Page 115 of Their Master

Smith paused and then said, “Ah, I see. If he dies then your dirty secret gets sent where? The police? TheTimes?”

“The police could be bargained with. It is newspaper men that Sir Clayton has targeted.”

That made sense. The names on Clayton’s list would be wealthy, powerful men and women who the police—not known for their sterling ethics—would pander to. For a price.

But a list like Clayton’s could keep a newspaper in business for a decade; there would be no buying any silence.

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with me?”

“I think you are probably going to kill him.” He paused for Smith to argue. When Smith said nothing, he continued, “If you kill him without getting that information first, you will ruin my life.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, my lord, but—”

“Why should you care about my life and whether it is ruined or not?” Selkirk asked, his pale eyes glinting with humor. “Well, let’s just say I can be of more use to you unruined than ruined.”

Smith crossed one leg over the other. “And how can you be of use to me?”

“One of your syndicate partners is the Earl of Taunton?”

Smith wanted to groan; what had Gideon done now? “Yes,” he admitted cautiously.

Selkirk’s humor spread from his eyes to his lips. “He has been generatingquitea bit of amusement in Lords since taking his seat. Not exactly what I would call anassetto you and your partners.”

“That is hardly news to me, my lord.”

“I could smooth Lord Taunton’s way considerably. I could do more than that.”

Smith knew that Selkirk—with his impressive business acumen and connections—would be a powerful ally where he and the syndicate needed one the most.

Smith was intrigued by both the offer and the man. He appreciated the fact that Selkirk had offered assistance—rather than coercion—to get what he wanted.

Of course the man wasn’t stupid. If he’d looked into Smith’s background then he would know Smith didn’t respond well to heavy-handed tactics. Not well at all.

“Do you have any information that might help me find Clayton’s hiding place?” he asked after a moment.

“No.”

Smith sighed.

“But I have somebody looking and I will tell you if I learn anything.”

Well, that was the best he could hope for, he supposed.

“You’ve sat for Nora Hudson,” Selkirk said.

Smith blinked at the complete change in the conversation. “Yes, I have.”

“I own one of her paintings of you.”

“Which one?”

“It is titledWinter.”

Smith experienced a brief but sharp flare of annoyance. The painting in question featured Smith dressed for riding, the composition of the portrait charmingly old fashioned. Nora had sketched him one chilly winter afternoon when they’d all visited Gideon at his country estate.

“I tried to buy it only to learn it had sold even before the show opened,” Smith admitted grudgingly.

Selkirk briefly flashed his teeth, his canines exceptionally pointy. “I saw it early, at a private showing. I have… connections.”

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