Page 17 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“What is that? The fifth revision?” Tristan asked.

“Sixth, since I joined.” Galahad adjusted the sling that held his left arm against his body. He’d been complaining about it since the Czech doctors had forced it on him two months ago. “At this rate, the office might be ready by the time we retire.”

“The renovation would be finished already if our intelligence specialist didn’t keep expanding her requirements.” I took a sip of my coffee. Grace’s coffee was fantastic, which was the main reason The Velvet Bean had become our de facto office. That and the breakfast sandwiches. And the fact that our office was still a construction zone. “She wants a dedicated cooling system now, too.”

“Give her whatever she wants.” That line was usually Merlin’s, but without him, Galahad said it for him. Considering the help she’d given us on his girlfriend’s case, it wasn’t a surprise.

“You both read the article?” I asked.

Tristan nodded.

Galahad grunted, which was the same thing.

“Morganna was going to dig into the journalist’s identity, but she’s busy with some White Spring project right now.” I put my phone on the table. “And Lance hasn’t finished the client outreach draft.”

“Because Lance was busy last night,” said Lance, pulling out the chair next to me and dropping into it. He had his coffee, and the dark circles under his eyes told me he was as rested as I was. “Did Arthur tell you about the break-in last night?”

Tristan and Galahad shook their heads.

Lance filled them in about Gwen’s hotel room, dressing it up enough that he was obviously building a case. He and Tristan were our charmers, but Lance was the storyteller.

Tristan leaned forward and asked, “Do you think it’s connected to the sword?”

“Possibly.” Lance shrugged, but it was clear he thought so. “I’m not saying it is. But she’s an outside expert brought in to authenticate an item from an FBI black-market seizure. If someone involved with the auction wanted to know what she’s found, a hotel burglary is a pretty clean cover.”

“Or it was nothing more than a burglary,” I said.

“Or that.” Lance sipped his coffee. “But it got me thinking. The article in Crécy Defense Review said RTS is a Pendragon puppet. A pro bono close protection assignment tied to an FBI seizure sounds like good marketing copy. If she’s been targeted by someone connected to the auction, that sounds like even better marketing copy.”

And that was what he’d been building to.

He held out his hands, like he was presenting us all with a gift. “That’s the kind of job that tells the story we need to tell right now.”

Lance had always been talented at polishing an image. The bones of the argument were solid—an FBI-adjacent protection job with no Pendragon involvement would push back against the article’s central claim.

It was a reasonable pitch. But I knew him well enough to recognize the gap between his story and reality. “You’re pretending your theory is the official narrative. We don’t know whether the break-in is related to the sword. You’re just spinning it.”

“Public relations is all about spin, Arthur. That’s literally how it works.”

“And it’s precisely what the exposé accused us of. Dressing things up.” I picked up my coffee, but put it down again. “Besides, Gwen’s staying in a secure building now. The threat, if there is one, doesn’t justify assigning someone to dedicated close protection.”

Lance shifted to the edge of his chair to get closer to me. “You don’t think it justifies protection, or you don’t want me to be the one providing it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.”

Tristan glanced from me to Lance. He picked up his sandwich and took a very deliberate bite.

“You want to talk about last night?” I should have let it go. That was the smart move, but I was too fucking tired for smart moves. “Let’s talk about last night. About your arm around her waist. Sitting on the bed with her. Offering your apartment. Calling her ‘Babe.’”

Lance narrowed his eyes, as though offended I’d call him on his ulterior motive.

“Oh yeah, I heard you call her that when you thought I was too busy with the police. If this protection proposal is genuinely about the exposé and the PR angle, great. But if it’s about getting into Gwen’s pants, we’re not⁠—”

Lance launched out of his chair, sloshing his coffee onto the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Sit down.”