Page 125 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“East.”

“East is a compass heading, not a destination.”

“It’s all I’ve got for now.”

The fog had stopped at the coast, but the clouds inland were dense, as though the promised rainstorm might come tonight instead of tomorrow. Was Gwen still on the water? Or was she inside the walls of the mysterious estate?

“We don’t have time for this,” said Lance.

“For what?”

“For your existential crisis.” He took a left turn onto the main road through the little hamlet. “I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut, and I know you want to build this company honestly, but asking for his help doesn’t turn you into his minion.”

It turned me into the man in the Crécy Defense Review article. The nepo baby. The man who couldn’t get anything done on his own. Who’d walked out of that cave and let them take Gwen.

“I owe you my fucking life, Arthur, and I’d go up against Rick with you in a heartbeat. But we need backup, and the men I’d normally turn to are all in the States. Call him.”

“I know.” I pressed the number before I talked myself out of it. It would probably go to voicemail anyway.

But my father answered. “Arthur, I’m glad you called.”

“You are?”

“I have a response to the Crécy Defense Review piece on my desk. You hadn’t responded yet, so I had my team draft a press release. We’ll be issuing it in the morning before⁠—”

Fucking hell. “No.”

“Pardon me?”

“I’ve got it covered, Dad.” Except I didn’t, did I? I was calling with my tail between my legs. “Lance is drafting the response.”

“Lance is? Really?”

Three words and a full performance review wrapped up inside them. My father had always liked Lance. He was the sport-scholarship kid who dragged me out of the library and taught me how to work a room. Even at fourteen, Lance had been a charmer. My father considered Lance to be a positive influence on me, which was why Lance got every invitation to spend time with us on holidays. Because Lance was useful.

But Gerald Penn had never once spoken about Lance Collins as if he owned a working brain.

Beside me, Lance changed lanes with one hand on the wheel, unaware he was being graded.

“He’s running communications for my firm,” I said. “Your team can touch base with him, but I don’t want your company issuing statements about mine. And that’s not why I called.”

“I gathered.”

“My client’s been taken.” My throat ran dry. I’d been talking to my team about this, and I’d been fine—emotional, but fine. But saying it to my father? It stopped being a situation I was managing and became a fact in the world. My woman. My failure. Gone.

He let the silence drag for at least five seconds before he said the word I’d been dreading: “Again?”

Move past it. She’s worth more than your pride. “Yes. This afternoon. We were at Merlin’s Cave in Tintagel, and they snuck in on a RIB. I need resources.”

“Why were you at Merlin’s Cave?” Trust my father to zero in on the most interesting detail, but not the one I needed him to focus on.

“That’s not relevant right now.”

“You called the contracts line when your client was taken in Prague,” he said. “You were emphatic about the arrangement, as I recall.”

“This isn’t Prague.”

“Clearly. Unless I’ll have to arrange your release from police custody in a second country tonight?”