Page 17 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

O utside the Maidstones’ townhouse, a distant church bell rang to mark the two o’clock hour. It was time. Isla smoothed a minute wrinkle off her gown. Her nervousness was ridiculous. She had ridden with Simon almost every morning for weeks at Copfield Hall. But no matter how often she repeated that thought, her heart refused to listen. For some reason, riding with Simon through London this afternoon felt different. The most logical explanation to her inner turmoil was that seventeenth-century protocols were finally rubbing off on her. To be seen accompanying a gentleman in the city was a big deal. Then again, it could also be that Simon had held her hand at least half the way home the evening before and had seemed as reluctant as she had been to part when the carriage journey had ended.

She reached for the cloak Martha had loaned her and set it around her shoulders. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp, and she groaned. She needed to get a grip on her emotions. Simon was becoming far too adept at reading them. This outing was merely an educational trip to see sites of historic significance—nothing more. That must be her focus. Not the gentleman riding at her side.

She took one last look in the mirror hanging on the wall of her bedchamber. The cloak covered most of her pale-blue gown, which was probably a good thing since she had dispensed with the all-important farthingale for the ride. As far as she was concerned, horses and farthingales did not belong together. If she and Simon happened to pass any of his acquaintances, she would have to hope that none would notice that she was missing such a vital part of a Jacobean lady’s wardrobe.

Slipping out of the bedchamber, she hurried to the top of the stairs. Male voices reached her from below, and despite her best efforts to remain calm, her pulse tripped. Simon was here. She started down and had almost reached the narrow entry when the servant who must have answered the door to Simon stepped aside, and Simon looked up to see her there. The worry on his face dissolved, and he smiled. Isla’s heart responded immediately. What on earth was wrong with her? Just because he looked dashingly handsome, it didn’t mean she had to become completely unglued. She tightened her grip on the banister.

“Good afternoon, Simon,” she said.

“Good afternoon.” He stepped closer. “I am glad to see you. Grantham was just telling me that Maidstone and Martha are away. He was unclear about your whereabouts.”

“Lord Maidstone had business to attend to,” she said. “And Martha had an appointment with her haberdasher.”

“I see.” He ran his hand across the back of his neck, and Isla received the distinct impression that something was not quite right.

“Did you need to speak to one of them?”

“No, not at all.” He smiled again, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “Are you ready for our outing?”

“I am. Were you able to find a docile mount for me?”

“So docile, she barely puts one hoof before another.” He offered her his arm. “Come. My manservant, Anson, is waiting outside with all three horses.”

A servant and an extra horse. It was a timely reminder that they would be chaperoned on this trip. Isla wasn’t sure how closely Simon’s servant would follow them, but if they were to have a private conversation, now might be their best opportunity.

She placed her hand on his arm, but instead of moving toward the door, she looked up at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Why would you ask that?” His voice hinted at surprise, but his troubled eyes confirmed her suspicions.

“Simon,” she lowered her voice. “If sharing whatever is bothering you would help, you can tell me.”

He looked away. Isla waited, her anxiety mounting. Any minute now, another servant would appear. In a house so well staffed, that was the way of things.

“I may be limited in what I can do to help,” she added, “but I can listen.”

“You do a great deal more than simply listen, Isla,” he said, turning back to face her. “I can offer you a rather extensive list of remarkable things you have done since your arrival. But this is not the time or place to discuss my present concern. If I may, I should like to postpone that conversation until after our outing.”

“You are sure?”

He nodded. “I am sure. It will wait until you have experienced London as it is today.” He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

She smiled at his use of the word. She wished he had chosen to talk now, but she would not force him to confide in her. Instead, she would play along with his teasing, and perhaps that would be enough to remove the lines on his forehead—at least for a while.

“Okay,” she said. “Take me to the barely moving horse.”

With a chuckle, Simon led her outside. Anson was standing on the side of the road, holding the reins of three horses. Blaze stood half a head taller than the gray horse at his right and the brown horse at his left.

“Which one is mine?” Isla asked.

“The gray.” Simon ran his free hand along the animal’s nose. It gave a contented snort. “The gentlest mare in the stable, is what I was told.”

“I like the sound of that.” Isla reached up to pat the horse’s neck. “What is your name, young lady?”

“Stormy,” Simon said.

Isla gave him a dubious look. “Stormy? My confidence in your choice of mount just dropped a few notches.”

Simon grinned. “She’s the same color as today’s skies, and there’s scarcely a breeze. I daresay someone named her before her placid disposition manifested itself.”

“Hmm.” Isla was far from convinced, but with her “okay” in the house, she was committed.

“Are you ready?” Simon asked, releasing her arm so he could place his hands at her waist.

“Yes,” she said.

Moments later, she was in the saddle, and his hands were gone. Anson handed her the reins, and as Simon took charge of Blaze, Anson mounted the brown horse.

“We will follow the Strand to Charing Cross, Anson,” Simon said.

“Very good, my lord.”

Anson waited until Simon and Isla were several paces ahead of him before bringing up the rear, and it wasn’t long before Isla all but forgot he was there.

“The place names are the same as the ones I know,” she said, gazing at the row of timbered Tudor houses lining the road on either side of them. “But everything looks completely different.”

“How is it different?” Simon asked.

“In the twenty-first century, the dirt roads are covered with a hard, black coating and are painted to help the vehicles stay where they’re supposed to be. The wooden buildings are gone, replaced by tall structures made of stone, brick, and concrete.”

“Concrete?”

“It’s a man-made substance that revolutionized construction of all kinds—from houses to bridges to walkways.”

“What color is it?” Simon asked.

“Gray, usually.”

They entered a square where three roads converged. A large stone monument topped with a cross stood in the center of the open area. Isla studied it with interest.

“Is this Charing Cross?” she asked.

“Yes,” Simon said. “And that is the memorial to Eleanor of Castile.”

“How amazing.” The monument was smaller and simpler than the one that stood outside Charing Cross Station, but it was the first thing Isla had seen that bore a resemblance to something she knew.

“And this,” Simon said, taking the road at his left, “is King Street. The high-pitched roofs may prevent you from seeing beyond the buildings, but the street runs parallel to the Thames on the left and St. James’s Park on the right.”

“Does it run down toward Westminster?” Isla asked.

“It does.”

Notwithstanding the vast differences in scenery, dress, and transportation around her, an odd sense of familiarity washed over her. The raucous seagulls overhead, the distant lap of water, and the glimpse of St. James’s Park’s greenery were just as she’d always known them.

“In the London I know, this road is called Whitehall,” she said.

“Whitehall,” he repeated. “Named after the king’s residence, the Palace of Whitehall.”

“Yes.” This was probably not the time to tell Simon that the royal palace no longer existed.

“Then, you must also be familiar with the Palace of Westminster,” he said.

Familiar, yes, in a vague sort of way. “Westminster Abbey still stands, but most of the other buildings associated with the palace you know have either been destroyed or rebuilt.”

Simon kept Blaze at a steady walk, his expression thoughtful. “And yet, we are fighting to keep that very thing from happening within the week.”

“True. But this time, our concern is not just for the buildings or upholding the law of the land. It’s also about saving countless lives.” Particularly, the lives of people she had come to care for deeply.

They were approaching a wall, and beyond it, a cluster of buildings surrounded what Isla guessed was the original portion of Westminster Abbey.

“No matter what happens,” Simon said, “the king will be protected.”

“But not the other innocents.” A sickening blend of dread and panic welled within her. They were mere days from the culmination of Guy Fawkes and Robert Catsby’s elaborate conspiracy, and they had no idea whether any steps had been taken to prevent its implementation. “Promise me that no matter what happens, you will not come here on November 5.”

“Hush,” he warned, his voice low. “We have reached New Palace Yard. It is the entrance to the House of Commons. Beyond the archway is Old Palace Yard and the House of Lords.” He paused to look up at the venerable structure ahead of them. “Within these walls, men linger longer than is needful, listening for conversations not meant for their ears.”

A chilling frisson skittered up Isla’s spine. Weeks ago, Simon and Lord Maidstone had warned her of Cecil’s spies. Was this where they gathered? And was it possible that at least one of Catsby’s accomplices was also in the vicinity, watching over their cache?

“Will you show me the House of Lords?” Isla asked softly.

With a nod, Simon led the way beneath the archway and into a second courtyard. “It is the building immediately to your left,” he said, giving no indication that he meant to stop.

Isla understood. The prickly sensation that she was being watched had begun the moment they’d entered the second courtyard. Attempting to ignore it, she gave the structure at her left a brief glance and then forced her attention to linger on the other buildings they were passing. Built of stone, with arched windows and tall chimneys, there was a similarity to the structures. She dropped her gaze from the rooflines to the ground level. How would one enter an undercroft? In this era, it would have been like a cellar or crypt accessed from outside the building.

Near the corner of the farthest building, Isla noticed a set of shallow steps leading down to a door partially visible above the ground. Her pulse quickened. If that led to an undercroft, the chances were good that there was a comparable door in the building that accommodated the Lords’ Chambers. Steeling herself not to turn around and look, she kept her eyes forward and her expression passive. Once she was safely back at the Maidstones’ house, she would pass along her observation to Simon and Lord Maidstone. Perhaps they, in turn, could pass it along to Lord Suffolk.

Simon was unprepared for the relief he felt when he guided Isla out of Old Palace Yard and back onto King Street. In his many visits to the House of Lords, he had never before experienced the sense of foreboding that had hovered over the palace grounds today. Not even the foul stench wafting on the light breeze from the alleys that led to the humbler dwellings near the river could compare to the malicious aura that had seemed to hang over the palace buildings. He chanced a brief glance over his shoulder. All appeared as it should. And that was particularly concerning. Where was Cecil? Had he taken Isla’s note seriously? Would he act upon the clue he’d been given?

Simon tightened his jaw. He could not remember a time when he had felt less in control. Not only could he learn nothing more about whether any effort was being made to foil Catsby’s plot until he and Maidstone had spoken to Suffolk, but he also had no way of knowing how long Isla would remain in the seventeenth century. With his burgeoning desire to have her forever in his future, the unknown was eating him up one painful bite at a time. And if Isla’s gentle probing at Maidstone’s house was any indication, he was doing a very poor job of hiding his inner turmoil. She deserved an explanation. But exactly what he should say and when he should say it, he did not know.

“Simon. We must stop.”

With a start, Simon reined Blaze to a halt. He was every kind of blockhead. He’d been so consumed with weighty thoughts about his current situation, he’d all but ignored the young lady at the center of them. And now she was half a dozen paces behind him, attempting to free her foot from the stirrup. Wheeling Blaze around, he moved his horse to stand beside hers.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Getting off.” Isla dropped the reins to untangle her skirts from around the pommel.

Unprepared for the unexpected movement, Stormy nickered and sidestepped. Isla wobbled.

“Steady.” Keeping one hand firmly on his own reins, Simon reached for Isla’s arm. “If you wish to dismount, you need only ask and I will assist you.”

“I want to,” she repeated, this time with more urgency.

“Very well.” Thanking all the saints that Blaze had chosen to remain unruffled, he slid from his saddle. “Anson,” he called. “Take the reins, would you?”

His obedient servant edged his mount close enough to grasp the straps, and Simon lifted Isla from her saddle and onto her feet.

“Are you well?” he asked, searching her face for any sign of illness. Her complexion was a becoming and healthy shade, but she was clearly distressed.

“I am fine, but that little girl is not.” She pointed to the other side of the road, where a child who looked to be similar in age to Will and Sam was lying in the dirt at the entrance to one of the alleys. “I noticed her when she was a little way off because her steps were so unsteady. But then she collapsed.” She caught hold of his arm. “We must go to her, Simon. She is obviously alone and in need of help.”

Simon stood completely still. From his position behind Stormy, he could clearly see the child’s ragged clothing and tangled hair, but his gaze glossed over those things to settle on the girl’s hands. Blackened skin tipped every finger. “No, Isla.”

She swung around, shock shining in her eyes. “No?”

“No.” He reached for her, but she backed away.

“Is it because she is poor?”

“Of course not.” Alarm consumed him. They had to leave. Now. “The child has the plague.”

“The plague!” Isla stared at him. “How can you possibly know that?”

“She has blackened fingers, her neck is swollen, and she appears to be feverish.”

Isla looked across the street once more, and when she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears. “But she’s only a child.”

“I know.” The anguish on her face cut him to his core.

“Can we truly do nothing for her?”

He did not answer her question. He could not bring himself to tell her that with such evident symptoms, the child would likely be dead by nightfall.

“Come,” he said. “We must leave here immediately.”

She was openly weeping now, but she offered no resistance when he lifted her back into the saddle.

“Can you manage?” he asked softly.

She nodded mutely.

“Once we are away from here, we shall stop again,” he promised. She nodded again, and he leaped into his saddle. “Make haste, Anson,” he said, reclaiming his reins. “We must put some distance between us and this place.”

When Simon saw the tops of the trees signaling the edge of St. James’s Park, he veered off the road and onto the grass that surrounded the royal estate. Isla followed his lead, her mount remaining at Blaze’s side as they approached the fringes of the park. Without an invitation from the king, they could not go beyond the first line of trees, but the solid oaks would offer Isla the privacy she deserved to grieve for the little girl she did not know.

A quick glance over his shoulder reassured Simon that Anson was near. He brought Blaze to a stop and dismounted. Then he reached for Isla. Wordlessly, she set her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her off Stormy’s back.

“I am leaving the horses in your care, Anson,” he said. “Miss Crawford needs a moment to recover her equilibrium. I daresay our mounts will be glad of the opportunity to graze.”

“Of course, my lord.” Anson had dismounted and was already gathering the various straps.

Taking Isla by the hand, Simon led her to a break in the trees. There he stopped and met her sorrow-filled eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Her lips quivered. “You had nothing to do with the little girl contracting the plague and everything to do with protecting me from the illness.”

“I should not have taken you out. I knew full well that the city has been overrun with the disease. It is the very reason I escaped to Copfield Hall.”

“You told me as much, but I didn’t think ...” Her voice broke. “I didn’t think I would actually see ...” She covered her face with her hands. “She was so young.”

His heart aching, Simon wrapped his arms around Isla and held her close, fighting back his own tears as she sobbed into his shoulder.

When she finally pulled away, she ran her hand across the damp patch on his cloak. “Now it is my turn to ask forgiveness. I have made your cloak wet.”

He took her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. “You may cry on my shoulder whenever you feel the need. I only pray that I am never again the cause of your sorrow.”

“You were not the cause.”

“Perhaps not directly,” he said, “but after you have heard me out, you may realize that you have been overly generous with me.”

Her brows came together, and though he longed to wipe the puzzlement away with a brush of his finger, he knew this was the opening he had been waiting for. “Over the last few weeks, I have come to discover that I am a far more selfish creature than I had supposed. Notwithstanding the many wonders of your modern world, if the choice were mine, I would have you stay here with me in an era afflicted with plague and treachery.”

“You ... you want me to stay?”

He sighed. “Earlier today, when you asked if something was amiss, Maidstone’s servant had just informed me that you had not been seen downstairs for some time. For one full minute, my worst fears appeared to have been realized: with your letter to Monteagle successfully delivered, you had finished your assignment in this century and had returned to your own.” He ran his thumb over the back of Isla’s hand as the memory of that supposed loss returned. “I have always known that you are as likely to leave as to stay, but it seems that my head neglected to fully communicate that to my heart.” He managed a wry smile. “I had thought that I was strong, that I had already successfully weathered disappointment in love with Lydia, but I was wrong. On both counts. My determination to distance myself from you lasted only from the end of our time at Monteagle’s manor to the moment I took your hand in the carriage. And the disillusionment I felt at Lydia’s rejection was nothing compared to the heart-shattering loss I experienced in the entryway when I thought you were gone.”

“Simon,” Isla whispered. He had never felt more vulnerable, yet he braved meeting her eyes. Hers were moist, but she raised her free hand to gently touch his face. “You and I have very different views of selfishness. To open up one’s heart the way you have just done is the very opposite of that trait. And if I have given you the impression that the twenty-first century is without problems, I have led you astray. The challenges there are different, but they are as big if not bigger and more troubling than the ones here.” She paused. “Turning away from that suffering child this afternoon may be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, particularly since I know that centuries from now, she could be cured, but if I’m forced to leave you to return to that future world ...” Her fingers had found his hair. “I think that might be even harder.”

“Then, you are willing to consider staying?” It was something he had hardly dared hope.

“Do you think I will be given that option?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “If my prayers are heard.”

Her expression softened, and for the first time, he saw a longing in her eyes that mirrored his own. “Our betrothal could be real.”

His arms encircled her. “The most real, love-filled betrothal anyone has ever known,” he said, lowering his head until his lips were within a breath of hers.

“Yes,” she murmured. And then their lips touched, and he was kissing her, sharing his heart in a way no words could express.

Above their heads, the branches trembled, clicking softly in the strengthening breeze.

Slowly, reluctantly, Simon raised his head and looked upward. While they had been under the trees, the gray skies had darkened. “A storm is coming,” he said. “We must leave if we wish to avoid a soaking.”

A scattering of brown leaves fluttered by.

Removing one of her arms from around his neck, Isla brushed a leaf off his shoulder and then extended her hand outward, palm up. “I felt a drop,” she said.

Simon groaned. Pressing another brief kiss to her lips, he released her only to immediately take her hand. “Are you willing to try coaxing Stormy into a canter?” he asked, already making for the spot where Anson was waiting with the horses.

“Yes, as long as you catch me if I bounce right out of the saddle.”

He grinned. “Falling off is not permitted.”

“If you would tell that to Stormy, I would appreciate it.”

“I am quite certain she already knows it,” he said, lifting Isla onto the horse as he spoke. “And I am equally certain she would rather increase her speed than be caught out in the rain.”

“Okay, then,” Isla said, grasping the reins with fresh determination.

Simon mounted Blaze and turned him toward the road, love for the beautiful and astonishingly brave young woman at his side washing over him. “Okay, then,” he repeated. “To the Maidstones’ house without delay.”

Night had fallen. From beneath the covers of her rustic bed, Isla listened to the fading sounds of life in old London through the closed window shutters. The glowing coals in her bedchamber’s fireplace emitted just enough light to make out the shadowy features of the small room. Rolling onto her back, she gazed up at the dark wooden beams traversing the daubed ceiling and tried to visualize the smooth white paint and electric light fixture on the ceiling of her bedroom in her Knightsbridge flat.

“This one has more character,” she whispered to herself. And it was true, even though flipping a switch to fill the room with light seemed very appealing when compared to tiptoeing across the cold floor to light a candle on the mantel with a flint.

Grasping the woolen blanket at her chin a little more tightly, Isla gazed around the simply furnished room. Did she truly have what it would take to live in this century for the rest of her life? This afternoon, while wrapped in Simon’s arms and melting beneath his fervent kisses, the choice to stay had seemed easy. He was the best man she’d ever known, and she had fallen hopelessly in love with him. But to stay meant never seeing her family again, or her friends, or the places she called home. She would be without access to modern medicine, technology, or even the most rudimentary indoor plumbing and central heating. It was a commitment of epic proportions, and she wasn’t afraid to admit that it scared her.

Of course, there was the distinct possibility that the decision was not hers to make. It had been Martha who had first suggested that Isla had arrived in the seventeenth century to perform a specific task and that once it was completed, she would return to her former life. Before then, Isla had assumed that she had entered some kind of time warp never to return. It had been a terrifying concept. It still filled her with trepidation, but now her apprehension was offset by the knowledge that Simon would be beside her every step of the way.

The very thought of Simon filled her chest with warmth, and she allowed herself to drift through the memories they’d made together that day. The ominous aura surrounding the House of Lords and the heartbreaking encounter with the child suffering from the plague had made for a difficult start to their outing, but the ending had brought unexpected joy. Even their canter home through the drizzle could not be faulted. Isla had managed to remain in her saddle, and afterward, Martha had insisted that she sit beside Simon in front of the fire until their clothing was dry. A small smile touched Isla’s lips. She could still hardly believe that Simon had confessed his love for her, but he had kissed her so convincingly, she did not doubt his earnestness for one moment.

He had promised to return to the Maidstones’ house in the morning. He’d told Martha it was necessary because Isla had yet to explain a football game to him, but Isla suspected that it was really that he knew how hard it was going to be for all of them to wait for news from Sir Cecil’s office. It might take days before they learned anything new, and time would pass more quickly and far more pleasantly if they were together.

She closed her eyes, picturing Simon standing at the doorway immediately before he’d left for the night. Her stomach fluttered, and she pressed her hand to it in an attempt to subdue the butterflies. As hard as it was to contemplate giving up the life she’d once known, she could not imagine being truly happy in a life without him. Perhaps it was time for him to tell her more about his home in the Peak District.