A Brilliant Deception (12 page)

T
he Venice Simplon-Orient-Express departed from London Victoria train station at ten o’clock in the morning. On the platform, stewards in crisp blue uniforms with gold braid assisted people with their bags and finding their reserved cabins. The first leg of the journey, before we changed trains on the other side of the English Channel, would be on a Belmond British Pullman: black-lacquered train cars with gilded lettering, pulled by a crimson engine.

Ethan and I climbed on board, and within minutes the train departed with a sharp hiss of releasing brakes, and the squeal and clang of iron on steel.

The train had been the logical choice of transportation. Flying to Venice would be too trackable; we needed to stay invisible not only to Caliga, but to Hendrickx and Interpol, too. The Orient Express would take one night, and we’d be in Venice the following afternoon.

We settled into our seats and I checked the messages on my phone. An e-mail popped up from Professor Atworthy. “I’ve managed to get a meeting with the dean next week. All hope may not be lost.”

My heart quickened. My way out.
My future.

Grasping on to the thread of optimism, I sent him a quick text back. “The later next week, the better. May be tied up with one or two commitments for the next several days.”

I pressed SEND and looked up to see Ethan glancing at my phone. “Anything I need to know about?” he asked.

“It’s fine. Just my prof. You know, Atworthy.”

His brow furrowed. “Did you encrypt your text?”

I took in a sharp breath. “No—oh my God. I forgot.” I had been so focused on the idea of academic salvation. I cursed myself for being so careless. “Do you think it’ll cause a problem?”

“I don’t know. Sending that message could reveal your location. They can triangulate from a sent text.”

I chewed my lip. It was too late now. I’d already sent the message.

Ethan caught my worried look. “It will probably be fine. It was a two-second interchange. Somebody would have to be locked right on, to get your data.”

I nodded, feeling slightly better. Then a waiter brought us mimosas, which made me feel much better.

I sat back in the seat and did my best to enjoy the ride. The interior of our compartment was filled with plush furnishings in deep colors of burgundy and navy, trimmed with mahogany and brass. I was comforted by the smells of sizzling butter and garlic—the food I knew was being prepared by the French chef. Brunch would soon be served.

Ethan said he needed to stretch his legs. While he went to explore the train, I gazed out the window at the passing scenery as the train rolled through the Kentish countryside of farms and villages and the occasional castle. I remembered the last time Ethan and I had taken a rail journey together: the train from Paris to Geneva. We had been in the middle of a job then, too.

But that time, there were no hard feelings between us. We hadn’t gone through hell and back in the Louvre—yet—and I hadn’t said those fateful words on the banks of the Seine.

We were in a different place now.

My phone chimed. An incoming call from Templeton.
Good.
I had a lot of questions. This time I took care to answer using an encrypted code.

“What’s your status, Catherine?” he asked.

“We’re en route to Venice.”

“Good. That’s good. And you’re safe? You’ve not been followed?”

“We’re fine.”
So far
, I thought. “So what’s up with this ring? Can you tell me anything more? Why does Caliga want it?”

“It’s the Robin Hood connection, my dear.”

Of course it was. Caliga believed themselves to be the true ancient order of thieves, I knew that. Naturally they would want a Robin Hood token. But was that all it was?

“And then . . . there are also the rumors,” he said.

“What rumors?”

“Well, some people believe the ring has powers. The power of leadership. Why do you think Richard the Lionheart was so universally revered?”

I
knew
there had to be more to it, a reason Caliga was desperate to possess it.

“They say that ring was the reason Richard was so successful,” Templeton said. “There’s magic in the ruby. The gift of charisma and influence. Some say it explains why a man who was not born in England and barely spent any time in the country was so beloved by the people. Even today, there’s a bronze statue of Richard the Lionheart outside Westminster. Many historians can’t really account for that degree of adoration.”

I thought about that statue. I was all too familiar with it; Westminster was the fortress from which I stole the Fabergé egg, so many months ago.

“Caliga wants that power, Cat. The power of charisma, the power of leadership. The power of the Lionheart himself. That’s what they want.”

“And they’re willing to kill for it,” I said. I thought of the dead archaeologist, the dead security guard, both on the floor of the lab. Then I thought of Felix.

“Listen, Catherine, there’s someone who may be able to help you. If everything works out, he will meet you in Venice.”

“Good,” I said, although I wasn’t really listening. I was far away, back in that lab, looking at that horrible scene. I hung up with Templeton and shook my head, trying to focus on my present circumstances.

“Here, Montgomery,” Ethan said, returning. He handed me a bottle of water, then sat down and pulled out an iPad. “Also, I found out some more information about the Lionheart ring.”

“Where did you get this from?” I asked, looking at the iPad. Our tablet was on the list of things we’d had to leave behind at Harrow Hall.

He raised an eyebrow. “I believe you’ve forgotten my profession.”

I smiled.

“I’ll return it, don’t worry,” he said.

I watched him flip through pages on the screen. “Here. Stop there.”

It was an academic paper on important jewels of the Middle Ages. I scanned down to the brief section on the Lionheart Ring.
Some say the ring was given to Richard the Lionheart by the Sultan Saladin, as part of the peace agreement, during the Third Crusade.

The description given of the ring was unmistakable. It then listed a bibliography, mentions of the ring in primary sources: various ballads about Robin Hood and ballads about King Richard. We clicked on links to each of the ballads, and indeed, the Lionheart Ring was mentioned in several of them. But nothing about how it came to be in Robin Hood’s possession.

Richard the Lionheart had been captured on his return journey from the Crusades, after he’d been shipwrecked near Venice. He’d been held prisoner for over a year by his mortal enemy, Leopold V, duke of Austria.

I shuddered at the thought of prison. As a career criminal, I sympathized with the man. It must have been awful. The only thing worse than a year in a prison, as far as I was concerned, was a year in a
medieval
prison.

“Templeton says this ring has some sort of special power,” I said, glancing at Ethan to gauge his reaction. “What do you think of that? Do you believe it?” I asked him.

“No. But that doesn’t matter. Caliga believes it. And if it drives them to do their worst, that’s what we have to focus on.”

We passed through the Chunnel then, and the windows went black with darkness. We’d be on the other side soon, in continental Europe. We were getting closer to Caliga with every passing hour.

I thought about how we were going to tackle Caliga. How to get past their defenses, to rescue Felix and retrieve the ring. “I wish we had more people on our team,” I said. “I wonder if there are more people to call in.” I looked up at him uncertainly. “What about . . . getting Brooke’s help?”

“I’m going to stop you right there. Brooke abandoned you the last time you needed her. Remember Paris? Even if you could convince her this time around, she’s not going to be loyal. You’d never know if she was going to bail on you again.”

He was right. I dropped it. Brunch was served then—eggs and Belgian waffles and good coffee. And another round of mimosas.

I became aware of how close I was sitting to Ethan. We were side by side, alone in our cabin, poring over our documents. I could feel the warmth of his body, the firm muscle of the leg that was touching mine. My abdomen contracted with a pleasant flutter.

If I had any hope of keeping this professional, of not letting things get messy with Ethan like they had in the past, I was going to have to ignore every sensation that was surging inside. Two and a half mimosas had probably been a mistake. I pushed the half-empty glass away, and attempted to focus on the page in front of me.

Ethan followed my sight line down to the picture, a drawing of the Lionheart Ring. “I’ve noticed you don’t wear a lot of jewelry, Montgomery. For a jewel thief.”

It was true. I used to wear my sister’s ring, but that hadn’t even been a real jewel. Ever since dealing with the deeper reasons I had worn Penny’s ring, since exorcising the demons that had haunted me over her death, my hands and wrists had gone unadorned.

I grasped at the new topic, however. Talking was good. If I kept talking, I might stop thinking about how close Ethan was sitting to me. “You’re right, I don’t. I guess I’m pretty particular about jewelry.”

“Ah, high standards. I see. Occupational hazard.”

I nodded. “The only thing I’d wear now—if I was going to wear any jewelry—would be a single ring. One perfect ring.” Now why had I said that? The champagne in the mimosas must have loosened my tongue.

He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “And what would make it perfect?”

“It’s funny, but the stone would look a lot like this,” I said, pointing at the picture of the Lionheart. “Well, not exactly, but close. Not a ruby, but a red diamond.”

“Why?”

Before I could stop myself, the words came bubbling out of me. “White diamonds are beautiful, but they’re somewhat . . . cold, you know? But a red diamond is different. It’s like fire. Not only is it the rarest color for diamonds, it’s pure passion.”

Ethan was quiet, simply listening.

“Penny’s ring was pink,” I continued. “That had suited her. She was sweet. But for me, I’d want red.”

“What about the rest of the ring?”

I replied automatically, describing the image in my head. “The stone would be cushion-cut with a white pavé halo and a platinum band. The white halo for the good in the world, the red diamond for the passion. A ring like that would symbolize everything about life, love, me, and the man I would want to marry. All in one perfect piece of jewelry.”

I suddenly stopped, realizing what I had just said. Things grew very awkward.

“Well, Montgomery, I truly hope you get your ring one day.”

Ethan’s face was unreadable.

F
or the next hour I silently chastised myself as the train moved farther into Europe, closer to Venice. How I wished I’d kept my mouth shut and stayed focused on the job, like the pro I was supposed to be. For the rest of the day’s journey, I was careful to steer clear of uncomfortable personal topics.

When it came time for supper, we opted to dine in our cabin. There was no need for any more witnesses to our faces than was strictly necessary. Outside, the skies were thickening, darkening quickly over the tiny stone villages we flew past.

The cabin was set up for dinner with a small table in the middle, and I sat on the long plush bench that would eventually double as one of the beds. Ethan sat across from me in a chair. As the white-jacketed waiter laid the sumptuous meal in front of us, I felt a pang of guilt. How could I enjoy myself while Felix was a prisoner?

Ethan noticed my hesitation. “You have to keep up your strength, Montgomery. There’s nothing more we can do right now. We’re on our way. You need to eat.”

“And the wine?”

He shrugged, then smiled.

“Having a meal like this without a good bottle of wine would be a crime in itself. We have to draw the line on our misdeeds somewhere.”

I smiled in spite of myself. I picked up my glass, and after a heady sip, dove into a forkful of filet mignon that melted in my mouth.

At this point, we were traveling deep into continental Europe. The train was taking the Gotthard route through Switzerland, which meant we would soon be in Northern Italy. The skies were very dark now. After we finished eating I stared at the window, but all I could really see was my own reflection—my pale, worried face.

Ethan leaned forward and put a hand on my knee. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get him back. Felix will be fine.”

I looked into his concerned green eyes. I wanted to believe him. “It’s just—if someone else in my life gets hurt because of me . . . I don’t think I could stand it.”

He paused. “Who else has been hurt?”

I frowned and stared hard out the window again. He slid across to my side of the table, tucking in close to me on the bench. His voice grew gentle. “Montgomery, what happened? You can tell me.”

I exhaled a shaky breath. “My mother. She was shot.”

Ethan clenched his jaw. “
Shit.
Is she okay—”

“She is now.”

I told Ethan the whole story. When I finished, he said, “That’s awful. I can’t even imagine.” He paused. “But . . . you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“No, I don’t know that.”

“It was a random incident. If you were an investment banker, it would have happened all the same.”

“What about karma?”

He shrugged. “Not something I believe in.”

I looked at him in surprise. “I think people want to believe in karma,” he continued. “But the fact is . . . sometimes bad shit happens to good people. Sometimes good shit happens to bad people. There’s no justice. There’s no karma. And if there is—she doesn’t clock in to work every day.”

I thought about his words for a long while. “Is that how you live with yourself? You know, doing this kind of work?”

He took a sip of wine. “We all rationalize it in different ways. But yes, I sleep at night because I don’t believe in universal justice. If I want justice, I have to make it happen myself.”

I nodded. That was why he took this assignment. To help the NGO, Global Life.

“You know,” I said, “you’ve changed, Ethan Jones. When I first met you, the only person you cared about was yourself.”

He laughed. I liked his laugh. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.

“But there’s way more hero in there than you realized.” I poked his chest, and through the fine knit of his T-shirt I felt taut muscle under my finger. I probably lingered there a little too long.

“You sure about that?”

“Positive,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “Anyway, I always suspected you were a good guy, deep down. You’re just proving me right.” I arched an eyebrow and smiled smugly.

He groaned. “Oh, this is not good. You’re going to be impossible to live with now.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“What?”

“Me, being right about stuff.”

Ethan reached up and brushed my hair back away from my face. “I bet I will,” he said.

The edges of the train compartment grew blurry as I focused on Ethan’s face. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I wanted a clever comeback. But all I could think about was falling into those eyes. My gaze traced the chiseled edges of his face. His jaw, his mouth . . .

He reached his hand up again, but this time it curved around the back of my neck. My skin tingled where he touched me. It was cool in the cabin, but I was reaching a molten temperature.

Part of me wanted to resist. This was a bad idea. We needed to keep things professional. And yet, I couldn’t stop myself leaning toward him, drawn to his warmth like iron filings to a magnet.

Then we were kissing.

His hands moved up, his fingers entwining in my hair and pulling me closer. I melted under his touch and he pressed me back against the seat, kissing me more deeply.

Burning fire spread throughout my body. I stopped fighting it and gave in altogether. We were alone. We had all night here. There was nobody to interrupt us.

I reached up and began tugging at his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine. He pulled back from me, for a moment, like he was sizing up my intentions, making sure I knew what I was doing. In that instant, I yanked his shirt right up and over his head, and threw it to the side.

His face registered surprise, briefly, and then he gave a wicked grin that made everything inside me turn to complete jelly. “Naughty girl,” he said, now hovering over me, bare chested, hair tousled. “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?”

He took hold of my shirt and ripped it off, revealing the black lace bra I wore underneath. He groaned and gently bit my lip. We tumbled backward to lie down on the bench and Ethan slid his body over mine. The length of him was deliciously heavy as he pressed into me. His hands traced up my sides, burning my skin under his touch.

And then, something changed. I realized the train was slowing down. We both sat straight up, alert. Something was wrong.

Were we coming to a stop? There was no reason for a scheduled stop at this point.

We quickly put our clothes back on, and Ethan curved his hands on the window, peering outside. “I can’t see a thing. We’re in the middle of the countryside.”

Within a minute the train had fully stopped. A tingle of warning traced up my neck. I long ago learned to take these hunches seriously.

Almost as fast as the train stopped, it was rolling again. I pulled on my shoes, crept out toward the cocktail car, and peeked through the door separating the cars. There, I saw two passport control officers making their way through the car, checking passports, heading in our direction.

I squeezed out of sight and crept back to our compartment. I yanked the door open as the train gave a small lurch. We were picking up speed quickly.

“We have to get off this train,” I said to Ethan.

He was in motion immediately. “They don’t usually bother with passport checks once you’re inside the EU, right?” he said, packing his bag.

“They still retain the right to make random spot checks.”

“Random, my ass.”

My thoughts exactly. This was Hendrickx’s doing.

We packed our stuff up in less than a minute. Now we just had the small problem of getting off a moving train.