Page 97 of Their Master

It was late. The day had been taken up with matters like returning Onions to the hole where Smith was keeping him and then picking up Blois’s two henchmen—Victor Turnbull and his son—and seeing that they were given to the captain of one of the syndicate’s ships, a rather fanatical man known for taking ex-convicts as crew and motivating them to lead God fearing, crime-free lives.

Lastly, they’d had to dispose of theComte’s body.

Smith raised the glass to his mouth, took a sip, and then winced when the liquor burned the split in his lip.

“Hurts?” Gideon said.

“Only when I smile,” Smith quipped.

“You wouldn’t have to deal with any of that if you had just let us pick them up before they came for you,” Malcolm pointed out unhelpfully.

“Or even if you’d let us take themafterthey broke into your house,” Edward added.

Smith knew that was true. As soon as he’d received word from Joe Bacon about the November Fifth plan, he could have picked up Turnbull and his nephew—or waited to take all four when they came to Smith’s house.

Had he done so, he doubted that Moira would have ever believed him when he told her what her family had planned for him.

But that wasn’t the real reason he’d done things the way he had.

“If I’d taken them then, Blois would have never sent the message he did,” he explained.

“A message to whom?” Gideon demanded. “Christ, Smith! Just what the hell is this all about? Who was Blois to you? What is going on? Why does everything about you have to be so…tangled?”

“You’re whining, Gideon,” Edward said before turning to Smith. “But youdidpromise us some answers. Starting with who the hell you really are.”

Malcolm nodded. “I think we’ve earned a bit of trust.”

Smith sighed. Yes, they had.

“At least we should know your real name,” Gideon added.

Gideon had started a game of sorts, years ago, where he would try to guess Smith’s Christian name. Smith had promised to tell him if he guessed right, knowing that he never would.

He’d only told his real name to one person in London, Nora Fanshawe, after she’d essentially blackmailed him. But Nora had never mentioned it again.

Gideon, on the other hand, would probably be relentless.

“I haven’t been called by my real name for so long that Smith is now morerealto me. My birthname is Maximus Proteus Nicolaides.”

“What kind of name isthat?” Gideon asked.

Malcolm’s forehead, at least the half not covered by the black mask, wrinkled. “Er, Greek?”

“Yes.”

“So… who are you? And why are you hiding?” Gideon asked.

“Who am I?” He snorted softly. “I’m the last direct descendant of John VI Kantakouzenos, the longest-lived ruler of the Byzantine Empire.”

All three men stared.

Predictably, it was Gideon who recovered first. “Wait a moment—if you are a descendent of”—he looked at Edward and frowned. “Who is in charge of the Byzantine Empire? A king? Queen?”

“As it was anempireit would have been anemperor,” Edward said dryly.

Gideon ignored the dig, his forehead wrinkled. “Emperor? Does that mean—”

Edward rolled his eyes. “Yes, Gideon, that means Smith probably outranks you.”

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