A Brilliant Deception

by Kim Foster

  None of this memorabilia had the flavor of the modern interpretations of Robin Hood. No stills of Kevin Costner or Russell Crowe anywhere in sight. This was vintage Robin Hood territory—the real deal. My nerves hummed.

  I looked around at the locals in the pub. I knew in small towns like this, people never strayed far, generation after generation. So were any of these people remote descendants of Robin Hood? I was halfway through my sweet, frothy ale when I heard a very familiar voice ordering a pint from the other end of the bar.

  I turned with a start, and watched as Ethan Jones nodded to the bartender and lifted his freshly poured pint off the bar. He began strolling in my direction.

  My heart gave a juddering double step. He has come.

  He looked good. His skin was golden brown—he’d obviously been spending a lot of time outdoors—and he was a little bigger, maybe, in the chest and shoulders. Like he’d been working out more or something. Maybe the rumors about him being overseas were right. He’d always been in great shape, but it seemed like he’d stepped things up a notch. His pretty-boy look carried an edge of ruggedness now.

  I couldn’t stop the smile as he came closer. But then I hesitated—should I hug him? Shake his hand? Neither? I found myself in a very unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, position of being on uncertain footing with Ethan.

  He smiled. I wasn’t sure—was it a rather perfunctory expression? “Cat,” he said, nodding, and sat down beside me at the bar.

  Cat? He’d never called me that. Always Montgomery. I felt a pinch in my chest.

  He was dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans. Even if he had been working in the great outdoors, he’d certainly cleaned up well. He smelled amazing. I noticed a distinct swiveling of heads from the other women in the pub.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Ethan,” I said. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” My heart fluttered a little at the idea that he’d come here to work with me.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d come, either.” He took a sip of his pint. “To be honest, I couldn’t pass up the money. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  Oh. He made no mention of working with me as a factor in his decision.

  Ethan was friendly enough in his tone, but he was a little formal, a little too distanced. I’d never known him to have a formal bone in his body. Even though I had no right to expect a different reaction, his demeanor gave me a sick feeling in my stomach.

  I sipped my pint, attempting to conceal my disappointment. It looked like Mel and Sophie, my best girlfriends, had been right. Sophie had said I would end up regretting what I’d done on the banks of the Seine, letting two amazing men slip through my fingers. “Are you nuts?” had been her exact words, as we’d discussed it at our favorite wine bar when I’d returned home from Paris. “Jack and Ethan are crazy about you. And you rejected them both? What were you thinking?”

  Mel had supported a somewhat different point of view. “You go, girl,” she’d said, raising her glass to mine. “You don’t need a man. You take all the time you need.”

  I’d nodded at her. “Thank you. That’s what I thought. They’ll each understand when I’m ready, right?”

  Mel had knocked back a swig of her drink and laughed. “That? No. Not in the least. Ethan and Jack . . . they’re not the kind of guys to sit around and wait. I mean, maybe. But—you can’t count on it, no.”

  “So where have you been hiding yourself, Ethan?” I asked, as brightly as I could. “There are all kinds of rumors. People are saying you went off with the Peace Corps.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t join the Peace Corps.”

  “I knew it!” I said, plunking my beer down on the bar. I started to laugh. “I didn’t believe that one for a second—”

  “It was Global Life,” he said, interrupting me. He took a long sip as I stared at him with surprise. “I was volunteering in a village in Kenya.”

  At that moment, a large man in a flannel shirt with a red bulbous nose approached the bar and flagged down the bartender. While he waited he turned to face us. “So—how are you two going to vote?” he said, a slight slur to his words. He waved toward the TV behind the bar. The BBC was broadcasting their evening news report. The caption underneath read “Succession vote to take place this week . . .”

  “Er . . .” I started, not having the slightest clue what he was talking about.

  He took a great swig of his pint as soon as the bartender placed it on the bar. “Well, I won’t be voting for it, that’s for sure,” he continued.

  “Nobody would,” said the man on our other side, a short, balding man with a comb-over. “But that’s why it’s not up to us, you gormless git. It’s happening in the House of Lords.”

  The debate became rather heated at this point, and others joined in. I looked apprehensively between the men. Getting in the middle of a bar brawl was not on my list of things to do tonight.

  “It’s come up before, it’ll get shot down again,” somebody else said—a scrawny, birdlike fellow with eyes spaced very close together.

  “What’s the issue, gentlemen?” Ethan asked, leaning over me to address the man on my left with the comb-over. The scent of Ethan’s skin—a scrumptious combination of soap and leather and maleness—rolled over me. I tried to ignore the weakness in my knees.

  “Well, it’s all about who would succeed the prime minister if he dies,” said Comb-over.

  “Why, is the PM going to die?” I asked.

  “No, he’s healthy as a horse. But there’s no clear line of succession. We’ve never had it spelled out.”

  “Exactly!” said the birdlike man. “Why do we need a law that says the deputy PM has to take over? Like the Yanks? Ugh. We’ve been fine in the past, we’d be fine now.”

  “No, we need a clear leader, not just left to chance. Her Highness needs to hear about this. I’m faxing a petition to Buckingham Palace this very week—”

  “The queen has . . . a fax machine?” I asked.

  “She most certainly does.” The man withdrew a small card printed with the royal insignia and a variety of contact information including a Twitter handle—@BritishMonarchy—and a fax number: 01234-QUEEN1.

  I suppressed a smile as the bickering continued. I decided it was time to leave the Brits to their political debates. I turned to Ethan. “Should we go check in?”

  “Sure.”

  There was no entrance to the main part of the house through the pub, so we went outside and walked along a gravel pathway to the main entrance. Every inch of the entry hall was covered in chintz. And every wooden surface was polished to a mahogany shine. It smelled of homemade bread and lilac and strawberry jam and wood polish, and there was something fairly . . . romantic about it. I glanced uncertainly at Ethan as he rang the bell at the front desk. The person who responded was none other than the man who had been sitting beside us at the bar, Mr. Comb-over.

  This was the opposite of being anonymous. And that made my skin crawl.

  But there was nothing to be done now. The man called back to someone in an inner office, and a friendly-looking woman came bustling forward to check us in. I watched Ethan as he handed his credit card to our hostess. I hoped he would start to relax soon. I’d never known Ethan to hold a grudge.

  Maybe I was imagining his coolness. If he wasn’t over it, he wouldn’t have come to Yorkshire prepared to pose as husband and wife in this romantic country manor as a cover for our job, would he? Maybe he was just tired from the trip.

  “Welcome to Harrow Hall, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, it’s a pleasure to have you. I’m Mrs. Weatherby. Now, would you prefer a room on the second or third floor?”

  I opened my mouth to voice my preference when Ethan jumped in. “Oh, you misunderstand. We’re not a married couple. We’re brother and sister. And we’re going to need two separate rooms.”

  I shut my mouth.

  Oh. So maybe he wasn’t quite over everything.

  Fine. I didn’t need anything complicating this job anyway. This was good. Better, in fact. Keep
it simple, keep it professional. Right?

  I grabbed my suitcase and tried to ignore the messy maelstrom of emotions that swirled through me as we climbed the curving mahogany staircase to our rooms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, it was time to get to work.

  After a full English breakfast served by Mrs. Weatherby, Ethan and I drove to the high-security lab on the university campus. “So what do we know?” Ethan asked as we drove along thick hedgerows and tight twists.

  “The ring is inside the lab, in the Archaeology vault. There’s national-level security all over it. They’re taking it pretty seriously.”

  Ethan was quiet a moment as the sunlight flickered through the windshield. He glanced over at me as I sat in the passenger’s seat. “Do you believe it? All this stuff about Robin Hood?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you?”

  He nodded. “There’s way too much written about this guy for it to be a fairy tale. There had to have been a real man.”

  “And you think this is the real thing? That they actually found his remains?”

  “That, I don’t know. But there are some important people who do believe it. Look at the measures they’re taking to protect it.”

  We entered a roundabout and I squinted at the road signs, giving Ethan directions. “Did you see all the Robin Hood paraphernalia in the pub last night?” I asked. “These people are pretty passionate about ownership of the real Robin Hood.”

  “It’s a heated debate here. If you believe the stories, they’re willing to kill over it.” He laughed. “That, and their politics.”

  I smiled, remembering the previous evening at the pub.

  “Why do you think they loved him so much?” I asked.

  Ethan slid a hand over the steering wheel, thinking as he drove. “Well, he stood for something admirable, didn’t he?”

  “Even though he stole?”

  “Robin Hood was looking out for the common man. He was fighting oppression. He was David against the Goliath of the aristocracy. That’s why they love him. He was their champion.”

  “So . . . if Robin Hood was standing up against the oppression of the aristocracy, why had he kept Richard the Lionheart’s ring for himself?”

  Ethan kept his gaze forward. “Now, that’s an excellent question.”

  We arrived at the lab and parked in a small lot near the building. Far enough away to be unnoticed—tucked in with a couple of other cars—close enough to be able to watch the building. The lab was a low structure, four stories, ultra-modern. The Brits loved their history and their heritage buildings, but they also loved their modern architecture, too.

  It would work to our advantage that the discovery of Robin Hood’s bones had been kept very quiet. We didn’t have to worry about avoiding a phalanx of press and local crowds—our only job was to outmaneuver the official security.

  On my tablet, I pulled up the digital file Gladys had sent containing blueprints and schematics, the spoils of her hacking efforts. Now we just needed to find a few seams and gaps, and find a way in.

  I studied the documents while Ethan staked out the entrances. An hour later, I was trying very hard to focus on the job and ignore the presence of the man seated two feet from me in an enclosed space. Every time he shifted in his seat, I became acutely aware of the muscles in his forearms, his legs . . .

  And why did he always have to smell so damn good?

  I scraped a hand through my hair and stared at my files. There were two choices, as far as I could see. We could break in during the middle of the night, or we could attempt entry during the day, posed in disguise. I laid out the options to Ethan.

  “There’s less automated security during the day. They won’t have all their systems on,” he said.

  “But there are also more people around.”

  “What? You’re not keen on an audience when you do your naughty deeds?” he asked, winking.

  My heart fluttered. It was the first crack in his cool façade, the first sign of life. This was the old, lighthearted Ethan I knew. But he seemed to immediately regret his innuendo. He turned away quickly and returned his focus to the doorway.

  The silence grew awkward and the tension thickened. I needed a change of topic, something we had in common. I grasped at the first thing that sprang to mind.

  “So, Ethan, have you heard anything about what Caliga is up to lately?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about anything. I’ve been in Kenya, remember?”

  I nodded. I had meant to make small talk, but mentioning Caliga set me on edge. Were they any closer to finding the complete Gifts? Was Jack on their trail? It was unsettling, not knowing what Caliga was up to. But, truly, I had quite enough to worry about at the moment. I pushed all those thoughts away.

  After two more hours of surveillance and plotting, Ethan and I managed to put together a plan. Other than that one lapse, Ethan had kept all our interactions strictly business. A hollow feeling settled in my insides.

  At least we had gotten our work done. From what we observed, the people who got a free pass, an easy entry to the lab, were the academics. The scientists. If we could pose as one of them, we’d be golden.

  It was time to call it a day. I was ready for a comforting pub dinner at Harrow Hall and an early night.

  When we entered the manor, I was grateful for the crackling fire in the giant hearth and the smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. The perfect antidote to spending the better part of the day cramped in a car with someone who probably wanted to be anywhere but. We were headed toward the main staircase when Mrs. Weatherby spotted us. “Ooh, Ms. Jones, someone is looking for you!”

  “Sorry?” My instincts prickled.

  “Somebody came by, and asked if you were staying here. He used a different name for you, my dear, but I assumed that was your maiden name. Montgomery, was it? I have a cousin who’s a Montgomery. Lovely family. Bit too heavy on the drink, unfortunately. Anyway, he described you to a tee.”

  I flicked a glance at Ethan. He was as alarmed as I was; I could tell by the flex in his jaw.

  “Who could it be?” I said to him in a low voice.

  “Did he say anything else?” Ethan asked Mrs. Weatherby. “Can you describe him?”

  She chuckled. “No need for all that. I told him you were staying here, and sent him up to your room. He’s there now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  We both looked up the broad staircase. Up there now.

  This, right here, was one of the main reasons I hated non-anonymous inns. This would never happen in a big hotel. Mrs. Weatherby stood beside the desk, expectantly, idly dusting a lamp shade. I turned to her. “Mrs. Weatherby, do you think you could do us a favor? I haven’t been able to get my mind off those delicious currant scones you served earlier, at breakfast. I wonder if there’s any chance you have more? I’d love some with a nice cup of tea.”

  “Why, certainly!” She beamed at the compliment and bustled off to the kitchen.

  Which left us free to strategize unobserved.

  “Do you think it’s Hendrickx?” Ethan asked.

  “Who else knows I’m here?”

  “If he’s hunted you down, and he’s up there, you’re going to have to confront him. You can’t just run.”

  “What if he’s here to arrest me?”

  “Arrest you for what? You haven’t done anything,” he said. “Yet.”

  I chewed a fingernail. “And what if it isn’t Hendrickx? What if it’s somebody robbing us?” We had a lot of valuable gear up there. We were strangers in this tiny village, and many people knew it. Our arrival must have been noted.

  I knew that newcomers were often the best marks. Out-of-towners who didn’t understand local rhythms or customs. And, apparently, it was acceptable local custom to let any old person who said they knew you go walking up to your room and paw through your suitcase.

  Although, from what Mrs. Weatherby had said, it sounded like this was someone who did know me. He’d us
ed my real name. My stomach tightened.

  “I’ll go up another way,” Ethan said. “Give me a five-minute head start.”

  Ethan slipped away outside. I knew by “another way” he meant scaling the building on the outside. I waited five, then crept up the staircase, muscles coiled. I was ready to attack, or bolt, or whatever.

  I unlocked the door to my suite and walked in. The room was empty. Where was the mystery man? I spotted Ethan just outside the open window.

  The en suite door opened and a man walked out, whistling and rubbing his hands on a towel, looking perfectly at home. He looked up and saw me.

  My face must have registered shock, because in that instant, Ethan burst through the window and attacked the other man.

  I yelled “No!” but it was too late. It was all a blur, and at the end of it, Ethan had the man pinned to the ground, ready to start the interrogation.

  I leapt over and grabbed Ethan by the shoulder. “Ethan, let him go! It’s okay, I know him.”

  “What?” demanded Ethan. “You do?”

  From the ground, trapped on his back, Felix Tucker stared up at us with terrified eyes.

  Ethan released him immediately and stood back.

  “His name is Felix and I’ve been training him at AB&T.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “He’s one of us.”

  Felix sat up. “Well, that was a nice welcome. Is this how they do it in Yorkshire?”

  Ethan shrugged. “You break into the room of a pro, this is what you’re going to get.”

  “I didn’t break in,” Felix said, scowling. “I was let in. By a very nice lady who offered me tea. And currant scones.”

  Right on cue, I heard Mrs. Weatherby’s voice outside the bedroom door. “Helloo? Is everything all right? I heard some rather loud thumps.”

  I opened the door to see her holding the tray of currant scones and craning her neck to see inside the room. I silently cursed. Now we would need to come up with a suitable alias for Felix.