Page 16 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

S imon sat in the carriage, fighting a silent but torturous inner battle. On the one hand, for the sake of self-preservation, he desperately wished he could remove himself from Isla’s captivating presence. On the other hand, he did not want to be anywhere but beside her. Especially while she was recounting her experiences escaping the house, recovering Maidstone’s cloak, and confronting Thomas Ward. Her ingenuity and bravery astounded him, but he was aghast at the number of things that could have gone wrong.

“You were marvelous, Isla.” Martha spoke from the other side of the carriage. “I cannot think of anyone else who could have managed it. And to have Lord Monteagle respond just as we’d hoped is most encouraging.” She paused. “I do wish we were privy to Lord Monteagle’s meeting with Sir Cecil though. Or at the very least, had some way of knowing whether the gentleman will act upon the written warning.”

“We should not need to worry on that score,” Simon said. “If Isla’s history books are to be believed, the letter will motivate Cecil to undertake a search of the Palace of Westminster.”

“Well, not exactly,” Isla said. “Sir Cecil could be swayed either way, but ultimately, he should bring up the matter with the king when he returns to London. It is the king who will order an investigation.”

“Regardless of who issues the command,” Simon said, “it will surely happen.”

“It is unlike you to make so sweeping an assumption, Simon,” Martha said. She was peering at him across the shadowy carriage. “I would have thought you would have been as anxious for inside information as I am.”

“Inside information would be welcome, but I do not think it is necessary. Everything Isla predicted—from Ward’s appearance at dinner to Monteagle’s sticky hands to His Lordship’s response—occurred just as she said it would. That should give us no reason to doubt that her memory of what happens next is equally sound.”

“That may be sufficient for you, Bancroft,” Maidstone said, “but I have been married to your sister long enough to know that the same cannot be said for her. She will be pacing the floors until she knows that the threat to the king and England’s noblemen is fully defused.”

“I most certainly shall,” Martha said with feeling. “And regardless of how things went this evening, I am quite sure Isla will do the same. We are relying upon you gentlemen to provide us with adequate reassurance that Sir Cecil has done what he must.”

“If that is the case, my dear,” Maidstone said, “I believe I shall make a visit to the Earl of Suffolk in the near future.”

“You believe Cecil will confide in Suffolk?” Simon asked.

“I do,” Maidstone said. “Cecil is the Principal Secretary of State and wields more influence with the king than any other gentleman in the country, but Suffolk is Lord Chamberlain. With the king gone, it is all the more likely that Cecil will consult with Suffolk.”

“Then, by all means, go,” Martha said. “If he is available tomorrow morning, so much the better.”

Her husband chuckled softly. “I believe an afternoon visit in two or three days may be more reasonable.”

Martha sighed. “Very well. But the wait will be interminable.”

“Do you plan to visit the Maidstones’ house again soon, Simon?” It was the first time Isla had spoken since she’d corrected his assumption about Cecil. He had become used to her quiet observance of others, but he sensed that her recent silence had more to do with exhaustion than anything else.

“My plans are not fixed,” he hedged. It would be wiser for him to stay away, to become used to being without her. “Are you in need of a day of rest after the events of this evening?”

“Probably. But I don’t suppose my body will comply, and I have a horrible suspicion that I will not know what do to with myself now that I no longer need to spend hours studying seventeenth-century comportment.”

“I hope it was not as awful as it sounds,” he said.

Isla laughed. “Not at all. I shall miss it.”

“So shall I,” Martha said. “And there is no reason why we need curtail it. We could fill hours discussing menu options for the week or the fashions on display at the Monteagles’ event.”

Simon cringed on Isla’s behalf.

“We could,” Isla said with sufficient forced enthusiasm in her voice that Simon knew he would be the worst sort of friend and gentleman if he did not come to her rescue.

“As stimulating as that activity sounds, might I suggest taking a ride past the Palace of Westminster as an alternate pursuit?”

Isla almost covered her mouth fast enough to mask her gasp of delight. But not quite. He grinned. Gone was the young lady who scarcely knew one end of a horse from the other. She may not yet be ready for a spirited mount, but she had developed a love for riding.

“Is that even possible?” she asked.

“If it is something you would enjoy, I am quite sure I can acquire a mount for you for the afternoon.” He caught sight of her smile in the moonlight, and whatever defenses he had remaining to him crumbled. “Be warned, however, if you agree to this outing, you owe me a full explanation of a football game.”

“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” She turned to Martha. “Would you be very disappointed if we saved discussing food and fashion for another time?”

“Not at all. You deserve an outing after all you did this evening, and time spent with Simon is exactly why we contrived your betrothal.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Isla lapsed into silence, and Simon could not help but wonder if Martha’s reminder had hit her as forcibly as it had him. When his sister had first suggested a betrothal between him and Isla, he’d been completely opposed to the notion. He’d acquiesced only for the good of the nation and the safety of his colleagues in the House of Lords. But it had been weeks since he’d considered that aspect of his fabricated relationship with Isla. It had been a critical motivator at the start, and it remained so. But at some point, his primary focus had shifted from saving the king and government to supporting Isla. To being with Isla. And now, with most of the key moves to save England’s political structure made, he was trapped in a bizarre world where he had been granted access to the future in one area of his life while he looked to lose all in another.

“Simon?” Isla’s whisper brought him back to the present with a start. Martha must have taken the quiet to mean that they were all in agreement, and she was now engaged in a softly spoken conversation with Maidstone. The steady grind of the carriage wheels masked their voices.

Simon shifted to face Isla. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For saving you from having to agree to have braised eel for dinner and a discussion of the height of ladies’ heels?”

“Yes. And for knowing me so well.” The moonlight caught her small smile, and his heart responded.

“In truth, it is quite a remarkable feat, given that we barely speak the same language.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Although I am trying.”

Blast it all. Why did she have to be so charming?

“You are doing marvelously well.” Seemingly of its own volition, his hand reached for hers, and when her fingers closed around his, he knew he was sunk. He would not let go until he absolutely had to.

Guy closed the door of Percy’s lodgings and studied the scrap of paper in his hand with a frown. The urchin who had delivered the unsigned note was long gone. Not that he needed to know who had paid the boy to drop it off. There were very few people who considered it their place to give Guy orders and even fewer who knew where to find him. He read the message once more.

Urgent. Survey for any sign of disturbance, and then meet at WSI at noon to receive update and report on findings.

Irritation smoldered within his chest. Catsby knew Guy sufficiently well to assume that he would have checked on the contents of the cellar at the Palace of Westminster as soon as he’d returned to London. It was equally possible that Catsby had been informed the moment Guy had entered the city. A request for another visit to the site of their gunpowder stockpile so soon afterward—especially one conducted in broad daylight—was pushing the boundaries of Catsby’s authority. Guy clenched his jaw. Another meeting, also done during daylight hours, suggested something unforeseen had arisen. Something that could not be delayed. Concern surfaced above Guy’s annoyance. What did Catsby know that he was not telling him?

Guy moved to the window and stared down the street. An old man dressed in threadbare clothing pushed an empty cart across the road. Two dogs—strays by the lean, hungry look of them—followed close behind. A woman passed by carrying a basket of flowers. She was likely coming from Bedford House. More than one flower seller gathered there in the mornings before finding a busy corner in the city from which they could peddle their wares. The sun was barely up. Working people were about, but it was too early for members of the nobility. Which might make it the best time to venture into the cellar beneath the House of Lords.

His decision made, Guy donned his hat and cloak and left the house. He walked briskly and with purpose; the sooner he reached his destination, the better. Once there, however, he would employ more caution. His attention to detail had saved him on more than one occasion in Spain. This would simply be one more instance in which his natural wariness proved providential. His lips twisted into a cynical smile. All it would take was opening the door to the storage room and he would instantly know if anyone else had been there.

It took very little time to reach the Old Palace Yard. Much as he’d supposed, there were fewer people here than on the nearby streets. The empty courtyard notwithstanding, Guy slowed his pace, studying the windows and doorways in the buildings across from the undercroft. Shutters covered all but two windows, and there was no sign of life at the open windows. The doors were closed; the only occupant on any of the steps was a solitary mangy cat. Guy continued walking until he turned the corner around the House of Lords. There he stopped to survey the path ahead. It was clear. Satisfied that no one would enter the courtyard for the next minute or two, he retraced his steps until he reached the entrance to the undercroft. With one more careful look around, he withdrew the key from the purse at his belt and hurried down the three steps that led to the solid wooden door.

The lock drew back with a loud thud. Guy waited, his ears strained. Nothing. Pushing the door open, he stood at the threshold and studied the floor. The undercroft had been used as a storage room for years, and the hard-packed dirt floor was pressed smooth. Except at its entrance, where a fine layer of sand coated the floor. An unsuspecting visitor to the room would be hard-pressed to notice, especially in the poor light. But Guy was no unsuspecting visitor.

He studied the floor with a critical eye. The small pail of sand he’d brought to the undercroft weeks ago had proved perfect for his needs. Dusting the area nearest the door with sand every time he left the room was almost as good as employing a watchman. There was no semicircular scrape made by the opening of the door, scuffs left by shoes, or exposed dirt where significant movement had displaced the sand. He gave a gratified nod. No one had entered this way since he was last here.

Stepping sideways to avoid displacing much of the sand, Guy entered the room. He lit the lantern and gently pushed the door closed, then raised the light as he moved toward the far wall. The barrels filled with wine, cider, and gunpowder appeared just as he’d left them. He noticed no displacement of wood, and the small table and chair he had placed in the room in preparation for his long wait on the evening of November 4 had accumulated a thin layer of dust. As far as he could ascertain, fresh rat droppings at the foot of the chair were the only addition to the room.

With a scowl, he kicked the droppings away from the furniture with the toe of his boot. He was tempted to bring a piece of bread laced with hemlock the next time he came. One or two fewer rats might be worth the effort. Then again, he had to endure them only a short time longer, and dead rats were almost as repugnant as live ones. He sneered. Rats and the gentlemen comprising the king’s cabinet. They were one and the same. And they would soon come to the same ignominious end.

Satisfied that all was as it should be in the undercroft, he returned to the door and opened it a crack. He tilted his head to listen. No voices. No footsteps. Snuffing out the candle, he set the lantern on the ground and took a fistful of sand from the pail. He then pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. A quick sprinkle of sand covered the footsteps he’d made before he closed the door and locked it. Grateful to exchange the dank, stale air of the undercroft for the crisp morning air outside, he climbed the steps and surveyed the empty courtyard. No one was visible, but someone was whistling nearby. It was a timely reminder. Once he left the courtyard, there would be more people about.

Lowering his chin, he started to walk. Even if he took a circuitous route to the rendezvous location at the White Swan Inn, he would arrive before the noon hour. But that was just as well. Catsby was known at the White Swan, and although members of the conspiracy had met there often, up until now, it had been done under the cover of darkness, and they had entered through the back door. It was safer for everyone if those at the inn believed Guy was having a chance encounter with Catsby rather than a scheduled meeting.

Guy had been nursing his goblet of mead in the shadowy corner of the inn’s front room for over an hour when Thomas Wintour entered the establishment. Wintour perused the room, his eyes settling on Guy before moving on to assess the other three occupants: two old men already well into their cups and unlikely to have noticed his arrival, let alone his identity, and a young maid wiping down tables and chairs on the other side of the room.

Exhibiting no outward indication that he had recognized Guy, Wintour walked up to the bar just as the innkeeper appeared from the back. Keeping their voices low, the two men exchanged a few words, and then Wintour walked around a few tables to disappear through a door that led to the upstairs rooms. Guy waited, listening for the soft thud of Wintour’s footsteps ascending the stairs. Above Guy’s head, the wooden floor creaked and then fell silent.

Guy leaned back in his seat, swirling the liquid in his goblet thoughtfully. So, this meeting was to involve more than Guy and Catsby. And it would surely lead to discussion, else why the need for a private room? Frustration seared his chest once more. And with it came a generous dose of resentment. Given his pivotal role over the next few days, if something had arisen that might impact their plans, he should have been informed privately and straightway.

Coming to his feet, Guy tossed a few coins on the table beside his half-empty goblet and made for the door. No matter the innkeeper’s seeming willingness to allow known Catholics to meet secretly within the walls of his establishment, Guy would find his way to the upper rooms through the back entrance.

Under three minutes later, he issued the preassigned knock on the door of an upper room.

Wintour opened it almost immediately. “You took your time.”

“I could say the same.” Guy brushed past him to stand before Catsby near the fire. “I have been listening to those two drunkards downstairs discuss London’s bear-baiting pits for the best part of two hours. Sending word that you planned to meet upstairs would not have gone amiss.”

Catsby acknowledged his complaint with an inclination of his head. “Wintour and I arrived within minutes of each other. You would have been waiting just as long.”

Guy eyed him dourly. Remaining out of sight in his own room would have been preferable to his situation downstairs, and Catsby knew it. “Be that as it may, I assume you have good reason for summoning me in the middle of the day.”

“Aye. And for having you visit the undercroft.” He hesitated. “You went, I assume.”

“I did. It was unneedful. The place was just as I left it two nights past.”

Relief eased Catsby’s tense expression. He pointed to a stool. “You’d best be seated. We have much to deliberate.”

“I thought the time for deliberation was long past.”

“As did I.” There was a hardness to Catsby’s voice. “But you may wish to reconsider after you hear Wintour’s report.”

Guy’s impatience was mounting. Wintour was here to report? So much the better. He would rather hear the bad news for himself than receive it through numberless channels. “What have you to tell me, Wintour?” he asked.

The tall, dark-haired man took a seat on one of the other stools. “Thomas Ward came to me late last night with an alarming account.”

“Thomas Ward?” Guy looked from Wintour to Catsby. “Who is that?”

“Manservant to Lord Monteagle and a reliable source,” Catsby said. “He’s been known to share valuable information with Catholic loyalists in the past.”

“Very well,” Guy said. “What did he have to say?”

“A stranger approached him outside Monteagle’s manor and gave him a missive for his master,” Wintour said. “Monteagle was hosting a dinner party and had Ward read the message before the entire group. It was a warning. No details were given, but Monteagle was told that if he valued his life, he should refrain from attending the opening of Parliament and remove himself to the country instead. It further said that no one would know the source of the upcoming blow to Parliament.”

Guy stared at Wintour, a cold chill coursing down his spine. “How did Monteagle and his guests respond?”

“According to Ward, there was a mixed reaction, but it ended with Monteagle leaving posthaste to inform Cecil of the anonymous message.”

Guy swore. “And Cecil? Has he acted?”

“We have heard nothing more,” Catsby said. “But Cecil is not known for sitting idly by.”

The reason behind Catsby’s pressing request to check the contents of the undercroft suddenly became glaringly clear. As did the danger inherent in accomplishing the task.

“You thought to give me no warning of this ahead of my visiting the undercroft this morning?” Guy said.

“There was no need.” Catsby was infuriatingly nonchalant. “I knew full well that you would employ the same caution with or without the additional information. And committing such intelligence to paper only invites disaster.”

Under present circumstances, Catsby’s argument could hardly be refuted.

“Who wrote the missive?” Guy asked bluntly. “The number who know of our plot is limited, and you have had time to ponder upon each man’s innocence—or lack thereof.”

“It has to be Tresham,” Wintour said. “His sister Elizabeth is married to Monteagle, which gives him reason to warn the nobleman.”

Catsby visibly bristled. “You think he would break his oath so quickly?”

“Tresham has not been with us long enough to prove his worth or his loyalty,” Wintour retorted.

“It does not follow that those traits are lacking,” Catsby said. “His joining us at this late juncture was my choice, not his.”

“Who would you accuse in his stead?” Wintour asked.

“I am accusing no one,” Catsby said. “Least of all you, Wintour. I believe it safe to say that no one in this room is culpable, and so I suggest that before we leave, we determine who amongst our group cannot be trusted and whether or not our plans must irrevocably change.”

“Agreed,” Wintour said. “But surely, to move forward now, with Cecil forewarned, would be sheer foolishness.”

“Not at all,” Guy said. “If the note was as cryptic as you suggest, Cecil knows nothing of substance. Regardless of whether his suspicions have been heightened, he has no reason to suspect a cache of gunpowder lies beneath the House of Lords.” He stood and began pacing. “The months of preparation, the gathering of gunpowder, horses, and men, the carefully formulated timetable for each part of the scheme—from the capture of the heirs to the throne to the commissioning of a ship to facilitate an escape. This groundwork cannot be abandoned on a whim.”

Catsby sat forward, his gaze unwavering. “You are willing to enter the undercroft and light the fuse alone, as planned, despite the warning Cecil has received?”

“I am.” An unquenchable fire burned within him. “The opportunity to bring an end to King James, his government, and all those who support their evil works is worth the risk.”

A satisfied smirk appeared on Catsby’s face. “Cecil will be left fumbling in the dark for clues.”

“In the dark and in the rubble,” Guy said. “There will be little left when our work is complete.”

“And the traitor?” Wintour asked. “You would go forward knowing he might warn another?”

“He must be stopped. There can be no reservation about that.” Catsby rubbed his bearded chin. “You truly believe it is Tresham?”

“I have thought on little else since Ward gave me the news,” Wintour said. “My earlier arguments aside, Tresham is in London, whereas most of our men remain in the country.”

“And those who are in the city?” Catsby asked.

“Can all be accounted for last night,” Wintour supplied.

With a muttered oath, Catsby came to his feet. “If Tresham has double-crossed me, he shall pay for it with his life.”

A flicker of excitement warmed Guy’s hardened heart. Action. At last. First, with Tresham, and then with the king. “When and where?” he asked.

Catsby squared his shoulders. “Two o’clock in the afternoon, three days hence, in the Royal Forest of Epping Chase,” he said. “I shall send word to Tresham to meet me at Barnet. We shall enter the forest from there. Fawkes, I would have you join us. What shall begin as a pleasant walk amongst the trees shall become a private inquisition. If he answers false, we shall know it, and he shall lose all.”

“Very well.” Guy stood. “Until then, Catsby.” Turning to Wintour, he touched the brim of his hat. “I would have you inform me directly if you hear anything more regarding Cecil’s response to Monteagle’s note, Wintour.”

Wintour’s expression was grim, but he inclined his head in agreement. “As you wish.”

It was obvious that Catsby wished for answers and revenge. Wintour may be troubled by what had transpired, but he would not abandon their cause. Satisfied that he need say or do no more at this meeting, Guy made for the door. He had an undercroft to watch.