Page 11 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)
S imon stood at the edge of the front lawn, waiting for Isla’s signal.
“Are you ready?” she whispered. At Simon’s right, Sam nodded enthusiastically. At his left, Isla smiled. “Very well. On the count of three.”
Simon listened as she counted down, marveling at how far she’d come under Martha’s tutelage. He was quite sure that if they’d been playing this game a fortnight ago, Isla would have used the word okay rather than very well . Now, however, the vocabulary he was familiar with flowed naturally from her.
Her counting ended, and in unison, he, Isla, and Sam chanted, “What time is it, Mr. Wolf?”
On the other end of the lawn, Will stood with his back to them.
“Six o’clock,” the little boy yelled without turning around.
Simon, Isla, and Sam took six steps toward him.
“Again,” Isla whispered.
“What time is it, Mr. Wolf?” they cried in chorus.
“Twelve o’clock!” Will yelled.
Simon grinned. Will was playing with fire. Simon’s stride was considerably longer than the others, and another twelve paces would have him within three arm lengths of the boy.
The trio took the obligatory twelve steps, then said again, “What time is it, Mr. Wolf?”
Will must have sensed that Simon was nearby, and he was ready. “Dinnertime!” the little boy cried, swinging around and lunging for Simon.
With a squeal of laughter, Isla and Sam ran for safety. Simon pivoted, darted right, and then slowed his steps just enough to give Will a chance to catch him. His nephew made a wily wolf, but he deserved a turn on the other side of the game Isla had taught them.
“I caught you, Uncle Simon!” Will lunged for Simon’s left leg and wrapped his arms around it.
“Ah!” Simon feigned distress. “I am the wolf’s dinner!”
Will giggled, and from the safety of the other side of the lawn, Isla’s and Sam’s laughter reached him.
“You’re it, Uncle Simon!” Sam called. “You’re the wolf now!”
Conceding defeat at Will’s hands, Simon took his place at the far side of the lawn, with his back to the others.
Moments later, the chant began again. “What time is it, Mr. Wolf?”
“Eight o’clock,” he replied, angling his head slightly so as to listen for the gentle swish of Isla’s skirts.
They repeated the chant three more times before Simon caught the rustle of fabric at his right. She was close, and when they asked the question again, he was ready.
“Dinnertime!” he called, swiveling around as the other three scattered.
Isla had lifted the front of her gown a couple of inches and was racing across the grass. She was unbelievably fast, but Simon was undeterred. Lengthening his stride, he tore after her, closing the gap between them in seconds. She spun on her heels, dashing right. Adjusting his direction, he followed after her. She turned her head to glance over her shoulder. The slight movement was enough to check her speed, and moments later, Simon’s arms were around her.
“Caught you!” he panted. “You, Miss Isla Crawford, are it!”
With winded laughter, she spun to face him. “Well raced, Lord Wolf.”
He laughed, his arms around her still. “If it weren’t for my longer stride, you would have beaten me across the lawn.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “I was close.”
She was close. To the edge of the lawn, certainly, but more to the point, she was pressed against him and had yet to pull away. His gaze dropped from her captivating eyes to her upturned mouth. Heaven help him. She surely had no idea how much he wished to touch the lock of hair that had fallen from her pins or run his fingers across her soft skin, or kiss her enticing lips. He took a steadying breath.
“Simon?” She lifted her arms to place her hands on his chest.
“A carriage is coming!” One of the boys called out a warning, and the other took it up.
“It’s black with two white horses.”
Sanity returned in a rush. Simon released Isla and took a step back. Confusion clouded her eyes.
“Are you o—” She caught herself. “Are you well?”
“Yes.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He could do better than this. He must do better than this. “I was obviously more winded than I thought, but I am well.”
“Come quickly.” Sam arrived at his side and grabbed his hand, towing him toward the drive. “Who do you think has come?”
In his present befuddled state, Simon would be hard-pressed to recognize his own stallion, let alone the horse and carriage belonging to one of Maidstone’s or Martha’s acquaintances.
“Their carriage is shinier than ours,” Will said, joining Sam.
It was, indeed. And the crest on the door was gleaming equally brightly in the autumn sunshine. Simon studied it uneasily as the vehicle followed the bend in the drive.
“Do you recognize it?” Isla stepped up beside him and watched the approaching vehicle curiously.
The carriage slowed, coming to a stop opposite Copfield Hall’s front doors. Hobbes immediately descended the steps and opened the carriage door. An exceptionally wide, yellow, silk skirt appeared in the opening, and as the young lady descended from the vehicle, awareness of who had come fell upon Simon in the form of a boulder in his stomach.
“It is the Whitelys’ carriage,” he said. “It appears that Lady Whitely and her daughter have come to visit Martha.”
“The Whitelys who live in the house we can just about see from the fallen tree?”
“Yes. Although their daughter is now married and no longer lives there.” He squared his shoulders. “She must be visiting whilst her husband awaits the opening of Parliament.”
“The daughter married a peer, then?”
“She married a duke.”
Vaguely aware that Isla was staring at him, Simon kept his attention on the two women now standing outside the carriage.
A little shorter and plumper than her daughter, Lady Whitely had changed very little since the last time he’d seen her. Neither had Lydia, he supposed, although her wardrobe was even more elegant today than it had been eight months ago. She was positively resplendent in her embroidered yellow gown. Her Medici collar was tall and trimmed with wide, stiff lace. A large, deep-red gemstone and a string of pearls hung from her neck, and her dark hair was ratted to perfection. She was, in fact, a picture of flawlessness.
Sam tugged on Simon’s jacket. “Uncle Simon?”
Shaking off his torpor, Simon gave his attention to the little boy. “Yes, Sam?”
“Can we play What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf, now? It’s Miss Crawford’s turn to be the wolf.”
“It may be time to end the game, Sam,” Isla said, answering before Simon voiced a reply. “But I would be happy to be the wolf when we play next.”
Sam’s face fell, but his twin was not willing to give up.
“One more time?” Will begged. “Miss Tomlinson has not yet come for us.”
Simon looked at Isla. “What do you think? Did that last run wear you out?”
“Not at all.” She lowered her voice slightly. “But if you wish to avoid an awkward reunion, you will need to act quickly.”
He raised an eyebrow. He would do well to remember that Isla was more preceptive than most. “Martha’s guests will wish to avoid that as much as I do.”
“I would not be so sure.”
Isla had scarcely finished speaking when Simon heard the crunch of gravel beneath approaching feet.
“Good afternoon, Lord Bancroft.”
Schooling his features, Simon turned to face Lady Whitely and Lydia. He bowed. “Lady Whitely. Your Grace. What an unexpected surprise.”
Lady Whitely looked rather too pleased with herself. Lydia, Simon was gratified to see, appeared more uncomfortable.
“Our thoughts precisely, my lord,” Lady Whitely said. “Neither Lydia nor I had any notion that you were currently at Copfield Hall.”
“I imagine my reason for being here is similar to that of the Duke and Duchess of Tunstow. A delayed opening of Parliament has doubtless impacted most members of the House of Lords.”
“But of course.” Lady Whitely’s haughty gaze slid over Isla, and Simon felt his hackles rise. Isla’s natural beauty was undeniable, but her windswept appearance and grass-stained hem was far removed from the ideal the Whitely ladies held.
“Please introduce us to your companions, Lord Bancroft.” It was the first time Lydia had spoken. He would know her voice anywhere, but whereas it had once filled him with pleasure, its overly sweet tone now left him irritated. She had no need to be presented to Sam and Will, but by adding them to her request, she had effectively lessened the importance of Isla’s introduction.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Lady Whitely, Your Grace, you will remember Master Samuel Winslow and Master William Winslow. Gentlemen, your mother’s guests, Lady Whitely and the Duchess of Tunstow.”
The little boys bowed politely.
“Goodness,” Lydia said. “They are quite grown up since last I saw them. I hardly recognize them.”
It did not escape Simon’s notice that Lydia talked about the boys, even though they stood before her, whereas Isla had spoken to them from their very first meeting. Of course, Lydia would never deign enter into a spinning-top competition or chase a five-year-old across a lawn either. The tension in Simon’s shoulders eased, and with unforeseen pleasure, he placed his hand gently on Isla’s elbow and drew her forward. “My lady, Your Grace, may I present Miss Isla Crawford.”
Isla dropped into an elegant curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady, Your Grace.”
“Crawford, you say.” Lady Whitely’s brow furrowed. “Where does your family hail from, exactly?”
“From the north, my lady,” Isla said. “Not far from York.”
The older lady sniffed. “Well, that would explain our lack of connections.”
“I have heard it can be very wild in that part of the country,” Lydia said.
“Some may consider it so,” Isla replied. “For myself, I am grateful to have an unspoiled place where I may go to escape the clamor of the city.” She paused. “I imagine you find the same to be true for Little Twinning.”
“There are few places so lovely.” Lady Whitely offered Lydia a knowing smile. “Except, perhaps, the grounds at Tunstow Castle.”
“Where is Tunstow Castle located, Your Grace?” Isla asked.
Lydia’s eyes widened with surprise. In truth, she had probably never met anyone who had never heard of her husband’s extensive property.
“It lies on the southern edge of Dartmoor,” she said.
“Ah, yes, of course.” Isla assumed a concerned expression. “I hope you have not suffered greatly from taking your outings over boggy soil and in misty weather? I visited the Dartmouth area once in the winter, and it was very bleak.”
Biting back a smile, Simon released Isla’s elbow. She had no need of his support. Her subtle jab at Lady Whitely’s prideful comment was masterfully done, and her language usage was faultless. He did not have to look at Martha’s neighbor to sense her displeasure. It simmered in the air between them. Lydia, however, appeared taken aback.
“I confess,” Lydia said. “I have been married only a few months, and so I have yet to spend a winter at the castle.”
“You have no need to fear the shorter days or colder weather, Lydia. The duke will take good care of you.” Lady Whitely’s chin rose a fraction. “An affluent husband is a great blessing.”
It seemed that the lady wished her barbs to penetrate more than Isla alone. Attempting to maintain a placid expression, Simon flexed his fingers. The movement would do little to alleviate his mounting headache, but it was a better way to release some of the pressure building in his chest than was speaking his mind to the woman who had likely held a great deal of sway in Lydia’s decision to choose a duke of significant means over a baron with modest holdings.
“That may be true,” Isla said, “but affluence is certainly not the greatest blessing to be offered a bride. I believe that honor is held by unconditional love, which includes faithfulness, decency, and sacrifice.”
In the stunned silence that followed, Isla’s fingertips brushed against Simon’s fist. Acting instinctively, he opened his hand and curved his fingers around hers.
“As you can see,” he said, “I have a great deal to live up to.”
Lydia gasped. Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you mean to say that you are betrothed?” Lady Whitely asked.
Isla’s fingers tightened around his, but Simon did not hesitate. “We are.”
“What is ‘betrothed’?” Sam said, his eyes wide.
Simon ruffled his hair affectionately. “Nothing either you or Will need to worry about for some time, young man.”
“Good,” Will said. “Can we play What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf, now?”
“Good heavens!” Lady Whitely said, although whether her exclamation was directed at the twins’ interruption, the news of his betrothal, or his and Isla’s willingness to entertain the boys, Simon could not tell.
Lydia had yet to lose her stunned expression, but Simon could not summon any feelings of regret. The sense of loss he had expected to feel upon setting eyes on her again had never materialized, and the dread over their first meeting was gone. So, too, were the remnants of bitterness and hurt that had plagued him for months. With genuine relief, he inclined his head to both ladies.
“If you would excuse us, ladies, Miss Crawford and I have a prior engagement with my nephews. Enjoy your time at Copfield Hall. I have no doubt Lady Maidstone will be anxious to hear all your news.”
And then, before Lady Whitely could find her tongue, he led Isla back across the lawn to the sound of Sam’s and Will’s whoops of delight.
Finally. Isla leaned back in her chair and studied the piece of paper on the writing desk before her. It was free of ink splotches, the lines were straight, the spacing even, and the words legible. Relief mingled with accomplishment, and she allowed herself a grateful smile. Her penmanship was nowhere near as elegant as Martha’s, but this was her best work to date, and it might just be good enough.
Setting down her quill beside the two others she’d worn through, Isla rose to her feet and stretched. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been working on the letter. Long enough for the sun to lower in the sky and for her back to ache from being hunched over the small table.
She’d heard Lady Whitely’s carriage roll down the drive some time ago but had opted to remain in her room rather than relocate downstairs. Martha’s forethought in placing paper, ink, and quills at the writing desk in Isla’s bedchamber, along with the one in the parlor, where she usually practiced, had been a blessing. Isla would have resorted to staring at the walls in her room rather than enter the parlor before Lady Whitely and the Duchess of Tunstow had left. As it was, she’d made significant progress and was excited to share it.
Moving over to the small wash basin on the other side of the room, Isla picked up the piece of lye soap and rubbed it across her ink-stained fingers. She winced at the now-familiar zing. The caustic bar was as likely to take off a layer of skin as it was to remove the black marks. She should add moisturizing soap to the list of twenty-first-century advancements she shared with Simon.
For the first time since they’d parted at the nursery door, Isla allowed her thoughts to settle on the gentleman. They’d played two more rounds of What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf, before Miss Tomlinson had come for the boys, and at no time during the game or the walk back into the house had she or Simon brought up their interactions with Lady Whitely or her daughter. It had to have been difficult for him to see Lydia again. Truth be told, it had been surprisingly unpleasant for Isla too. Lady Whitely was waspish, and Lydia was stunningly beautiful. The latter detail should not have bothered Isla so much, but feeling like a rag doll standing beside a porcelain doll hadn’t been the most enjoyable experience.
Isla rinsed her reddened fingers and dried them off on a small towel. She hadn’t expected Simon to take her hand in front of Martha’s visitors. Or to announce their betrothal. Perhaps both things had been a defense mechanism after all the unkind darts Lady Whitely had thrown their way. Or maybe he’d thought it better for word to get out that they were betrothed before they arrived in London. There was no doubt that Lady Whitely would take great pleasure in being the one to spread that news.
Isla sighed. The snarky noblewoman would probably include something about Isla’s untamed appearance being a fitting match for her remote northern background.
Setting down the towel, she opened the nearby wardrobe. With a handful of Martha’s altered old gowns to choose from, Isla couldn’t have hoped to outshine Lydia’s appearance this afternoon, but she could at least make some effort to clean up for dinner. She may not be able to help Simon through the aftermath of another broken betrothal, but when he’d taken her hand today, Isla had made herself a promise that she would do everything in her power to make the time they were together a good memory rather than another painful one.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Isla called.
The door opened, and Maggie appeared. “Good evenin’, miss,” she said, bobbing a small curtsy. “I’ve just come from Lady Maidstone’s chambers an’ wondered if you were needin’ any assistance afore you go down t’ dinner.”
“Oh, Maggie, you are an answer to an unuttered prayer. If you can make my wind-snarled hair presentable, I’d be most grateful.”
The maid smiled. “I can ’ave it lookin’ lovely in no time at all.”
Maggie was as good as her word. Less than half an hour later, Isla descended the stairs holding the letter she’d penned and wearing a royal-blue Jacobean gown with white lace and an elaborate updo.
Feeling unaccountably nervous, she approached the door to the dining room. Martha’s voice reached her from within. Was she the last person to arrive? Crossing the threshold, she looked around the wood-paneled room. The table was set for four, but Martha and Lord Maidstone were standing beside the fireplace, goblets in hand, obviously waiting for their guests.
“Good evening, Miss Crawford.” Lord Maidstone inclined his head. He had yet to call her by her first name, and Isla felt strangely reluctant to forgo addressing him by his title.
“Good evening, my lord. Martha. I hope I am not terribly late.”
“Not at all,” Martha said. “As you can see, you have arrived ahead of Simon.”
“But, thankfully, only just.” Simon’s voice reached them from the doorway. “I beg your pardon, Martha,” he said as he entered the room. “I took Blaze out again this afternoon and lost track of time.”
Isla’s heart sank. A second long ride after having spent a considerable amount of time with the twins meant that Simon’s interaction with Lady Whitely and Lydia must have affected him far more deeply than he’d let on.
“It must have been an enjoyable ride,” Lord Maidstone said.
“Indeed.” Simon did not elaborate. Instead, as though anxious to change the course of the conversation, he turned to Isla and pointed to the paper in her hand. “What do you have there?”
“Oh!” Isla held it out. “My latest attempt at a letter for Lord Monteagle.”
His eyes widened. “May I read it?”
“Please do,” she said. “I brought it to dinner so that each of you could offer me your feedback.” His brows drew together in a look that was all too familiar. Mentally replaying the vocabulary she’d used, she hurriedly offered an alternative for the problem word. “I mean, your assessment.”
Simon studied the paper. “The improvement in your penmanship is remarkable,” he said. “Well done.”
A glow, warm and bright, filled her chest. “Thank you. But it’s Martha who deserves the praise, not me.”
“Nonsense,” Martha said. “I have lost track of the number of hours you’ve devoted to this project.”
“Read it out loud, would you, Bancroft?” Lord Maidstone said.
“Of course.” Simon cleared his throat.
My Lord, I have a care for your preservation; therefore, I would advise you to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at the opening of this Parliament. God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time, and you would be best served to retire to the country, where you may later learn of the events to come. For though there shall be no appearance of any stir, Parliament shall receive a terrible blow, and none shall see who hurts them. May God give you the grace to make good use of this warning.
He ended his reading and slowly lowered the letter.
“Merciful heavens!” Lord Maidstone breathed.
Simon stared at her. “Isla, this is a masterpiece!”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.” He glanced at the paper again. “How did you manage to articulate the warning so perfectly?”
“One of my political science reference books included the text of what was believed to be in the letter Lord Monteagle received. I’ve spent the last few nights desperately trying to remember what it said.”
Simon shook his head slightly. “Your memory is truly extraordinary.”
“May I?” Martha reached for the letter, and Simon relinquished it. She read it and then handed it to her husband. “I believe this is exactly what we need. Would you seal it and keep it safe until we attend Lord Monteagle’s dinner?”
“I shall take it directly to my office,” he said. “Have the staff bring in the first course. I shall return momentarily.”
He disappeared through the door, and Martha moved to take her seat at the table. “Lady Whitely was agog with the news of your betrothal this afternoon,” she said. “I confess, I had not expected that to be her first and most pressing topic of conversation upon entering the parlor.” She eyed Simon with a hint of concern. “It was unfortunate that you happened to be outside when she and the duchess arrived. I hope your meeting was not horribly uncomfortable.”
“It was sufficiently uncomfortable that I was glad when Sam and Will drew us back to our game,” he said. “But I would contend that Isla and I came through the experience remarkably unscathed.”
“Did you speak with the ladies, Isla?” Martha asked.
“I did.” Isla caught the twitch in Simon’s lips. Was he remembering Lady Whitely’s poorly veiled insult about her wild background, or was he mildly amused at her less-than-subtle retort about Dartmoor’s misty bogs?
“Well, you must have fared well under their scrutiny,” Martha said. “If Lady Whitely had had any suspicion that you were not exactly who you said you were, she would never have ceased her hounding.”
“Isla managed the situation perfectly,” Simon said. “And it is probably for the best that word of our betrothal reaches London ahead of us.”
“Will it?” Isla asked. How did people spread news that fast without mobile phones or email?
“If you remember,” Simon said, “we are speaking of Lady Whitely. Her love of gossip is surpassed only by her penchant for arrogance. I cannot tell you how it will be done, only that it shall be.”
“Really, Simon.” Martha’s tone held reproof, but Simon chose to ignore it, setting his sights instead on the footman entering the room with a steaming platter in his hands.
Lord Maidstone followed immediately behind the servant, and as the nobleman took his place at the head of the table, Isla leaned a little closer to Simon. “Is there braised eel on the menu this evening?” she whispered.
“I have not heard.” He raised his goblet and gave her a knowing look. “But if there is, my answer is yes.”
Isla smothered a smile. Maybe Simon’s long ride actually had helped erase any angst he may have felt over seeing Lydia again. If he was willing to eat a double helping of braised eel, at least the experience wasn’t affecting his appetite.