Chapter 3
Gwen
Five men stared back at me from the Round Table Security website. Arthur, Lancelot, Tristan, Galahad, and Merlin. Call signs, but no bios and no credentials. Just headshots against a dark background and a sparse list of services on the next page.
I leaned back in the desk chair and stretched my neck.
My suite at the Brenton Arms was quiet around me, the only sound the low hum of the heating unit beneath the window. Research notes littered the desk in overlapping layers. After the conservation team had left for the day, I’d gone back to the hotel for a nap before dinner.
But my brain hadn’t slowed down enough to sleep.
So, I’d pulled out my laptop to run an image search on the inscription.
One search became five, and now I had scribbled notes about Anglo-Saxon lapidary texts, sketches of the inscription, and a stack of high-resolution photos I’d taken of the pommel before I left Ferraro’s.
The inscription photos sat on top, three different angles of the worn lettering I still couldn’t fully decipher.
Then I’d had the bright idea to prepare for dinner with more research.
I scrolled back up to the team page. Most of them could have been brothers.
Dark hair, close-cropped beards, and piercing gazes.
But there were differences, too. Tristan had a lopsided grin, Galahad wore a frown, and Merlin’s eyes were so blue they looked like someone had turned up the saturation.
Lancelot looked like Lance—annoyingly handsome and completely at ease in front of a camera.
Then there was Arthur.
In a suit jacket but no tie, he looked like he’d spent his life posing for formal portraits, right down to the set of his jaw. But there was something in his face that didn’t match the polished exterior. A warmth, maybe? Guardedness?
I should have closed the laptop.
One search, Gwen. It won’t hurt anything. He won’t catch you.
After glancing at his perfect photo one more time, I opened a search tab and entered Arthur’s name.
The first page of results included the company website, a few mentions in trade publications, and a short profile in a security industry journal. Nothing personal. But halfway down, a headline caught my attention: “Round Table Security: Camelot or Mercenary Outfit? Inside the Pendragon Connection.”
Posted an hour ago.
I clicked through. The article was long and thorough.
It claimed Round Table Security was financially backed by Pendragon Security, a large defense contracting company owned by Arthur’s father, Gerald Penn.
The piece laid out a detailed money trail, including how Pendragon had provided Round Table’s startup costs.
It also described an operation in Prague a couple of months earlier, involving Pendragon operatives and hush money paid to the local authorities.
In the end, it questioned whether the men were legitimate security consultants or mercenaries operating under a pretty name, bankrolled by family money and trading on connections rather than experience.
Arthur Penn, the article noted, was a Naval Academy graduate who’d been a SEAL, a Pendragon operator, and a CIA contractor. It wasn’t stated outright, but the implication that all of his accomplishments—right down to founding Round Table Security—were on his father’s dime was clear.
When Lance and I had dated, he hadn’t talked much about his work.
All he’d said was that he was a security consultant, and he didn’t want to focus on his job when we were together.
I’d let it go because I liked him and because everyone has parts of their life they keep private. But what, exactly, had I let go?
My eyes snagged on the clock on the laptop.
“Shit!” It was 6:34, and the reservations were for seven.
I leaped out of my chair and took in the mess I’d made. The inscription photos needed to go back in the folder. The printouts needed stacking. I’d tossed my notebook onto my bed at some point, frustrated I couldn’t figure out anything more than “clavis.”
You don’t have time to clean up, girl!
I ran for the bathroom and took the shortest shower of my life, keeping my hair out of the water.
Towel. Moisturizer. Minimal makeup. The black dress I always traveled with went on in under a minute, and I pinned my hair up because that was my fastest option.
I grabbed my phone and opened the rideshare app as I pulled on my coat.
Three minutes out. Close enough. I’d only be ten or so minutes late.
Before I left, I stopped in front of the mirror by the door, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything critical—hair, earrings, necklace, shoes, perfume.
The dress worked for anything, whether I paired it with a suit jacket for a conference or a necklace for dinner. Tonight was my big flower necklace.
The dress had a high, respectable neckline. Was Arthur a plunging neckline guy, or did he appreciate the mystery?
Oh my god, Gwen. It’s a work dinner, not a date.
With a shake of my head, I hurried downstairs to meet the car. When was the last time I’d been this distracted over a dinner? Lionel’s face flashed through my brain, and I shoved it into the mental garbage bin where it belonged.
I arrived fifteen minutes late. Then the too-slow ma?tre d’ walked me through the restaurant at such a crawl it cost me another three minutes.
The interior was stunning, with white walls, a coffered ceiling, and paintings of Greek red-figure vases.
Upstairs, the tables were more private. Some overlooked a balcony to the diners below, while others were tucked into quiet alcoves.
At the far end, a glass-walled room looked out over the kitchen on one side and the dining area on the other.
Through the glass, I saw my party. Sam and Antonio sat on one side of the table, with Arthur and Lance sitting opposite them.
Two empty chairs: one next to Sam, and one between the two Round Table men.
My stomach clenched. It would be awkward sitting next to the married couple, but between my ex and his boss?
My stomach clenched a little harder.
A pendant light above the table cast a soft glow over the tablecloth, water glasses, and flowers. The ma?tre d’ opened the door, and the conversation paused.
I smiled as everyone turned to face me. “Sorry I’m late. I lost track of time.”
“You’re fine,” Sam said. “We just sat down.”
The ma?tre d’ took my coat and hung it on a hook inside the door before retreating.
Lance stood and pulled out the chair between himself and Arthur. “I’m happy you could join us.”
Arthur also stood, placing one hand on the back of his chair. He wore a beige half-zip sweater over a white golf shirt and black slacks. It seemed casual, but after reading about his family’s money, it was likely all designer.
“Thank you,” I said to Lance as I sat. I peered past Arthur to see the kitchen, where the staff busied themselves over stoves and prep areas. “Nice restaurant.”
“It’s one of our favorites.” Sam touched Antonio’s arm while Lance and Arthur took their seats. “You met Gwen earlier, right?”
“Sì, we met this afternoon.”
I draped my napkin across my lap. “He tried to convince me that seventh-century swords were less interesting than seventeenth-century Dutch paintings.”
“I said no such thing.” Antonio placed a hand over his heart. “I said they were equally interesting, which I felt was a generous admission.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Sam said.
“Me?” Antonio protested theatrically. “Don’t encourage Samantha to begin speaking about seventeenth-century Dutch paintings, or she’ll start into a three-day-long lecture about Vermeer’s—”
Sam smacked his shoulder and gave him a mock-frown. “Stop it.”
“As much as a three-day-long lecture sounds interesting”—Lance leaned back in his chair—“Antonio, your family’s been in conservation for a while, right?”
“Three generations. My grandfather opened our first studio in Roma, before World War II. It’s a long and boring story, but—”
“Long and not boring, and he loves telling it,” said Sam.
“Oh, bella.” Antonio air-kissed in her direction. “He opened the location here in the sixties, then my father opened the art investigations subsidiary, which this brilliant woman now runs.”
“And you’re lucky to have me.” Sam had been far more serious when we’d worked together in the past. Her husband seemed good for her. He talked with his hands and pulled everyone in, a sharp contrast to the precise and dry woman I remembered.
“My father and I are authenticating the paintings from the black market auction,” he said.
Two family businesses. Two legacies. Antonio wore his with obvious pride, three generations of Ferraros who’d built something remarkable.
The article I’d read about Arthur painted a very interesting picture of his family connections.
Pendragon’s money, Pendragon’s jet, Pendragon’s name opening doors for him.
“Speaking of the black market, Arthur,” Sam said as she rested her elbows on the table, “I understand the men working for you have a history of protecting ancient artifacts?”
Lance raised his eyebrows at Arthur.
“Rhonda Wells is an old friend of mine,” she said. “She’s filled me in on some things.”
Arthur inclined his head in my direction. “Rhonda owns a gallery in town, and her son, Tristan, is one of our co-founders.”
Lance took a sip of his water. “Most of us met on a joint military and intelligence operation during the Global War on Terror, protecting sensitive sites.”
“Afghanistan, specifically,” Arthur said. “The archaeologists we worked with were uncovering Bactrian and Silk Road artifacts which attracted the wrong kind of attention.”
“Gold like that buys a lot of weapons,” Lance said. “We spent most of our time making sure insurgents didn’t get their hands on anything.”
“What about the Arthurian names?” I asked Lance. “You never mentioned it.”
“Because it’s embarrassing.” Lance shifted in his seat to face me, draping his arm over the back of his chair. He didn’t look embarrassed. “Our intelligence officer heard the team had an Arthur and a Lance, and it went from there.”
“He was enthusiastic,” Arthur said, giving a rueful shake of his head. “Tristan joined the team, plus a guy whose call sign was already Percival, and there was no escaping it.”
“Arthur and I go back even further, though,” Lance said. “He’s been stuck with me since high school.”
“Stuck isn’t the word I’d use,” Arthur said.
“What word would you use?”
“Burdened.”
Lance clutched his chest, and everyone at the table laughed.
Arthur’s smile widened. He wasn’t loud like Antonio and didn’t perform for the room like Lance. He was charming, but in a quieter way than the others. And he definitely didn’t strike me as a mercenary like the article had suggested.
Or his pretty face is scrambling your brain.
Lance launched into a story about a mishap with a goat somewhere in northern Afghanistan. I pulled the wine menu closer and opened it, searching for a distraction from him and his storytelling.
Arthur shifted beside me, gesturing at the menu in my hands. His voice was low, just for me. “What do you like?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I usually pick the house wine and hope for the best.”
“Tenuta San Lupo Vecchio.” He ran a finger down the list in my hands—no ring—and stopped at the name. “I’m surprised they have it.”
“Surprised?”
“It comes from a small estate in Chianti. The owner refuses to export more than a few hundred cases each year because he’s convinced mass production would ruin his legacy.”
“Sounds like a principled man.”
“Stubborn is closer to the truth. But the wine’s worth it.” He paused. “It pairs beautifully with bruschetta and arancini, if you’re thinking about an appetizer.”
I hadn’t been, but was now.
He pulled his hand back but stayed close. “How did your research go today?”
“It went well. Except I’m stuck on the inscription. I think I mentioned it while you were there?”
“You did. What did it say?”
“I’ve only been able to make out the word ‘clavis.’”
“Key?”
My whole body turned to face him. How did he know that?
“Latin,” he said, frowning slightly as though my reaction bothered him. “It’s Latin for key.”
“I know what it means. I didn’t expect you to.”
“My education wasn’t entirely in security.” Arthur owned a security company, had a military background, and made Chianti recommendations based on the winemaker’s philosophy. Plus, he knew some Latin.
Who was this man?
“The rest of the inscription is too worn to read.” I kept the wine menu open in front of me. If I slid it across the table, I might lose the bubble I was in with Arthur, and I wasn’t ready for that. “I took some detailed photos, but haven’t made it out yet.”
“What do you think it might say?”
“I don’t know. Clavis could mean anything. It could be a name, a location, or maybe the sword’s a key to a lock somewhere. Or I could be missing some more letters, and it’s actually a different word. It’s just a mystery.”
“Sounds intriguing.” He could say that again. Hell, he could say whatever he wanted.
“Good evening.” The sommelier arrived, interrupting my moment with Arthur. “May I help with your selections?”
Antonio ordered the house red for himself and Sam, while Lance ordered a Scotch.
“The Tenuta San Lupo Vecchio Chianti, please. Two glasses,” Arthur said without hesitation, then looked at me. “If that’s what you’d like?”
“Yes, please.”
The sommelier left, the murmur of the dining room rising and fading as the door opened and closed behind him. Below us, the kitchen buzzed with activity.
And on either side of me, Arthur and Lance recounted a story about a lost Fabergé egg they’d helped return to its prior owner. Arthur was one of the heroes of the story, but he let the conversation move around him, not taking the spotlight.
Humble, too. Of course.
And sexy. Don’t forget sexy.
Get a grip, Gwen. You totally need to forget that part.