smiley face on his forehead anywhere in its vicinity.
Guess the male hadn’t resigned yet. And it was hard to know whether that was a good or a bad thing.
The answer to the question “Where’s Marquist?” was sorted in the kitchen proper: The butler was at the counter in front of the stove, his pressed jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up. His attention was focused on trimming the fat off a roast beef the size of a golf cart, that Henckels knife flying around the piece of meat, expert hands doing an expert job.
The butler did not look up. “Yes.”
“Are we ready?”
“Yes.” The knife flashed as Marquist changed the angle of the slice. “Everything is in hand.”
“Where are the other doggen?”
“I am completing the preparations myself. It is the last thing I shall do in service unto my master, and no one is welcome into this sacred space.”
“The others will want to participate. My sire was their master as well.”
“Not as he was mine.”
Boone frowned. “So how long were you two sleeping together anyway. Did it start right after he brought you here, or did he hire you because it was already happening.”
Marquist hissed and looked up. And what do you know, a knife unattended was a lot like a pot on the stove—it did its job even better without being watched.
Of course, the caveat was that the blade sliced into the butler rather than the fat layer on all that beef.
The butler dropped the Henckels and raced for the sink. And as Boone watched the hot water rinsing and the wrap-up with the dish towel, he couldn’t decide whether his dislike for the male was what precluded him from apologizing . . . or the fact that after all these years of monitoring his own social manners, he had totally ceased to give a shit.
He did not care that the butler was hurt. And he was not going to pretend he did.
Marquist squared his shoulders before turning back around, and as he pivoted, Boone met the male’s eyes straight on.
“Don’t bother denying it,” Boone said. “And FYI, it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. Just like it apparently wasn’t an issue for my stepmahmen. Maybe she felt like you were doing her a favor.”
As the butler’s eyes narrowed like he was mulling over his responses, Boone considered what it would be like to get left out of the will in favor of the other male. Well . . . what do you know. The idea of letting this unhappy house, and all its boatload of crap, go seemed like a liberating event as opposed to an alienating one.
Marquist’s expression turned haughty, like he was above any accusations. Especially those of a poke-and-tickle variety—even though they both knew what had gone on with Altamere behind closed doors.
“I would do anything in service to your father. Anything.”
“I’m thinking that was very true,” Boone muttered.
“Is true. I have served him in ways you cannot fathom, protecting him and his household, ensuring all is well. And death has not changed my devotion to him.”
You want an obelisk? Boone thought. A commemorative stamp. No, wait, a billboard in Times Square to all the blow jobs.
Okay, that was crass. But come on.
“I will not dignify this with a response to anything further.” Marquist’s eyes narrowed again. “Except to say that your sire and I were excellent partners. In the running of this house.”
Boone crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against one of the counters. “Kind of convenient my blood mahmen died so soon after you came under this roof.”
“What exactly are you suggesting.”
It was not a question. And not for the first time, Boone wondered exactly what Marquist’s background was. His motives, on the other hand, seemed clear. Ordinarily, no male civilian would choose to be a kept servant in the household of their lover. Talk about demeaning. But there were perks to being with a member of the glymera—and God knew the only way Marquist could ever have nightly contact with someone of Altamere’s stature was if he moved in under the guise of employment.
In the aristocracy? There was no tolerance for overt male homosexuality. Social propriety dictated that no matter how miserable it made you, you were to mate a member of the opposite sex and procreate at least once—preferably twice if your lawful shellan survived the first birthing bed. If you were, as they called it, of a “secondary persuasion,” you could take male lovers discreetly.