Page 13 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

T here now.” Maggie stepped aside to allow Isla a clear view of herself in the mirror.

Isla gazed at her reflection. She scarcely recognized the person staring back at her. Gone was the smartly-dressed government employee she usually saw there. The casually attired twenty-four-year-old she occasionally saw on a Saturday was also missing. In their place was a young woman who belonged in an oil painting at the National Gallery.

“You have worked wonders, Maggie.”

Maggie smiled. “The gown looks lovely on you, miss.”

The pale-blue skirt and waistcoat were covered with white embroidered flowers. A wheel-shaped farthingale held the skirt in a wide dome and was topped with a ruffle of extra fabric. Narrow sleeves ended a couple of inches above her wrists, and a tall Medici collar encircled the back of her neck. Her neckline in front was lined with lace and white ribbon rosettes, and her hair was piled high over cloth pads that the maid had placed on top of her head. Teased and braided, her hair was studded with tiny pearls that sparkled in the candlelight.

“You are kind to say so, but I think your workmanship would look beautiful on anyone.”

Maggie’s cheeks flushed at the praise. “Thank you, miss.”

“And you even managed to insert a pocket for me.” Isla ran her right hand down the skirt’s side seam. The many layers of fabric hid the narrow opening where Maggie had attached a hidden but marvelously deep pocket.

“Ever so clever, it is. I’d never ’eard of such a thing afore, but I’m of ’alf a mind t’ put them into every skirt I make from now on.”

Isla smiled. “If you did, I believe you would win over every lady who was fortunate enough to wear something you made. Where I’m from, ladies are always wanting pockets in their clothing.”

There was a light knock on the door. Moments later, a manservant walked in. He bowed.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Crawford,” he said. “Lord Bancroft asked that I inform you that he has arrived.”

Isla’s pulse tripped. Her thoughts had turned to Simon more often than she cared to admit today. Martha had kept her busy from the moment she’d first emerged from her bedchamber, but without her morning ride and conversation with Simon, nothing about the day had seemed quite right.

Running her fingers down her skirt’s heavy fabric, she took one last look in the mirror. She, Martha, and Maggie had done all they could to prepare for this evening. She was dressed for the part. The time had come to act it.

Emulating Martha’s polite incline of the head, she acknowledged the servant with a small smile. “Please tell His Lordship that I will join him shortly.”

“Very good, miss.” The servant bowed a second time and slipped out of the room.

Maggie gathered up the few ribbons and pins remaining on the nearby table. “If you ’ave no further need o’ me, miss, I’d best see if there’s anything more I can do for ’Er Ladyship.”

“Yes, please do,” Isla said. “Thank you for all your help, Maggie. I’m very grateful.”

Martha’s lady’s maid bobbed a curtsy. “My pleasure, miss.”

Maggie exited the room, and Isla eyed the narrow doorway uneasily. Over the last few weeks, she had become used to wearing the farthingale Mrs. McQuivey had given her. The one she was now wearing, however, was significantly wider. It might have been wise to add practicing sitting and navigating doorways in excessively wide skirts to the many things Martha had reviewed today. Pressing down on the billowing fabric, Isla shimmied through the narrow opening. Her skirts brushed the doorframe, but the farthingale shifted to allow her through. Grateful to have that minor obstacle behind her, she hurried down the poorly lit passage to the stairs that led to the ground floor.

The wooden stairs creaked as she descended, but as far as Isla could tell, the sound forewarned no one of her arrival. The small entryway at the base of the stairs was empty. She paused, listening. Male voices reached her from the nearby parlor. She moved toward the half-open door, stopping when she was close enough to see inside. Simon was standing with his back to her, talking to Lord Maidstone. Both gentlemen were elegantly dressed, Simon in maroon with gold trim and Lord Maidstone in black with silver and red embellishments. Each wore a white ruff collar and hose.

“Did Monteagle give you any indication as to who else has been invited to this dinner party?” Simon asked.

“None,” Lord Maidstone said. “Miss Crawford was unable to recall any details regarding the size of the gathering, so even the numbers are unknown at this point.”

Isla winced. Truth be told, almost everything about this evening was unknown. Including whether or not she would need to orchestrate the delivery of her letter. Wishing she could roll some of the tension out of her shoulders but knowing that her stays and fitted bodice made such movement almost impossible, she gathered her courage and entered the room with a swish of her skirts.

“Good evening,” she said.

Simon swung around. His mouth opened, but whatever response he had intended to give appeared to die on his tongue. Snapping his mouth closed again, he stared at her.

“Miss Crawford.” Lord Maidstone inclined his head. “You look most elegant this evening.”

Lord Maidstone’s comment seemed to rouse Simon from his stupor. “Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “You are truly stunning, Isla.”

“Thank you.” His compliment brought an unexpected rush of pleasure. “Martha and Maggie deserve all the credit.”

“Nonsense.” Martha swept into the room behind her, a vision in lavender and lace. “I grant you that Maggie is a marvel with a needle, but I know of few young ladies who could model her creations so well.”

If the warmth in Isla’s face was any indication, over the last couple of seconds, she had gone from pleasantly pink to red as a beetroot. It was time to deflect everyone’s attention. Lowering her head, she fumbled for the hidden opening in her skirt. “Allow me to show you just how talented Maggie is,” she said. “I told her I needed a pocket large enough to contain a letter, and she sewed one into the seam.” Isla’s fingers found the opening, and she turned slightly so as to show the gentlemen. “You see? A protected fold of fabric in which I can hide the letter to Lord Monteagle, and no one will know it is there. Nothing in my hands and no purse at my waist.”

Simon stepped forward. “You call it a ‘pocket’?”

“Yes.” She tucked her hand inside. “Pockets hidden in garments are another wonder of future clothing.”

“Ah! This is the innovation I would have learned about had we taken a morning ride today.”

Isla smiled. “Yes.”

“Do you have the letter, Hugh?” Martha asked.

“I do.” Lord Maidstone crossed to the fireplace and removed a folded paper from behind a candlestick. “It is sealed and ready for Monteagle.”

“Will it fit in that small cavity in Isla’s skirt?” Martha asked.

Lord Maidstone handed it to Isla. Under everyone’s watchful eyes, Isla slid it into the pocket and then turned to show them that it had disappeared.

“Remarkable,” Lord Maidstone said.

Martha clapped her hands. “That is perfect. Now, before we leave, we must devise a plan for the evening.”

Simon leaned a little closer to Isla. “Has she been issuing commands all day?” he whispered.

Isla shook her head. “She’s been marvelous. Without her, I may not have been brave enough to rise from my bed.” She met his eyes. “I missed our morning ride.”

His expression softened. “As did I.”

Isla pressed her hand to her bodice, wishing the fluttering internal butterflies away. No matter how much she enjoyed being with Simon or how handsome he looked this evening, she needed to remember that their time together was limited. Like Lord Maidstone and Martha, he was attending Lord Monteagle’s dinner for the greater cause.

“Isla,” Martha said, “would you tell us what you recall about this evening’s events once more?”

“Of course.” Isla pushed aside her muddled thoughts to focus on those few details. “When one of Lord Monteagle’s servants leaves the house to take some air, he will be handed a letter by a stranger. The stranger will request that he take it to his master immediately. Lord Monteagle will be at the table, his hands sticky, and so he will request that the servant read the missive aloud. All in attendance will hear, and its contents will fuel a discussion that ultimately leads Lord Monteagle to take the note to Cecil.”

“How long should we wait before we act?” Lord Maidstone asked.

Martha appeared thoughtful. “I would surmise that the Monteagles will serve at least six courses. If the servant has not produced a letter by the end of the fourth course, I believe it would be wise to delay no longer.”

“I shall escape the room to deliver the letter,” Simon said.

“You cannot, Simon,” Isla said. “None of you can. It has to be me. I am the only one who would be a stranger to the servant.”

“You will not be a stranger if he sees you enter the house to attend the party,” he said.

“Do you have an old cloak I may borrow, Lord Maidstone?” she asked.

“Why, yes,” the gentleman responded, clearly startled at the sudden change in topic. “Although, I fear it will be far too large.”

“All the better,” Isla said. “If we take an extra cloak and hide it somewhere near the door, I can don it upon exiting. An oversized hood will hide my face, and I can also draw heavily on my Yorkshire accent when called upon to speak.” After a few sleepless nights, it was the best idea she’d come up with.

“How do you hope to explain leaving the table?” Simon asked.

“I will remain as quiet and inconspicuous as possible during the meal. It is quite possible that I shall leave and return without anyone noticing.”

“Dressed as you are this evening,” Simon said, “that is highly improbable. The eyes of every gentleman in the room will be upon you from the moment you walk in.”

Isla experienced a moment of panic. She hoped he was joking. “I am attending as your betrothed. As far as everyone else knows, I am spoken for, and no one need engage me in conversation.”

Simon ran his fingers through his hair, appearing unconvinced. “A pleasant thought, to be sure, but unlikely to occur.”

“Even if Isla’s absence is noted,” Martha said, “no one would suspect Lord Bancroft’s betrothed of being outside in the dark on her own.”

“For the simple reason that she should not be,” Simon muttered.

Isla attempted a reassuring smile. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“The dark is not what worries me,” he said.

“Come, now, Bancroft,” Lord Maidstone said. “Monteagle lives in an affluent area of town. Footpads will not be lurking at his doorway.” He must have taken Simon’s lack of disagreement as a good sign because he continued. “It may be that the all-important letter arrives without our involvement. We shall hope for that. But if not, I believe it must be Miss Crawford who delivers it.”

Simon glared at his brother-in-law. “Why would you send a young lady on an errand such as that?”

“Because I agree that she is the only one of us who can manage it. With political unease and distrust rampant amongst our peers, neither you nor I could leave the table only to return moments before or after the reading of the letter without arousing the suspicion of all.”

Simon’s jaw tightened, his expression grim. “But Isla is—”

“An extraordinarily resourceful young lady,” Martha supplied. “Look at how much she has overcome and accomplished since she arrived.” She stepped closer and placed a comforting hand on Simon’s arm. “I appreciate your wish to spare her, but if we are right, she was sent here for a reason. For this reason. It is her role to fulfill.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“We assist her,” Martha said.

“How?”

“We will all need to do what we can to deflect attention away from her—and her absence.”

“And what of her safety when she is gone from us?” Simon asked.

“If she has not reappeared by the time the servants bring in the last course, one of us shall go after her,” Lord Maidstone said.

“Can you manage the assignment in that amount of time, Isla?” Martha asked.

It was an impossible question to answer.

“That is my hope,” Isla said.

Simon’s concerned eyes met hers. “You are sure of this?”

Sure that she could manage it? Not at all. Sure that she must be the one to try? Absolutely. “Yes,” she said.

“Very well.” His verbal agreement notwithstanding, he had yet to relax his stance. “What more need we discuss?”

“Nothing,” Martha said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Isla is ready. Not only does she look the part, but she has not used an unfamiliar word since she walked into this house. For her own peace of mind, however, I have suggested that she remain close to you or me for the duration of the evening.”

“Good,” Simon said. “That portion of the plan I can wholeheartedly endorse.”

Twilight was the perfect time of day for work of a clandestine nature. There was sufficient light to allow Guy to see his way, yet the oncoming darkness concealed his features from any possible passersby. He preferred to roam the city streets at this tenebrous hour on most occasions, but it was especially important when he was approaching a building he intended to demolish.

A young man drew closer, two small dogs at his heels. His rapid footsteps and occasional yank on the leads in his hand suggested that he felt no particular affection for the creatures. A servant tasked with walking his mistress’s pets, Guy surmised. The poor fellow was undoubtedly anxious to complete the assignment and return to the warmth of his master’s house. Just as well. With a fixed destination in mind, the servant would pay little attention to Guy.

Regardless of the young man’s seeming disinterest, however, Guy angled his face away as they passed each other. Cecil’s spies were everywhere. If Guy could pass as Percy’s manservant, one of Cecil’s men could most certainly assume the role of a dog walker. Guy turned the corner, grateful when the echo of footsteps continued in the other direction. One of the dogs yapped. Guy sneered. The poor sap. If walking spoiled pets was a regular assignment, he should look for another position.

Another few yards and Guy had reached the first structure in the jumble of buildings that made up the Palace of Westminster. The London landmark had been a symbol of political power for centuries, yet he would level it. Guy’s pulse quickened. With one small flame, he intended to bring the English government to its knees.

A feeling of power, hot and heady, licked through his veins. He picked up his pace, passing the shadowy form of two more buildings before reaching the one that housed the House of Lords. Voices reached him. He stopped. Where were they coming from? Keeping his steps steady and even, he continued forward. It must not appear that he had any particular interest in the building ahead. Or in the two men conversing near the main door.

A muttered curse passed Guy’s lips. He had been gone from London long enough that it was imperative that he check on the condition of the gunpowder. Coming here alone had been a risk—one he had been willing to take for the sake of expediency—but he could not access the undercroft beneath the Lords’ Chamber without alerting the men to his activity. No matter the inconvenience, he would have to return later. The last thing he needed was one—or both—of them asking what he was about.

Tugging the brim of his hat another half inch lower, he continued past the two men, past the other palace buildings, and on to the road that led to the docks. If the men had noticed him at all, they would assume he was heading for the bawdier nightlife beside the river. Few gentlemen who frequented the docks at night wished their identity known. His lack of greeting would likely be accepted and shrugged off.

The exhilarating buzz of expectancy defused inside him, leaving him angry. There was no way of knowing how long those gentlemen would loiter outside the House of Lords. Guy would need to circle around to reach Percy’s rented house by another route. It was one more in a seemingly never-ending stream of precautions and aborted efforts. He uttered a grunt of frustration. The razing of the palace buildings could not come soon enough.