Page 12 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)
G uy guided his mount into the stables attached to the Bell Inn in Daventry, grateful to be out of the drizzling rain at last. The deepening darkness of evening had dropped the temperature, making his sodden state all the more miserable. If Catsby had not reserved a room with a roaring fire, they would be relocating forthwith.
“Give her a good rubdown,” he told the stableboy, who appeared out of the gloom. “It has been a long, wet ride.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy took the reins and led the horse to a nearby stall. “I’ll see t’ ’er right away.”
“Very good.” Guy hesitated. He avoided sharing his plans with anyone unless absolutely necessary, but the lad had best be told that he would not be staying long. “I shall return within the hour. My horse must be ready.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated.
The lad likely thought him mad to be going back out in such inclement weather, but he would not stay here. Not if other members of the conspiracy had rented rooms. He would find another inn. One closer to London and the safety of his well-established position as Percy’s manservant. Besides, the sooner he reached the city, the sooner he could check on the gunpowder.
Opening the stable door, he lowered his head against the rain and cut across the small yard to the inn’s back door. Once inside, he assessed the passage beyond. Empty. Although, if the voices and laughter coming from the front room were any indication, the inn was busy tonight. Turning his back on the sounds of merrymaking, he took the narrow staircase to the upper floor. At the top, he stopped, listening. No voices. No footsteps. Catsby’s letter, which had arrived mere hours before Guy had departed his mother’s home, had given him a time and a very specific location: third door on the right, upper floor, Bell Inn, Daventry. Cautiously, Guy moved down the passage. When he reached the third door on the right, he knocked. Two taps, a pause, two taps. Seconds later, the pattern was echoed on the other side of the door. It was safe to enter.
Guy walked into the room and closed the door behind him. Four gentlemen sat around the fire: Wintour, Bates, Catsby, and Kit Wright. A fifth gentleman, Jack Wright, stood beside the door. He had obviously been assigned to give the all-clear knock.
“Welcome, Fawkes,” Catsby said, rising to greet him. “We wondered if you were coming.”
“Daventry is a considerable distance from York,” Guy said, removing his hat and shaking off the water before doing the same with his cloak. “And traveling on horseback in this weather is less than ideal.”
“You would have been better served to take a coach.” Catsby pointed to a row of hooks on the wall, where the other gentlemen had hung their outerwear.
Tamping down his irritation, Guy hung his cloak and hat on the farthest peg. Catsby’s comment deserved no response. The fellow knew full well that Guy did not own a carriage. Traveling by stagecoach would have exposed his journey to far too many witnesses and would have taken him twice as long. “I am here now,” he said, claiming a stool close to the fire. “But I am not of a mind to stay long. What is the reason for this gathering? I assume you have news of some import.”
“We are in need of money,” Catsby said bluntly. “Percy has paid no rent on the property across from the Palace of Westminster, and Ferrers is hounding him for payment. We cannot afford such attention.”
“I will see that he is paid,” Guy said. One payment was all that would be needed before he left the country.
“That is not all,” Catsby continued. “The captain of the ship scheduled to take you to Spain after the gunpowder blows is requiring advanced payment for his services. The extra horses Rookwood acquired for those of us who must ride north to reach Lady Elizabeth and Duke Charles must be purchased.” He paused, likely knowing that he had already made his point. “I have approached my cousin, Francis Tresham. He has taken the oath of secrecy and is willing to assist us. Not only is he a friend to the Catholic cause, but he is also in possession of a fortune in land and coin.”
“He is also known to be unpredictable and untrustworthy,” Wintour said, the scowl on his face expressing his displeasure as unmistakably as his verbal censure.
“He has vowed to help us,” Catsby said.
“And you believe him?” Kit Wright’s voice held a concerning level of skepticism.
“He is my cousin, and he gave me his word.”
“Tell me more about this fellow,” Guy said. His decade on the continent had proved advantageous in preparing him for this assignment, but it had left him without vital connections in Society or a working knowledge of those who wielded significant influence among England’s nobility.
“He was imprisoned for assaulting a man and his expectant daughter,” Kit growled.
Catsby waved the accusation away with a flick of his hand. “They owed Tresham money, and he went after it.” His eyes hardened. “Perhaps you also remember that he was imprisoned for his participation in the Essex rebellion. That, amongst other things, should prove his dedication to the Catholic church. For a gentleman of his position to openly oppose the Protestant queen took courage and devotion.”
“He did not die for the cause, nor stay incarcerated for long,” Jack Wright argued.
“For which we should all be thankful,” Catsby said. “Had either of those things happened, he would not have been in a position to now aid us in bringing an end to our devilish government and king.”
Catsby’s final argument was impossible to refute, and he appeared to know it. Reaching for one of the flagons of ale on a nearby table, he poured some into a goblet and handed it to Guy. After refilling his own goblet, Catsby offered the flagon to Bates. Catsby’s longtime servant topped off the goblet of each of the gentlemen in the room, and when he set the flagon back on the table, Catsby raised his cup. “To the unqualified success of the gunpowder plot,” he said.
“To the gunpowder plot.” The chorus of male voices, though low, brimmed with passion and conviction.
Guy took a swig of the pungent drink, the desire to see the successful culmination of their plans burning within him. The scheme had taken overly long to reach fruition. If Tresham’s money ensured speedy and efficacious results, he would not fault Catsby for bringing him into their circle. Guy may never meet the gentleman himself. And that was just as well. Even now, he itched to be gone from this gathering and on his way to London. He would remain in this private room long enough to eat a hot meal and catch up on any updates these gentlemen had to share, but that was all. The rainy weather notwithstanding, he would linger no longer.
Three days of rain had left the road to London pitted with puddles. Mud coated the wheels of the Maidstones’ carriage, causing the vehicle to occasionally slide in a rather alarming manner. Isla sat on one side of the carriage, across from Martha and Maggie, but although they were protected from the damp, chilly weather, it was proving to be the most uncomfortable ride Isla had ever experienced.
The carriage rolled over another rut in the road, and Isla lurched right, hitting her elbow on the side of the vehicle. She winced from the instant pain, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, she wished that she could have made this journey in the comfort of a twenty-first-century car. Attempting to ignore her throbbing her arm, she wiped the fog off the window and peered outside. The glass was slightly opaque, and twilight was falling, but she could just make out the forms of Lord Maidstone and Simon riding their horses alongside the vehicle.
The greenery that had been their backdrop for most of the journey had disappeared. Buildings now lined their path. Dogs barked. The babel of voices coming from the crowded, narrow street was muted inside the carriage, but Isla could hear the louder cries of those hawking their wares on the street corners. Oysters, pies, and chestnuts. Isla’s unsettled stomach rebelled at the thought.
“Are we getting close to our final destination?” she asked. Standing upright in some fresh air was the only thing that might save her.
Martha took her turn peering out through the rudimentary glass. “Once we have crossed London Bridge, it will not take long to reach the house.”
London Bridge in 1605. It had been the only bridge across the Thames, and the tall, timbered structures that lined it had served as kindling when the Great Fire had swept through the city six decades later. Isla wiped at the window again, hoping for a better view. Lord Maidstone and Simon must have moved ahead of the carriage because the road was even narrower now, barely wide enough for the carriage to pass by. The buildings pressed in on them, leaving little room for sunshine or fresh air. Isla could smell the chimney smoke even though the carriage was enclosed. Perhaps it was smog obscuring her view.
“I do not like bringing the boys to London,” Martha said. “They are curious and eager to see the sights, but the chaos, the squalor, and the stench ...” She shook her head. “If I am able, I shall spare them from experiencing those things a little longer.”
“I understand,” Isla said. “Though it must be difficult to be apart for so long.”
“It is.” Martha managed a brave smile. Along with missing her sons, she was probably feeling the negative effects of the juddering ride too. “But they will be well cared for at Copfield Hall, and we have important work to do here.”
Isla’s queasy stomach did a slow roll. The closer they’d come to London, the harder it had become to ignore the primary purpose of their journey. Lord Monteagle’s dinner was tomorrow night. A full eight days before the opening of Parliament. With the twins far away, Simon had better come up with a good alternate diversion for the meantime, or she was going to go crazy.
She closed her eyes and pictured the boys as she’d last seen them, playing with their tops in the nursery. It had been hard to say goodbye, not knowing exactly what her future held. But no matter what happened to her, they would have their parents and Simon. Protecting them—and the hundreds of other people who would be in the vicinity of the House of Lords on November 5—had to be her focus.
Their progress was slower now. The carriage stopped occasionally, only to jerk forward again a few moments later. With the oncoming darkness, it seemed as though the congestion on the roads might clear. The lack of street lights probably made for an early night for merchants and shoppers alike. Occasionally, Isla spotted a candle flickering in the window of a building. It should have been a comforting sight, but as the shadows deepened, she found herself growing more and more uneasy at the strangeness of it all.
At last, the carriage came to a stop outside a tall building. Large timbers framed the house, and each of the windows on the upper level glowed warmly with candlelight.
Martha gave a heartfelt sigh of relief.
“We’ve arrived?” Isla guessed.
“Thankfully, yes.” She smiled. “Welcome to Maidstone House.”
Before Isla could respond, the door to the carriage opened, and Lord Maidstone appeared. He extended an arm toward his wife.
“It appears that the servants are ready for us, my dear.”
Martha took his hand and eased herself out. “Thank goodness for that. Let us hope there is a warm fire burning in every room.”
Isla waited for Martha to exit and then shuffled along the bench toward the opening. She had just reached the doorway when Simon materialized out of the darkness.
“May I assist you?” he asked, offering her his hand.
Moving slowly and stiffly, she accepted his help. “Thank you.”
Once she was standing, he studied her with a concerned expression. “How are you faring?”
“A bit rocky.” She took a hesitant step forward. Remarkably, her legs cooperated.
“Which is more similar to a rock? Your limbs or your stomach?” he asked.
She grimaced. “Neither. They’re both like a wobbly jellyfish.”
“I fear that long carriage rides are not for the faint of heart—or stomach.”
“You should have warned me. I might have persuaded Martha to let me ride Belle.”
“Had you managed that remarkable feat, you would assuredly be extremely saddle sore and significantly chilled.”
He was right. But if they’d been riding together and talking like they’d done at Copfield Hall, he might have been able to ease her burgeoning worries.
“I should probably go in,” she said. “Martha will be wondering what’s become of me.”
“Undoubtedly.” He didn’t move. “Isla?” She sensed his scrutiny. “Is there something more than physical discomfort ailing you?”
“We’re in London, Simon.” Her voice caught, and she lowered it to a whisper. “And it’s a little over a week until November 5.”
He had yet to release her hand, and now his fingers tightened around hers. “True, but remember, you are not facing any of the things that lie ahead alone.”
“I know. And I’m grateful. It’s just that ...” She faltered. “The outcome is so important.”
“It is.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “And you shall manage it. We all shall.”
She could barely put one foot in front of the other, and now her fingers were tingling as though she’d received an electric shock, but she nodded.
“Okay?” His teeth gleamed in the darkness, and she knew he was smiling.
“Okay,” she repeated. “And that will have to be the last modern word I use until this madness is over.”
His smile disappeared, and he released her hand to grasp her elbow. “Come,” he said. “I shall walk you to the door.”
“There you are, Isla.” Martha appeared, silhouetted in the faint light coming from inside the house. “Come in out of the cold.” She turned to Simon. “I assume you plan to ride with us to Lord Monteagle’s gathering tomorrow?”
Isla knew a moment of panic. Simon was leaving. She’d known he would be staying at his own lodgings, but she didn’t want him going there now. Something was off, and she didn’t want to part like this. In a matter of seconds, he’d gone from treating her as though he really cared to being all business.
“I think that would be best,” he said, responding to Martha’s question. “When would you like me to be here?”
“Isla and I shall be busy all day,” Martha said. “We have a great deal to do and much to review before the dinner. I imagine six o’clock will suit.”
As much as Isla liked Martha, a day full of lessons on social protocols sounded awful. She touched Simon’s arm. “Please come early,” she whispered.
He gave no indication that he’d heard her, but after offering them both a polite nod, he moved to stand beside his horse. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, mounting in one graceful movement. “I shall aim to be here by five o’clock.”
Isla’s relief and accompanying smile was instant, but Simon was already wheeling Blaze around and probably didn’t see it.
Thin slivers of sunlight traced lines upon the wooden floor in Simon’s bedchamber. He rolled over, the mattress beneath him rustling noisily. It was a new day, and outside, Londoners were going about their business. The pie man who stood on the nearby corner every morning was in fine fettle, his insistent voice cutting over the sounds of wagon wheels, barking dogs, and the thud of shutters and doors opening and closing.
Simon groaned. He’d been gone from Copfield Hall for less than a day, and already, he missed the tranquil mornings, his invigorating gallops across the countryside, and the anticipation of seeing Isla waiting for him outside the stables. Mostly, he missed Isla. And that was a highly disconcerting realization. Particularly after her poignant reminder last night that she considered her present situation to be madness.
It had taken him under ten minutes to traverse the short distance from Maidstone House to his rented rooms a few streets north of the Strand. Not long by any means but just enough time to reclaim his equilibrium after he’d so manifestly lost his footing. He’d sensed Isla’s distress when she’d exited the carriage. The depth of his desire to relieve her of her discomfort had taken him by surprise. Holding her hand, kissing her hand—they had been instinctive. Token attempts at comforting her. Thankfully, she would never know how tempted he’d been to draw her into his arms and kiss her lips instead.
No matter Martha’s plans for the day, if Belle were stabled with Blaze, he’d be tempted to invite Isla to go out with him this morning. Simply to calm her nerves. Unfortunately, betrothed or not, such an outing would go against every act of decorum Martha was trying to instill in Isla. It was one thing for Isla to join him on a leisurely amble across a pasture; it was quite another to ride side by side through the streets of London. If the stablehands had wished to watch them, he and Isla would have been within their sights all the way to the log and back. Such was not the case on the meandering city streets, however. And if Lady Whitely and her ilk caught sight of them without a chaperone, they would fuel London gossip for weeks.
The easy solution, of course, was the inclusion of a chaperone. But the presence of anyone other than Martha or Maidstone would prevent them from speaking of the true reason they were in London, and any reassurance Simon might have offered Isla ahead of the dinner would be severely diminished. As much as he wished it were different, it would be better for Isla if he kept his distance today and allowed her to focus on her preparation.
Climbing out of bed, Simon walked to the window. He drew back a portion of the curtain and pushed open the shutter. The outside noise instantly increased in volume.
“Pies! All ’ot! Eel, beef, and mutton pies! Penny pies! All ’ot!” The pie man on the corner appeared to be doing a good business already.
Simon dropped the curtain back into place and crossed to the chair where he’d set his breeches and jacket. Following a familiar routine may be the only way to survive the next few hours. His manservant, Anson, had arrived at his lodgings before him and had unloaded his trunk and set the place to rights. Indeed, everything was exactly as it should be. Anson could not be blamed if the sense of peace and homecoming that Simon was accustomed to experiencing upon returning had been replaced by a feeling of loneliness.
He’d send Anson out for a pie, and once Simon had eaten, he would take Blaze for a ride. Lack of fresh air and rolling hills notwithstanding, a long ride was exactly what he needed to take his mind off this evening’s critical events and the young lady at the center of them all.