He was being punished. It hadn’t been explicitly stated, but Tristan Knight knew that his latest assignment was meant as punishment. As a knight of the Masters’ Admiralty, he should be above playing nanny and chauffeur.

But that’s what this new assignment was. He was going to play nanny.

His boots hit the stone steps a bit harder than was strictly necessary, and he had to hold back a curse as he dodged a camera-wielding tourist.

Damn Weston Anderson, this was his fault. Tristan had stuck his neck out for Wes, who’d been his friend for years. The reward for doing what Tristan had thought was the noble, right thing to do—the knightly thing to do—had been a rather spectacular bolloxing and this shite assignment.

He slipped through the heavy wooden doors of one of London’s most visited attractions and stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Blue light lay softly over the creamy-white stone in the atrium of the British Museum, filtered in by the curved, circular glass ceiling. On a Tuesday morning, it was packed with school groups and a smattering of tourists. He oriented himself, plotted a course through the throngs of people, and started walking.

A little girl in a bright blue jacket bearing a school logo on the arm caught sight of him and then pointed, speaking excitedly in German. “Teacher, teacher, that man has a sword!”

The teacher, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, a bulging knapsack, and a jacket to match that of the little girl’s—and those worn by a clump of probably fifteen other children—frowned at Tristan. His gaze lingered longer than was polite before he looked down and flipped through his program, probably checking for information on whatever living history display or education program he’d decided Tristan must be a part of.

Tristan had been a knight for England for nearly fifteen years, and in the past five years he’d given up on hiding his sword. He’d gone through phases of carrying a gym bag, wearing a long coat, and even trying to make it look like a cane. Then one day, he’d simply strapped on the sword and headed out. People had looked at him oddly but no one said anything. No one stopped him. Not even police.

If they knew that the sword wasn’t just some odd quirk—that he had the right, as a knight, to use the blade to defend and protect the members and interests of the Masters’ Admiralty—they probably wouldn’t let him pass with nothing more than a sideways glance.

Then again, they wouldn’t know who the Masters’ Admiralty were.

There were plenty of conspiracy theorists who ranted and raved about secret groups who controlled the world—the Illuminati, the Rosicrucians, and the Trinity Masters.

They weren’t wrong. They just didn’t have the right name.

The Masters’ Admiralty was a highly selective and secret organization that had been operating in and controlling Europe since the Black Plague. At one point, members had controlled most of the governments, but now they no longer had such overt political control. They were no less powerful, but that power was channeled differently than it had once been.

It was another reason Tristan could wander around wearing a sword. If he were stopped or arrested, he would be out in a matter of hours and there would be no record of what had happened. For that matter, if anyone looked too closely, they’d find that Tristan Knight seemed to appear out of thin air at the age of sixteen, with no significant records before that age.

One of the things Tristan had given up to become a knight was his name.

He moved out of sight of the German school group, and no one else paid any particular attention to him. It would be the same if he were walking down the footpath in the financial district or through Covent Garden.

People, especially Londoners, were passionately dedicated to not getting involved, and so he went about his business in slacks, a button-down shirt and a utilitarian sword belt.

On the far side of the atrium, he stopped to consult a map, then wound his way through a gallery filled with delicate pottery to a heavy wooden door with a small plaque that read “staff only.”

He tapped in the code his vice admiral had given him, and then slipped out of the public areas of the museum. Behind the scenes, the building was no less beautiful, but there were signs of day-to-day use—industrial gray carpet covering the wood and stone floors, cubicles in several of the more open areas. In one instance of particularly bad decisions, one room had acoustic tile and fluorescent lights hiding the arched stone ceiling.

The offices and cubicle farms he passed were sparsely populated by people. Some desks were covered in papers, other were bare. There were posters commemorating past exhibits interspersed with lovely paintings in heavy gilt frames. In another museum, the art that hung in the offices and halls would have been featured pieces, but given the depth and breadth of the British Museum’s collection, these ranked display space in cluttered offices.

Tristan had to stop and ask for directions twice before he found the door labeled “Numismatics” on one of the upper floors. He was so deep in the labyrinth of the museum that he’d had to actively track the turns, twists, and stairs he’d taken. It was habit—always know the point of regress. Check the defensible positions.

The numismatics office was located in a small room off a large gallery on one of the upper floors. Tall windows let light fill the gallery, turning the gray stone of the walls and columns silvery-gold. Half of the gallery had cubicles, which seemed as out of place against the tall windows and stone floor as a plastic party hat at the Kentucky Derby. The other half of the gallery housed rows of chest-high filing cabinets. A rectangle of sunlight stretched across the floor from a window to the door of the numismatics office, as if lighting his way.

Tristan knocked. There was no response. Aware that it had taken him more time to get here than he’d planned, he knocked again, and then swung the door open.

The office beyond would have been large if it had been for one person, but there were three desks crowded in the place, and a long white counter ran the length of the wall on his left. Bright white lights shone down on the counter, and there were magnifying lenses mounted at even intervals along the wall. There was only one occupant, a man who sat hunched over the counter. He was big and broad, out of proportion with the room. The stool under him seemed too small for his large frame.

Tristan thought he looked a bit like a bear who had been stuffed into a lab coat and then jammed into the little room.

“Mr. Rathmann?”

The bear turned, and a black-haired man with the coloring and features of a native of the Polynesian islands regarded Tristan with a flat look.

Tristan tensed. He’d seen that look before—on the streets of Croydon where he’d grown up. It was the look young men learned to adopt to hide their fear. And as those men grew up, the expression became a mask they pulled on just before they swung their fists or pulled a knife.

The bear—whom Tristan recognized from his picture in the vice admiral’s file as James Rathmann, England’s foremost expert on old and rare coins—looked like he was about to start breaking heads in a back-alley brawl.

Tristan didn’t take a step back, and he managed to keep his hand from going to the hilt of the sword, but he did shift his weight onto the balls of his feet and bend his knees.

James Rathmann’s dark gaze moved from his face to the sword at Tristan’s side…and the flat look melted away into a welcoming smile.

“A knight. Fuck me if that ain’t cool. Come on, man, you wanna see this?”

James waved Tristan over with one big bear-like paw. The other man’s accent was a bit odd. It wasn’t precisely low-class English—it was more lyrical and melodious than Tristan’s own original accent, which was as cockney as anything that could be found on one of the BBC gangland documentaries. There was a hint of maybe Australian or Kiwi in the way he spoke. If Tristan hadn’t known that James was English born and bred, and a legacy to boot, he would have guessed the other man was a Kiwi and native Maori.

Tristan nodded—it was a nice neutral response—and walked over to the long counter. James rolled his stool to the side and motioned for Tristan to look through one of the lighted magnifying glasses that had been positioned over the table. Tristan started to refuse; it wouldn’t be smart to turn his back to the other man, and bending forward to look through the glass would put him in the perfect position to have his head smashed into the counter.

Nanny. This is a nannying job. Not a dangerous assignment. Not an important assignment.

And James Rathmann was the one he was supposed to be babysitting. Well, technically, he was escorting him to Rome, where James was due to consult on something. Tristan hadn’t been given many details. All he’d been told was that he was to escort and protect James.

Tristan very much doubted that an expert on rare coins was going to be in any kind of danger, but like a dutiful knight, he’d accepted his assignment. Seeing James in person made it very clear that if this man did run into problems, he wouldn’t have any trouble dealing with them himself.

Yet another sign that he was being punished for the fiasco with the Trinity Masters. Bloody Americans.

England’s Vice Admiral Lorelei Madden clearly hadn’t been satisfied with blistering his ears. She’d cooked up the most insulting assignment she could think of, just in case Tristan hadn’t understood exactly how little faith she had in him.

Tristan bent at the waist and looked through the magnifying glass at a small gold coin. He was prepared to say something polite about the coin, but frowned when he actually saw what was printed on it.

“Is that an elephant?” he asked.

James slapped him on the shoulder so hard, Tristan rocked forward.

“Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? It is an elephant. And on the other side…” James slipped on a white cotton glove, then reached out and carefully turned the coin over, revealing a Roman-style bust. “That’s Philip the first. They called him the Arab.”

“Roman?” Tristan asked.

“Yes. Kids found a cache of coins outside Bristol.” James motioned to a green and beige lump. “That’s the first one I’ve cleaned.”

“Those are coins?” Tristan looked at the lump.

“Yes. Wrapped in cloth. They were stored together, probably buried.”

“When?” Tristan asked.

James’s brows rose. “Two hundred seventy A.D.”

Tristan started to whistle then stopped himself. Whistling was low-class.

“You a collector?” James asked.

“Of coins, no.”

“Intelligent then.”

“Well…” Tristan frowned. “Just curious.”

James shook his head. “Intelligent. Figures. The knights are smarter than the security goons. Isn’t that the way?”

Tristan looked around, reassuring himself there was no one there to hear James casually discuss the inner workings and structures of their secret organization.

“Mr. Rathmann, it’s best if you don’t mention things like that in public.”

“True enough.” James waved a hand casually. “Off to Rome then?”

“Yes. I’ve made our travel arrangements. Do you have everything you need?”

James picked up a small suitcase—maybe it was a regular-size suitcase and it just looked small in his hand. “Yep. Enough for a week.”

Tristan had been distracted trying to figure out how tall the other man was. Tristan wasn’t short at just over six feet. James didn’t seem to be more than an inch or two taller than Tristan, but he was big.

Finally, his words penetrated and Tristan shot the other man a glance. “A week? You expect it will take that long?”

“It depends on what they have. Rome is being tight-lipped.”

“I’d like to know more about what you’ve been told on the way.” Tristan and James both reached for the door. Tristan took hold of the knob firmly, opened the door, and motioned James forward.

James frowned slightly, then stepped through.

It was only then that Tristan noticed the other man’s uneven gait. When he walked, James didn’t bend his left leg—he swung it out to the side and forward in a shallow semicircle.

“You probably know more than me,” James said. He turned right, rather than left, which was the way Tristan had come from. Tristan hesitated for only a heartbeat, then followed James.

“I doubt that,” Tristan replied. “All I was told was who you are, and that I was to escort you to Rome.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, Mr. Rathmann.”

“James. Call me James. Which one are you?” James turned and started down a different set of stairs than the one Tristan had come up. James’s progress was slow, almost painfully so. He always led with his stiff left leg. Tristan debated offering to carry the other man’s suitcase, but held his tongue. Whatever was wrong with James’s leg, it clearly wasn’t a new injury, and he doubted the big man would appreciate being treated like an invalid.

“Which one?” Tristan repeated, unsure what the question meant.

“Which one are you?” James repeated. “Wait, let me guess. Percival?”

“No.”

“Galahad?”

“No. Tristan.”

“Tristan. That’s a good one. Nice choice.”

“Thank you.” The words came out flat and hard.

James stopped and looked at him. “You going to be like this the whole way?”

“Like what?” Tristan knew his words were clipped.

James’s lip curled a bit. “Fucking uptight prick.”

“’Bout you watch your fucking mouth?” Tristan shot back, letting his speech patterns fall back into the accent of his youth. “Fucking” turned into “foohkin.”

James’s brows rose. He nodded once and started down the stairs again. Once at the bottom, they exited into a short hall, and from there into the atrium.

Damn it, that had been a much shorter route.

“Our car is waiting out front,” Tristan said.

James nodded again, and they walked side by side through the atrium. The crowds parted before James like the Red Sea for Moses. Most people didn’t seem to be consciously moving out of the way. They simply saw a large someone coming and moved aside.

They didn’t speak again until they were in the American-style chauffeured car, complete with a barrier between the driver’s areas and the back seats.

“How are we getting to Rome?” James asked, breaking the silence.

Tristan turned to face the other man, keeping his polite, neutral mask in place. “Private plane.” He hid the wince. The last time he’d ordered a private plane had been for Wes—the lying fuck.

“Good. I don’t do so well in commercial.”

“I’d suspect not.”

“I’m guessing we’ll have to go to the crime scene tonight.”

Tristan stared at James, sure he’d heard that incorrectly. “I’m sorry?”

James raised his raven-black eyebrows, and his dark eyes sparkled with hints of amusement. “They didn’t tell you anything?”

“Only that I was to escort you to Rome and stay with you. What crime scene?”

“One of the members in Rome was murdered. Ritual killing.”

“Ritual killing?” Tristan shifted in the seat to fully face James. This was not what he’d expected to hear.

“Yep. They wouldn’t say much over the phone. And no pictures. But they found some coins.” James tapped his fist against his chest. “That’s where I come in. They want a coin expert. She’s meeting us at the airport.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday or the day before. They found the body yesterday morning. Vice Admiral called me last night.”

She’d called Tristan to give him the assignment this morning.

“Rome’s security minister must be keeping this from the Italian authorities.”

“Not hard for them to do. The admiral of Rome has a lot more control over his territory than we do over ours.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Tristan said.

James shrugged. “I have a cousin who’s a member in Rome.”

“I forgot you’re a legacy.”

“I don’t look much like a legacy, eh?”

Tristan shook his head. “I meant no offense.”

“I’m used to it.”

Tristan felt like a racist prick. “Please accept my apologies. You’re right, you don’t look like most of the legacies, and you don’t sound like them either. Your accent is…what is your accent?”

“Mom was ambassador to New Zealand so I spent some time there. But my grandfather was Samoan.”

Tristan nodded. He’d been right about the other man’s ancestral origins.

“I grew up there, then stayed to play for the All Blacks.”

Tristan blinked. “You played rugby for the New Zealand All Blacks?”

“Yep.”

Tristan whistled. He didn’t care if it was low-class. That deserved a whistle.

The car pulled into London City Airport, and they climbed out. It took them about an hour to deal with the abbreviated security procedures and board the plane. They’d fly to a small, private airstrip outside of Rome proper, where they’d be met by an escort from Rome.

Once they were settled in the plush seats, which were large enough to seat even James comfortably, Tristan leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees.

James took a drink of the beer the flight attendant had provided. “Tighthead prop.”

Tristan blinked in surprise.

“That’s what you were going to ask. What position I played. I was front row for two years.”

“That’s brilliant,” Tristan said honestly. “But actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

“Oh?”

“You said ‘her.’ That we were going to meet ‘her.’ Who were you talking about?”

James smiled, and Tristan started to get a sinking feeling.

“She works for the Carabinieri Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage. The Italian art police. She consults for Interpol too.”

“Is this a murder or an art heist?” Tristan hoped James didn’t notice the way the words art heist had made his eye twitch. Fucking Weston and his art were what had landed him in hot water to begin with.

“A murder, but a crime scene with lots of art clues. At least that’s what they think.”

“And this art police woman, she’s a member?”

“You could say that.”

“Fuck, man, just tell me,” Tristan said, all reserve gone.

James grinned. “The woman we’re meeting is Sophia Starabba.”

Tristan blinked. “Wait, isn’t she…”

“The principessa. The daughter of the admiral of Rome.”