by Piper Scott
Within Grimbold’s embrace, Walter relaxed. He looked at Hugh with less trepidation. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Hugh almost whispered. He’d raised his hand as if to wave, but dropped it slowly to his side, seeming more crestfallen than ever. It was torture to see him so afflicted. Finch’s hand twitched as if to comfort him, but he resisted the urge and kept to himself. When they were alone, he would make sure Hugh had his support, but he would not make his employer look weak in front of his own father no matter how much it pained him to do so.
Walter whispered something to Grimbold, who nodded and kissed his forehead, then rose from the armchair. “I’ve just remembered there are éclairs in the kitchen. Hugh, will you help me fetch them? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
“Sweets, Father?” Hugh asked dubiously. “You’ve never cared for them. Things really have changed, haven’t they?”
“Yes, child.” Grimbold led Hugh toward the door. As Finch hadn’t been invited, he stayed where he was. “Now, tell me what you’ve been up to since your last visit. How have your investments been faring? I hope well.”
The door closed in their wake, leaving Finch with Walter.
“Hello,” Walter said in a small voice once they were alone. He remained pushed into the corner of the armchair, but he did sit a little straighter. “I’m Wally. Are you Hugh’s mate?”
Had Finch been any less of a professional, he would have gaped. “W-What? No! Of course not. I’m his… his secretary. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Walter looked Finch over carefully. “But you’re a Dis… a dragonet, aren’t you?” It seemed to pain him to say that word. “I heard his dragon, um…” Walter shook his head and trailed off, gaze averted.
Finch, who had no idea what the boy was going on about, stared at him. “What?”
“His dragon,” Walter insisted in a quiet but determined voice. He looked shyly up at Finch. “I heard him calling for you. You heard it, too, didn’t you? I saw your hand twitch when he was crying out for you. I saw the way you felt his pain.”
All of this was very bizarre, and Finch didn’t like it one bit. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Um, okay.” Walter swallowed nervously. “I just thought maybe you were like me, and… um, well, it’s okay. Just pretend I didn’t say anything. Sorry for bringing it up.”
Luckily, at that moment, Hugh burst into the room. “Finch! I thought I lost you! What are you doing in here? You belong with me and will accompany me to the kitchen. Please,” he added, sounding much more vulnerable than he had dared to be around his father.
“Of course, sir.” Finch spared Walter a lingering look, nodded in parting, and went to tend to his employer. They retrieved the éclairs from the kitchen, returned to the library, and made small talk. Shortly after that, Hugh announced he was ready to leave.
“Let’s never do that again, Finch,” Hugh said with a defeated sigh as he wilted into the Phantom’s back seat. “My heart simply won’t tolerate it. I spent the whole time wishing I had someone to wrap in my arms like Father does with Walter. My dragon was absolutely not having any of it. He was so distressed, he was calling for you. Can you believe it? The poor creature is as heartbroken as I am. It’s imperative we find our mate at that ball.”
Finch opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Rather than reply, he offered Hugh a nod.
How the devil could Walter have known what Hugh was feeling back in the library? Walter was a Disgrace, and Disgraces were human. They didn’t have magic. To think that Walter could hear the thoughts of Hugh’s inner dragon was absurd.
It came down to body language, Finch concluded. Walter had mentioned his observations and had simply elaborated on them using vague and universally applicable language, much like modern psychics. There was no way he’d actually heard Hugh’s dragon longing for Finch—he’d simply guessed at it based on context clues.
The fact that he was pregnant with a Disgrace of his own was telling.
Disgraces were not dragons.
The other Drakes had mated and sired clutches with their Disgraces by chance, just like it had always been, and just like it would always be. More than that, Disgraces were, well, disgraceful, unlucky, and unfit for discerning dragons. It was why Finch’s childhood had been so cold and lonely—why his father had never visited him once, nor ever made an effort to communicate. When the ball came and went and Hugh failed to bond with any of the candidates, he’d realize the same, and life would go back to normal. The world would become tidy again, and Finch would take pride in serving his dragon the best way a Disgrace could. There was no other way this could go. The alternative was simply too painful to consider.
10
Hugh
Three miniature gin bottles later, the Phantom turned onto the driveway leading to Hugh’s estate and made its way toward the house. Hugh, nerves shot, pitched the bottles onto the floor and slumped into his seat. Meeting his father’s omega had taken more out of him than he’d anticipated, leaving him in a very sorry state indeed.
“Finch?” Hugh asked in a quiet voice as the car rolled forward. Like he had on the way there, his manservant sat beside him. Hugh wouldn’t have him sit anywhere else—his presence was a constant reassurance that all would eventually be well.
“Yes, sir?”
“What are you up to this afternoon?”
“Tending to the estate, sir,” Finch replied in a guarded tone of voice. No doubt he was upset that Hugh had so thoughtlessly thrown the bottles of gin onto the floor. “I can list each individual task if you’d like, but I’d prefer to do it after the car has stopped—my to-do list is on my phone, which I try not to look at while in motion.”
Hugh nudged one of the empty gin bottles with his foot, pushing it toward the others in the hopes that doing so would prove he regretted what he’d done. “There’s no need for specifics. In general, how pressing is the work you have to do?”
“Not very.”
“Then would you agree to putting it off until tomorrow? Or perhaps entrusting it to another member of the staff?” Hugh stopped assembling the bottles to look at Finch imploringly. “I hate to call on you in such a way, Finch, but I’m not sure who else to turn to. I just…” Hugh took a breath and wilted into his seat once more, unable to keep looking at the man beside him. “I find myself dreading the thought of returning to an empty house.”
“The house won’t be empty, sir,” Finch reassured him. “The staff were not granted a day off—everyone should be in attendance.”
“No, I mean”—the car rolled to a stop, and Hugh closed his eyes—“I can’t stand the thought of being alone right now. Would you be willing to keep me company for an hour or two? Just until I can shake the awful feeling in my heart.”
There was silence. Hugh opened his eyes and lifted his head to find the tips of Finch’s ears had gone pink. The poor man had to be frustrated. Hugh would have been, too, had he an employer who demanded he cancel his plans to babysit a sad, sorry excuse for a dragon.
“Of course, sir,” Finch said politely. “I’ll arrange to have tea and a light repast brought to your study.”
“My study?” Hugh chuckled. “No, Finch. I’ve already put you out far too much as it is. We’ll retire to your chambers so you can relax in a place you find comfortable. It’s only fair, seeing as I’m the one imposing on you.”
The pink tipping Finch’s ears brightened. Hugh had to wonder at it. He hadn’t meant to cause offense, but it did seem as if he’d misjudged the situation.
Before he could rescind his statement, Finch nodded and said, “Of course, sir.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Never.”
“You are a treasure, Finch.” Hugh smiled at him. “Please arrange to have whatever your heart desires delivered up to us. I’m in such a sorry state I’m afraid I don’t feel much like eating.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Finch said as George opened Hugh’s car door. Hugh stepped out, but when he tu
rned back to collect the empty gin bottles he’d so carelessly thrown on the floor, he noticed Finch hadn’t moved. Their eyes met. For a stunning moment, the world itself seemed to stop, then Finch glanced away.
The bottles could wait. Hugh stepped around the car and opened the door for his secretary, who climbed elegantly from the vehicle and smoothed his shirt before offering Hugh a curt nod.
There was something special about Finch, Hugh thought as he closed the door and returned to his side of the car to collect his trash. Something that put him head and shoulders above the rest. If he was to keep Finch on his payroll, he would need to make sure he kept him happy—there were other dragons out there with larger estates, bigger hoards, and more influence than Hugh who would swoop a man like Finch up in a heartbeat.
Hugh couldn’t let that happen.
Bottles collected, he led Finch into the house. They made a short detour into the kitchen to dispose of their garbage and request refreshments, then headed upstairs.
Gold coins, it seemed, were not enough. Hugh would have to do better.
Hugh enjoyed Finch’s private domain as much on his second visit as he had on his first. The room was tidy—naturally—but it was decorated in such a way that gifted Hugh a glimpse into the life of Finch the man rather than Finch the manservant. He enjoyed the vintage record jackets artfully arranged on the walls and the framed map of London marked with dainty pins with round, metallic heads. All of the pins but one were silver, and the odd man out was gold. It was positioned seemingly at random in St. John’s Wood, close to where an Amethyst dragon kept residence. What Hugh didn’t like about the room was the large metal cage in it. It was filled with chaos—paper shreds, gnawed cardboard boxes, and what appeared to be several old t-shirts that had been tied up so they stretched between its bars. One of the t-shirts was swinging suspiciously. Evil undoubtedly lurked inside.
“I apologize for the mess, sir,” Finch said as he swept into the room. Hugh didn’t understand what he was talking about until Finch fetched a dustpan hidden behind the cage and swept up three shreds of paper from the floor. While he did, a little furry face poked out from the folds of the swinging t-shirt, blinked its beady eyes, and launched itself at the cage wall nearest Finch. Hugh let loose with a startled bellow and sprang forward on instinct, tugging Finch into the safety of his arms and away from certain death.
Finch gasped. The dustpan went flying. Three scraps of shredded paper rained down on them from above.
“Mr. Drake!” Finch intoned breathlessly. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your life! The plague-ridden thing nearly ended you.”
The plague-ridden thing in question clung to the bars of its cage and watched them with glossy black eyes. Its body was mostly white and its head mostly a soft grayish brown, although spots of the opposite color dotted its flank and face. In an act both repulsive and terrifying, it nibbled on the metal bar in front of it as if it were trying to escape. To make matters worse, a second creature emerged from a box on the bottom of the cage and scaled the bars with unnerving ease. This one was entirely gray with a small amount of white on its belly, and it had terrible pink hands with the smallest, most disturbing white claws Hugh had ever seen. A long, scaly-looking tail dangled behind it, then darted between the bars and curled like it was prehensile.
Hugh shuddered.
“Sir?” Finch inquired. There was a hint of a smile on his face and a curious glimmer in his eyes. “Are you really that afraid of the ladies?”
“Those are beasts, Finch, not ladies.”
“They’re rats, sir. Delightfully intelligent creatures with personalities bigger than some people. I can assure you, you’re quite safe.”
Hugh would have felt safer bumping into a bronze bastard in a dark, deserted alley, but he noticed the glint in Finch’s eyes and relented. Finch was to be trusted. The man never led him astray.
“Come.” Finch took his hand and brought Hugh to the cage, close to where the beasts were waiting. Once there, he took a small resealable container from the top of the cage and pried off the lid, revealing a stash of chocolate chips. “Take one.”
“Thank you.” Hugh did, and ate it. “Not bad, but nothing to write home about.”
Finch sighed. “Sir, the chocolate is meant for the ladies. Take another and don’t eat it this time. There. Good. Now, hold it out to Elizabeth.”
Hugh had no idea which of the blasted things was named Elizabeth, but he extended the chip in the direction of the closest rat, which was the one that was gray all over. Quicker than he could see, the chocolate was snatched out of his fingers. Hugh startled, but managed not to jump back.
“There. You’ve made a friend,” Finch declared. He gave a chocolate chip to the remaining rat, and both of them scurried into different hiding spots. Hugh considered himself thankful he wouldn’t be forced to see their teeth. “That was very brave of you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Finch sealed the container and returned it to its place atop the cage, then collected the dustpan and swept up the small mess strewn across the floor. To keep himself from being spooked by any rodent-like movement, Hugh watched him work. Somehow Finch made even something as simple as sweeping debris off the floor elegant. Hugh could watch him all day. But watching him work wouldn’t keep Finch happy. Determined to prove he was worth Finch’s loyalty, Hugh stepped forward and slid his hand over Finch’s, intending to take the dustpan from it.
Finch froze and looked up at Hugh with awe-widened eyes.
Hugh opened his mouth, intending to speak, but found himself at a loss for words. He’d known prior to this that Finch’s eyes were dark, but not that they were rich with smoky amber—not that when the light hit them just right, they ignited with life. Hugh’s heart constricted, and deep inside he felt his dragon stir. It paced restlessly like it was the one in the rat cage, awaiting a promised chocolate chip.
“Sir?” Finch whispered, snapping Hugh from his stupor.
What a curious thing, to be rendered totally useless.
Hugh blinked at Finch and found he didn’t want to look away.
Take, his dragon insisted. Claim.
It was all the reminder Hugh needed. He cleared his throat and traced down Finch’s hand, easing the dustpan out of his grip. “Allow me.”
Finch’s ears burned more brightly than ever, but there was a soft look in his eyes that Hugh couldn’t attribute to irritation. It seemed making himself useful was having the desired effect.
“Where is the rubbish bin?”
“In the kitchenette, sir.”
They walked to the bin together, never straying all that far from each other. Finch pushed the pedal with his foot, opening the lid, and Hugh dropped the dustpan into it. It was a tight fit, and to get it fully into the bin, he had to shove it down. “You need a bigger bin, Finch,” Hugh said between clenched teeth as he struggled to get the damned thing situated. “What do you usually do to get it in far enough to close the lid? I can give the dustpan a good swipe with my claw if that’ll help.”
There was a long silence, during which Finch clamped a hand over his mouth. His shoulders shook. Then, just before Hugh could ask if he was quite all right, he snorted.
“Finch?”
Finch snorted noisily several more times, then shut his eyes and burst into unabashed laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Hugh asked, almost laughing himself.
“Dustpans aren’t disposable, sir.” When Finch had recovered from the worst of his laughter, he retrieved the would-be trash and tapped it on the side of the bin to rid it of the last scrap of paper. “But I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
Hugh’s cheeks burned. “Oh.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” Finch’s smile wobbled as he held back more laughter, and even though Hugh was the one he was laughing at, he couldn’t help but find it charming. He wanted to see Finch like this again. And often. “All of us make mistakes. If you saw me the first time Superin…” Finch stop
ped talking all at once.
“What were you saying?” Hugh asked. “Superin?”
“Superin,” Finch piped. He quickly set the dustpan on the counter and crossed his arms nervously over his chest. “A, um, a turn of phrase popular in London during my youth. You wouldn’t be familiar.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“Sir, I’m not sure you want to know.”
“I can assure you that I do.”
Finch’s upper lip twitched. “If you insist. But I’m afraid you’ll have to make me a promise beforehand—absolutely none of the staff can know.”
A secret? Hugh stood a little taller, all the more intrigued. He wasn’t sure what increased height had to do with trustworthiness, but it certainly felt like the right thing to do. “Of course! My lips are sealed.”
“Well…” Finch tilted his head back and took a grounding breath before he continued. “As I was saying, ‘superin’ is a… turn of phrase. Yes, of course. A turn of phrase meaning… uh… are you familiar with… um… with…”
God, it had to be scandalous if Finch couldn’t come right out and say it. Hugh held his breath, rapt with anticipation. What was his secretary hiding from him?
After what felt like an eternity, Finch’s shoulders slumped and he leaned forward, bringing himself right next to Hugh’s ear so he could whisper, “Marijuana?”
Hugh gasped and took a startled step back. “Finch!”
Finch offered him a pained smile and shrugged, but it lacked the energy he’d had just moments before. If anything, he looked a bit hollow. “What can I say? My past is a secretive and sordid thing.”
“What else don’t I know about you, Finch?”
The hollow look only grew. “If only you knew, sir. If only you knew.”