Page 19 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

G uy used the tip of his dagger to scrape more soil out of the narrow channel he’d dug in the dirt floor beneath the barrel of gunpowder and then leaned back to survey his work. The groove was little more than the width of his smallest finger, but that was all that was needed. Wide enough to hold the fuse in place, small enough to go unnoticed. With a satisfied smirk, he reached for the cord at his waist and tucked one end into the newly created space beneath the barrel. It fit perfectly. Threading the cord carefully through his fingers, he set the remainder in a straight line. There must be no slowing the hungry flame.

He had practiced lighting various lengths of cord at Percy’s lodging. Countless times. To make a mistake with something so seemingly simple was pure foolishness. This fuse was precisely the right measurement. From the time he lit one end to the time it reached the other would be exactly fifteen minutes—just enough time for him to leave the undercroft, reclaim his horse from its hiding place behind the abbey, and gallop to the dock, where a ship was waiting to take him to Flanders.

The lantern he’d placed on the nearby wooden chair shed sufficient light to illuminate his handiwork, but the shadows cast by the barrels served to hide the newly set fuse. Guy rose to his feet, brushed the dirt off his knees, and walked to the door. From this position, one would have to know what to look for to notice the faint line cutting across the floor. How likely was it that anyone would visit the undercroft in the next twenty-four hours with so specific an assignment? He scowled. A fortnight ago, he would have put those chances at nil. Now, however, he could not be so sure.

Given the information Cecil had received, the king’s adviser may suspect arson. And more often than not, arson involved fuses. Crossing to the opposite corner, Guy seized the rickety old table the previous tenant had left behind. It was not sturdy enough to hold anything of any substance, but it was bulky and would further darken the floor where the cord lay. He set it over the cord and moved back to survey the scene. A leaning table, two chairs, a single lantern, and a blanket sat before barrels of gunpowder that were indistinguishable from the barrels of wine and cider stacked around them. Wood, chopped and set in tidy piles atop the barrels further disguised the primary contents of the room, and in the far corner, hidden behind a broom, was a small bundle containing a flagon of ale and a loaf of bread. It was minimal nourishment, but as long as he kept the rats from it, the bread would be sufficient to keep him from going hungry during the long vigil ahead.

He opened the purse that hung from his belt and withdrew a smooth, round pocket watch. The metal glistened in the lantern light and sent a beam of light dancing across the shadowy barrels. Guy had never owned anything so elegant. Percy had given it to him as he’d prepared to leave. The nobleman had said the miniature clock was necessary so that Guy could mark the time correctly as he awaited the arrival of the king and his cabinet in the room above. In Guy’s mind, it also served as a well-deserved token of appreciation. During the months he had spent living under the guise of Percy’s manservant, Guy had played his part well. And with extraordinary tolerance. As far as Guy was concerned, Percy was an extremely fortunate fellow. Few men with so important a role in the course of history as Guy would deign take on the role of a retainer, no matter the noble lineage of his coconspirator.

He checked the time. Almost noon. By this time tomorrow, King James and his lords would be no more. The explosion would kill others, of course. There were always innocents affected when men resorted to violence. But countless blameless Catholics had died because of oppressive Protestant laws. It was time for Protestants to experience a similar loss. The flames of hate and justification burning in his soul grew stronger. Annihilation of the current regime was the only way to make a change. And if unsuspecting Catholics died in the explosion, they would die as martyrs.

Voices sounded outside. Guy froze. Then slowly, carefully, he slid the pocket watch back into his purse and crossed to the nearest chair. The sword at his side thumped against his thigh, and the spurs on his heels clinked. The light jingle was a good reminder to stand still if anyone approached. A servant taking inventory in his master’s wine cellar might carry a sword to ward off undesirables, but he would have no need of spurs. An arsonist anticipating a swift escape on horseback, however, would desire both.

The voices were louder now, and they were accompanied by the steady thud of footsteps. Guy seized the logs lying on the closest barrel of wine and set them on the poor excuse for a table. Taking his knife, he pried the cork from the hole on the barrel’s lid. Instantly, the sweet aroma of fermented grapes filled the room.

There was a scrape of a key in the lock. Guy tensed. Upon entering the undercroft, he had locked the door behind him, and the key was safely in his purse. Whoever was about to enter had access to another key. The door opened, and three men entered. One held a lantern. Guy recognized him immediately as the fellow who had rented this room to Percy. Frustration simmered beneath Guy’s falsely placid expression. Percy should have insisted that every copy of the key to this door be handed over with the signing of the lease.

The two other intruders were unknown to him, but based on their finery, they were gentlemen of some means.

“Who are you?” the taller of the men demanded.

“John Johnson, m’ lord,” Guy said. “Manservant to Lord Percy.”

“And what are you doing in here?” The taller man spoke again.

“His Lordship requested a tally of his best wine, m’ lord. He is planning a dinner party after the opening of Parliament tomorrow.”

The second nobleman stepped into the small circle of light coming from Guy’s lantern and studied the stacked casks. “That would seem an inordinately large amount of firewood for a gentleman who spends much of his time away from London,” he said.

“I daresay.” Guy followed the direction of his gaze. “Though with his position in court, and the king returned, I believe he aims to be here most of the winter.”

“Hmm.” The skeptical nobleman turned to the other. “What do you make of this unusual supply, Suffolk?”

“I find it odd that a gentleman would keep his wood so far from his fireplace, but otherwise, I cannot fault the fellow for wishing to stay warm.” The Earl of Suffolk sniffed the air. “I would hazard a guess that Percy keeps a well-stocked wine cellar. He is known for his fondness for madeira.”

“Well stocked indeed,” the other man said, eyeing the nearest barrels.

Guy maintained his silence even as a drip of sweat trickled down his back. The tall nobleman was standing close enough to the end of the fuse that if he shifted his foot a fraction to the left, he would displace it from its shallow groove.

“Is this cellar let to Percy, Whynniard?” Suffolk asked the leaser.

“It is, m’ lord. And this ’ere is ’is servant. Mr. Johnson was with ’Is Lordship when ’e signed the papers t’ use th’ place.”

“I believe we can leave the man to his business, Monteagle,” Suffolk said. “If Whynniard can vouch for him, we should move on to the next room.”

The tall gentleman slowly walked the length of the stack of barrels, studying those in the shadows with particular attention. Guy remained completely still. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fuse twitch as the nobleman named Monteagle stepped on it, but as of yet, no one had noticed the sword and spurs Guy wore.

There was a whisper of movement in the corner. All three visitors swiveled in time to see the beady eyes of a rat gleaming in the lantern light. Monteagle muttered an oath, and the creature scuttled back behind the barrels.

“Percy can keep the vermin-infested place,” Suffolk said. “Let us all pray that the creatures stay belowstairs.”

Guy repressed a contemptuous snort. As far as he was concerned, the room above their heads housed the truly threatening vermin.

“We should go,” Monteagle said. “Our search must be completed before evening.”

Guy’s chest tightened. So, it was a search. Under whose orders? If Cecil had requested it, why were he and his henchmen not conducting it themselves? He wanted to ask, but a servant would never be so forward.

Whynniard was already opening the door.

“Good day to you, m’ lords,” Guy said.

The noblemen ignored him. It was as he’d expected, but he inclined his head deferentially regardless. This would be the last time he did it. And the last time he would see any of them.

Isla poked at the small piece of carrot on the plate before her. She’d managed to eat three bites of bread, one bite of roast goose, and two bites of carrot. It was a poor excuse for an evening meal, but it was all she could manage. And if the barely touched dishes on the rest of the table were any indication, Simon and the Maidstones were struggling with a similar lack of appetite.

“We should have heard by now.” Simon set his knife down on his pewter plate, the clatter sounding especially loud in the unusually quiet dining room.

Lord Maidstone glanced at the darkened window. “Suffolk wished to have every room in the palace searched by nightfall.”

“Perhaps he did, and the crisis is averted.” Martha made a valiant attempt to infuse her words with hope. “Suffolk and Monteagle may have already captured Fawkes or Catsby or whoever else was lurking around where they should not be.”

Isla said nothing. She had lain awake much of the night, attempting to remember the names of the men who were credited with arresting Guy Fawkes. She’d come close to capturing the names lodged somewhere in the deepest recesses of her memory, but up until now, they had eluded her. Unfortunately, she was quite certain neither of those soon-to-be heroes was named Suffolk or Monteagle.

“I shall go to Suffolk’s residence,” Simon said, coming to his feet. “If he has not yet sent a missive, he can deliver the news to me in person.”

“Is that wise?” Lord Maidstone asked. “At a time filled with whispers of treason, I would not wish seemingly undue curiosity to cause suspicion to fall upon you or any member of this household.”

“I am open to another suggestion, as long as it does not involve simply sitting here waiting.”

A knock sounded on the front door. Simon pivoted. Lord Maidstone pushed away from the table and was on his feet when Grantham entered.

“A note was delivered for you, my lord,” the servant said.

“Thank you, Grantham.” Lord Maidstone accepted the sealed paper with practiced calm and waited until the servant closed the door behind him before resuming his seat.

“Open it,” Martha begged.

Isla’s throat tightened. Simon stepped up behind her. She knew he was as anxious as she was, yet the feel of his hand resting upon her shoulder brought an unexpected measure of comfort.

Lord Maidstone broke the seal and opened the paper. He cleared his throat, then read,

Maidstone,

Monteagle and I conducted a thorough search of the palace buildings and found no sign of subversive activity. I have reported as much to the king. The writer of Monteagle’s mysterious and anonymous letter undoubtedly wished to spread mischief rather than truth. The opening of Parliament is to go forth as previously scheduled.

Sincerely, Suffolk

“Nothing!” Martha cried. “How could they find nothing?”

Lord Maidstone met Isla’s eyes. “You remain fully convinced that a threat exists?” He raised the paper in his hand. “Even after this report?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward. “You must believe me. The noblemen did not find anything because Guy Fawkes has hidden the barrels of gunpowder amongst caskets of wine. If the king’s guards went back to the undercroft beneath the House of Lords, they would discover it.”

Simon’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “I will go.”

“No!” Isla reached for his hand. “It must be armed guards.”

“I am armed.” Simon patted the sword at his side.

“Without a key to the room or the presence of someone with the authority to enter, you will get nowhere,” Lord Maidstone said.

“Very well. I shall find someone who fits one of those criteria,” Simon said.

Isla pressed her palm to her forehead, willing her memory to return. What were the names of the men who had confronted Guy Fawkes?

“Try Knyvett,” Lord Maidstone said. “His townhome is not far from here, and as a magistrate, he wields sufficient power to reopen the cellar.”

“That’s it!” Isla cried. “Knyvett! It is such an unusual name that I could not remember it. Knyvett must go to the undercroft, accompanied by a guard.”

“And me,” Simon said firmly. “I shall ensure Fawkes is taken into custody once and for all.”

“I shall join you,” Lord Maidstone said.

Simon shook his head. “There is too much at stake. We cannot have the entire success of this endeavor contingent upon me successfully persuading Knyvett to act. If our timing is off or Isla has forgotten an important but minute detail, all could be lost. There must be an alternate plan. Go to Cecil. He will give you audience without an appointment. Have him send men to the undercroft. God willing, Knyvett, a guard of his choosing, and I shall meet them there.”

“Go with Hugh to Sir Cecil, Simon,” Martha said. “Sir Cecil can send for Sir Knyvett and a troop of armed men. It is far too dangerous for you to approach the undercroft without an armed-guard escort.”

Isla rose, grateful when Simon wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t go,” she begged. “Martha is right. There is still time for Sir Cecil to send word to Sir Knyvett.”

“I must,” he said. “We do not know where either gentleman is at present. If Cecil is with the king or has already retired for the night, it will take too long to alert the guards.”

Isla placed her hands on his chest, desperate for Simon to understand the impending peril. “Guy Fawkes is a cunning and dangerous man. For years, he has lived as a mercenary. He has nothing but contempt for English law and the men who govern this land. This conspiracy has been his sole focus for months, and he will stop at nothing to see it through.”

“I understand,” Simon said.

Tears pricked her eyes. The words were easy to say, but she doubted Simon had ever faced anyone so fixated on a goal that all respect for the lives of others had fled.

“Martha,” Simon said. “Turn away.”

“Turn away?”

“Now,” Simon warned. And then without waiting to see if she complied, he drew Isla closer and kissed her with a fervor that had her knees trembling and her heart aching. “I love you, Isla Crawford,” he whispered. “I shall not do anything foolhardy. You have my word.”

“I love you, too, Simon.” Isla spoke through her tears. “Please be safe.”

“We’d best be on our way, Bancroft.” Lord Maidstone’s voice came from the door. Perhaps he’d kissed his wife farewell while Simon had been kissing her. Isla didn’t know, and now was not the time to look at Martha. She had a horrible feeling that her friend’s face would reflect the fear and anxiety on her own.

Simon dropped one last soft kiss on Isla’s forehead. Then he released her and walked out of the room.