, and shot the man in his forehead.
Charlie and Copeland screamed as blood splattered and the constable dropped to the marble floor. Blood quickly began to pool around his head as his body twitched a final time before going still.
“There,” Hammond said with absolute calm, adjusting his grip around the handle of his gun.
“A man has been murdered in your house, Frome. A man of the law. You can call for more policemen to come and investigate, though God alone knows what else they will find under your roof, or you can order your staff to dispose of the body so that it will never be found and keep your mouth tightly shut about the events of this party forevermore.”
Frome was ashen as he stared at the constable’s body. His mouth worked like he might either say something or be sick.
“I will not stay here for another moment,” Jonathan’s father said hoarsely, his face tinted green along with its splotchy redness. He turned to run up the stairs.