That had been nearly three years ago and Finch still didn’t quite know what to make of the gift, but he wore them faithfully. They were, he supposed, a kind of badge of office. That Hugh trusted him with even a small part of his hoard was, in dragon terms, a rather extravagant measure.
Dragons took jewels. They did not gift them.
Ever.
Except, of course, when they had a mate.
Finch had only met one dragon’s mate—Hugh’s brother-in-law Peregrine—and he wore so much treasure that he tinkled as he walked.
Finch tried not to read too much into the gift of the cufflinks, but sometimes he did, late at night in his bed, just before he fell asleep.
After donning shoes he’d polished the night before, Finch made his way to the main kitchen to see how Hugh’s breakfast was coming along. He wasn’t pleased to hear raised voices coming from Cook’s domain.
“Bitch!” That was Bella, one of the maids and a former member of the Pedigree. She’d aged out three years ago and was still trying to figure out her life and what she wanted from it. So far, she hadn’t made much progress.
“Whore!” And that was Emma, the cook and reigning dictator of the kitchen and pantry.
“Emma, maybe you should leave the poor girl alone,” said George, Emma’s husband and Hugh’s chauffeur. The two of them were betas with two beta sons. No Pedigree for them.
Finch stepped into the room and it fell silent, the only sound the faint echo of Bella’s aborted shriek. “What, precisely, is going on?” he asked, not needing to raise his voice.
Bella pouted. “She started it.” She pointed her thumb at Emma.
Self-consciously, Emma patted her tight gray bun. “I was only trying to instruct the girl, Finch. You know how she is.”
“Instruct me, my ass. You’re just mad I went on a date with Javier last night.”
Finch sighed, sorting out the mess in his head. Javier was the groundskeeper, and he pretended to be straight, but was actually bi. Emma and George’s eldest son had been trying to date him for years with no success. That Bella had scored a date with the handsome man probably was grating to Emma, who doted on her sons. Meanwhile, Javier and Gabriel, the pool boy and assistant groundskeeper, had been carrying on an affair for several months in secret. It was all very sordid and messy, two of Finch’s least favorite things.
“Emma, you aren’t the girl’s mother. Leave her personal life alone,” he said. “Bella, be careful when you date the staff. There isn’t always a happy ending like there was for Emma and George. Emma, where is Mr. Drake’s breakfast? Bella, I believe there is dusting that needs doing in the east wing. George, we might need to use the car soon. Please make sure it’s fully tuned up. And I will be displeased if I hear any further shouting. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Finch.” They didn’t say it in unison, but it was a near thing.
“Good. Don’t let me keep you.”
Bella and George scurried off in separate directions. Emma turned back to her stove. “Mr. Drake’s breakfast is nearly done. Today it’s crepes with raspberries, brie, and honey. I can have it plated in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, Emma.” Finch got Hugh’s breakfast tray and spread a linen cloth over it. He set it with cutlery, a glass of orange juice, hot cocoa, and a small carafe of black coffee, then added a folded napkin and a copy of the morning paper. Finch dreaded the day that the newspaper ceased to be published in physical form. Hopefully, it wouldn’t occur until after he’d retired.
After taking Hugh’s covered plate from Emma, Finch placed it on the tray, which he carefully lifted. He’d had to develop muscles in order to do this. When he’d aged out of the cloister, Finch had been pale, thin to the point of emaciation, and as delicate as a piece of bone china. He was still pale, but he’d put on a tasteful amount of muscle in his arms and legs—enough that he could do his duties and look properly correct in his suits. Lifting heavy objects wasn’t the struggle that it had been in his mid-twenties. He thought of those first few months after his release and gave a mental shudder. While he’d been happy to leave the cloister, Finch didn’t want to ever have to relive those first six months of living on his own in London. It had been a nightmare of culture shock, ill-preparedness, and bone-deep loneliness.
This was better. This was what he’d always wanted. Finch had been trained to serve dragons from the age of thirteen. It was all he knew, and he did it to the utmost of his abilities. That he served with labor rather than as a dragon’s semen receptacle was immaterial. It was the service that was important, and Finch took great pride in offering it to the very best of his abilities, no matter what the task.
Technically, Hugh had a butler—Francis—whose responsibility it was to see to Hugh’s flights of fancy, but he was over seventy and refused to retire. He did little these days but putter around and open the door for visitors and tradesmen. On paper, Finch was Hugh’s secretary, but he also acted as major-domo, referee, and disciplinarian for the rest of the staff. It was his job to make sure that Hugh’s life ran on tracks as smooth as silk, and so it did. Hugh didn’t have to worry about a single thing, and he didn’t.
Except for one.
It was the one thing Finch couldn’t fix, and it was the thing that plagued his employer the most—Hugh wanted a clutch, and he wanted it badly. Finch would hazard to say he was obsessed with the idea, and had been for longer than Finch had been alive. He’d been trying, without success, for centuries.
But maybe, just maybe, Finch’s hard work would make Hugh’s dream come true.
The thought was bittersweet. While Finch longed to see Hugh happy, there was a part of him that didn’t want to give up the fantasy that one day, Hugh might sweep him off his feet and add him to his hoard. It was an absurd notion, of course. Finch was too old for a dragon, and even if he weren’t, the fear that he would break Hugh’s heart by failing to bear him offspring was too great to overcome. He would much rather remain Hugh’s faithful servant and daydream of what could be than risk the happiness of his employer in the name of pseudoscience. Disgraces were not and would never be dragons. His kind—the human children of dragon sires—had been tossed away for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, and for good purpose. To assume a mistake had been made eons ago, and that Disgraces had been dragons all this time, was…
Finch paused briefly at the upper landing of the staircase to think of the word he was looking for. He thought of it and proceeded onward to Hugh’s bedchamber.
It was untidy. And Finch hated anything that was untidy.
Without knocking, Finch let himself into Hugh’s bedroom. He kept his back to the massive bed and placed the tray on Hugh’s breakfast table.
“Is that you, Finch?” came Hugh’s voice from the four-poster. “Bloody hell, is it breakfast time already? It seems I just managed to fall asleep.”
“It is, sir.”
Hugh stifled a yawn. “I was up far too late last night delving into that list you made for me. If you wouldn’t mind, would you bring breakfast to me and come sit for a while? I may have found a candidate, but I’d like your opinion, if I may.”
“Of course, sir.”
Displeasure ran through Finch like a crack across ice. Despite it, he collected the tray and turned to face his employer. The esteemed Mr. Drake was sprawled in the middle of the bed, entirely nude. His modesty was barely shielded by a thin sheet. All Amethyst dragons were attractive, but Grimbold’s brood of seven was particularly handsome. To Finch’s eye, though, the best and the worst of the lot was Hugh. He was, quite simply, lovely, with silky black hair unmarred by gray, perfectly sculpted features, and striking plum-colored eyes. Something about him, even after many years and much familiarity, never failed to make Finch wish that—