Page 20 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

T he Old Palace Yard was shrouded in blackness. Clouds covered the moon and stars, and an air of foreboding hung over the square. Sitting astride Blaze, Simon rolled his shoulders to release some of the tension building there. When he’d come here with Isla, he’d been struck by the portentous aura that had hung over the buildings he knew so well. He had not enjoyed the new sensation. He liked it even less now that it was even stronger.

Knyvett rode at his right. The gentleman had been eating his evening meal when Simon had arrived at his house. Thankfully, it seemed magistrates were better used to interruptions than most gentlemen, and when he heard that Simon had come on pressing business that involved the safety of the king, he had left his table to hear what Simon had to say. Choosing his words carefully, Simon had explained that as one who had personally heard the contents of the letter delivered to Monteagle, he was convinced that it contained a real threat. He’d also hinted that in Suffolk’s desire to accomplish his assigned task quickly, the nobleman may have overlooked some highly suspicious barrels in the undercroft below the House of Lords. The promise of a second search being limited to one room had been enough to convince Knyvett to call for his horse. Doubleday, the broad-shouldered guard who had delivered Knyvett’s mount, had arrived with a lantern and a mount of his own. Both had been a welcome sight.

Doubleday had ridden ahead of them, keeping the lantern aloft, but now that they had reached the courtyard, he reined his horse to a stop to await further instructions.

“Over there, Knyvett,” Simon said, pointing to a black rectangular object painted onto the lower portion of the building near the corner. “Do you see it? We may need to move closer to be sure, but the darkened portion looks to be a door.”

“Agreed.” Knyvett dismounted. “We do not know who or what we shall find inside, so I believe it would behoove us to approach quietly.” He took his reins and tossed them around the lower branch of a nearby tree. Without a word, Simon and Doubleday did the same. “If you would light our way once more, Doubleday, we shall proceed to the undercroft.”

From the direction of the Thames, a man shouted. Another shout and the creak of timber followed. It was an eerie sound. Simon pulled his cloak more closely around himself and surveyed the darkened space behind them. Not a soul in sight. Did Fawkes have any accomplices about? One gentleman against three was fair odds. Then again, one madman against three leveled the playing field.

“It’s a door, Sir Knyvett.” Leading the way, Doubleday had the best view of what lay ahead. “An’ there’s a few steps leadin’ down to it.”

“Have your weapon ready, Doubleday,” Knyvett said. The zing of metal on metal filled the air as both Simon and the guard unsheathed their swords. For his part, Knyvett removed a large key ring from his belt. “As a member of the late queen’s privy chamber and with my current position as a London magistrate, I enjoy greater access to the palace than most.” He stepped into the circle of lantern light, the keys jangling as he sorted through them. He turned three over before claiming the next. “I shall knock. If there is no response, I shall unlock the door.” He gave Doubleday a warning look. “Be prepared for a fight.”

Doubleday’s teeth glistened in the lantern’s light. “Yes, m’ lord.”

The guard took a position at Knyvett’s right and held the light above the keyhole. Simon stood at Knyvett’s left. The magistrate knocked. Simon thought he heard the scrape of chair legs but then nothing.

Knyvett knocked again. The silence persisted. He slid the key into the lock. “On the count of three, gentlemen,” he muttered.

He counted slowly, and then the bolt drew back with a solid thud. Knyvett pushed open the door, and Doubleday entered with Simon only one step behind.

The room was chilly and lit by a single lantern. A lone man stood before them, wearing a dark cloak and stovepipe hat. In his hand, he held a sword.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice was low and filled with indignation.

“I could ask the same.” Yet to raise his sword, Knyvett approached the man boldly. “As a London magistrate, I demand to know your name and reason for being within the walls of the House of Lords at this time of night.”

The man’s expression turned from outraged to calculating. “John Johnson,” he said. “Manservant to Lord Percy, who leases this undercroft.” He gestured to the caskets. “His are the wine caskets you see here.”

Simon narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the undercroft’s contents. Percy was a known Catholic sympathizer, and Isla had mentioned his name as one who was involved with the conspiracy. “If this is truly Percy’s wine cellar, the gentleman’s collection rivals that of the most frequented inns in London.” Simon turned his attention back to the man in black. “Of course, a gentleman with access to so vast a space may choose to store other things also.”

The stranger’s eyes flashed with menace. It was an unlikely reaction for a subservient manservant. However, it was exactly what Simon would expect from a mercenary and treasonous conspirator.

“Sir Knyvett,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on the glowering man, “might I suggest that one of us checks the contents of these caskets? I fear Mr. Fawkes may not be telling the whole truth.”

At Simon’s use of his real name, Fawkes’s shoulders stiffened, and he raised his sword a fraction.

Knyvett must have caught the subtle shift in Fawkes’s stance because his hand moved to hover over the hilt of the weapon at his side. “Fawkes, is it?”

When Fawkes did not respond, Knyvett inclined his head toward the barrels. “Check them, Bancroft.”

Much like a prize greyhound intent on his prey, Fawkes lunged forward. With barely enough time to unsheathe his blade, Knyvett would have fallen had Doubleday not leaped to parry Fawkes’s sword with his own. The clash of steel rang through the cellar. Knyvett stepped back, allowing Doubleday room to maneuver into a better position while readying himself to enter the fight.

“Now, Bancroft,” Knyvett yelled. “We have him.”

Tightening his grip on his own weapon, Simon darted across the room. The lantern on the small table illuminated a long dagger beside an open bundle of food. He ignored the signs of Fawkes’s simple meal and rounded the furniture. The faint scent of wine lingered over the nearest barrel. He ignored it. If the conspirators had placed casks of wine in the cellar to discourage curious visitors, those decoys were surely at the front of the stack.

Leaning over the first row of casks, he plunged his sword into the side of the nearest barrel in the next row. He twisted the blade and withdrew it. Instantly, a stream of dark liquid trickled down the wooden side. He swiveled, pulled back his arm, and pierced the next barrel. Grunts, heavy footsteps, and the ring of metal continued behind him. Trusting that Knyvett or Doubleday would shout a warning if needed, Simon twisted his blade. The wood cracked and splintered. He withdrew his sword, and this time, a stream of black powder followed.

“Gunpowder,” he yelled. Isla had been right. About everything. Which meant he needed to search no longer. He knew what he would find. “Enough to blow up the entire Palace of Westminster and beyond.”

“Yield, Fawkes,” Knyvett shouted. “You are under arrest for treason.”

“Never.” The words dripped with loathing. “You and your inconsequential titles mean nothing.” He lunged at Doubleday. The guard deflected, forcing Fawkes back two paces. “My purpose here is greater than you and greater than me.”

Doubleday had him backing toward the furniture. Not wanting to distract the guard, Simon dropped to his knees and crawled beneath the table. His fingertips brushed against something long, thin, and smooth pressed into the dirt. He clawed it loose and pulled. The end of the cord appeared, grating across the base of the wooden barrel as he yanked it free. A fuse. Heaven help them. Were there more? And would Fawkes set them alight even now?

With a new level of urgency, Simon scrambled to his feet. Doubleday had set his lantern near the door, but Fawkes’s was on the table, which meant a burning flame was within arm’s reach of their opponent. Doubleday had Fawkes cornered. The man had to be desperate. But desperate enough to kill himself along with everyone else? Simon did not need to think on the answer. The unnerving determination on Fawkes’s face spoke more clearly than words.

Fawkes’s left arm swung wide across the table. Simon dove forward, pushing the lantern out of the conspirator’s reach one heartbeat before Fawkes could have grasped it. Fawkes growled in anger. Simon shifted slightly and lunged again, this time reaching for the lantern’s handle and lifting it off the table. Undaunted, Fawkes swung his arm wide and seized the dagger. Swiveling, he turned on Simon and let the weapon fly.

Simon had no time to react. The dagger had only the width of the table to travel before it entered his abdomen. He heard his cry as if from a distance, and then pain, sharp and intense, started on his left side and spread to encompass his entire torso. His sword clattered to the floor. The lantern in his other hand wavered. He could not drop it. Not while he was surrounded by gunpowder.

Vaguely aware that Knyvett was shouting and Doubleday had Fawkes on the floor, Simon looked down. The hilt of Fawkes’s dagger was all that remained in view. Shock was instantly followed by a wave of nausea. Gritting his teeth, he set his hand around the dagger’s handle and pulled it free. Blood covered the blade and dripped to the floor. He raised his eyes, not willing to view his doublet. Wetness coated his fingers and abdomen.

“Tie his arms.” Knyvett was barking orders.

“There’s a cord.” The words came out in a groan. Simon could no longer remember where he’d tossed the fuse. Perhaps it did not matter. Doubleday was a guard. He surely had something on his person that he could use.

Pressing his hand to his wound, Simon attempted to move past the table toward the door. His legs trembled, and the lantern swayed.

“Bancroft!” Knyvett was at his side.

“Take the lantern,” Simon gasped through waves of pain. “We will all be blown to the heavens if it falls.”

Knyvett pried the metal ring from Simon’s fingers. As soon as the weight of the lantern was gone, Simon dropped his head and arm. Breathing deeply, he took another faltering step. He staggered. An arm came around him.

“This way, m’ lord.” Doubleday half carried him to the door and slowly lowered him to the floor.

“Fawkes?” Simon managed.

“Trussed up with his own fuse,” Doubleday said with satisfaction.

Knyvett stood above him, but Simon could not see beyond his shoes. Raising his head took too great an effort.

“We must take him to the king directly,” Knyvett said. “Are you well enough to travel to the Palace of Whitehall if we assist you onto your mount?”

It was noble of Knyvett to not simply abandon him, but it was a ludicrous question.

“Go.” Simon leaned his head against the wall. “Take Fawkes. Maidstone has gone for Cecil. They will arrive soon enough with extra men who can assist me.”

Knyvett did not waste time arguing. He surely knew that attempting to move Simon would simply slow them down and be an exercise in futility. Every man in that dank room was fully aware that there was no recovery from a deep dagger wound to the abdomen.

“We shall leave a lantern and will return when we have handed Fawkes over to the king,” Knyvett said.

Doubleday reached for the man sitting near the table with his hands tied behind his back. He hauled him to his feet and dragged him roughly toward the door. “The king first,” Doubleday growled. “An’ after that, the Tower.”

Ignoring them both, Fawkes shot Simon a contemptuous look. “I daresay you shall see the other side before me, my lord. May you be suitably punished for your work here this night.”

With all the strength Simon had remaining to him, he raised his head and kept it up until Doubleday had heaved Fawkes outside and Knyvett had closed the door behind them. He heard Knyvett’s voice and the men’s heavy footsteps. Then they were gone.

Breathing through the agony that encircled his core, Simon closed his eyes to the shadowy forms of the perilous barrels, closed his ears to the scratching of rats, and thought of Isla. Sorrow filled him, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. The gunpowder plot was undone. The life of the king, members of Parliament, and countless innocent people had been saved, and yet Simon had failed. No matter his vow to the contrary, he would not return to her. The pain in his heart threatened to outweigh the pain at his side, but he pictured her beside him, their fingers intertwined.

“Forgive me, Isla,” he whispered into the darkness. “I may not be with you, but I shall always love you.”

Something was wrong. Isla could feel it as surely as she could feel the heat from the fireplace and the draft from the window. She paced the distance between those two locations in Martha’s parlor for the tenth or eleventh time. What she wouldn’t give for mobile phone service right now! A brief call—or even a one-word text—from Simon was all it would take to put her mind at ease. Instead, she was consigned to this torturous waiting and fretting. Was there something she’d forgotten? Something about the capture of Guy Fawkes that she was missing?

“Surely one of the gentlemen shall return soon.” Martha was sitting on the edge of the nearest chair, her hands clasped, her expression tense. She’d made the same statement twice already.

“I sincerely hope so.” Isla paused her mindless march to anxiously run her hands down her cream-colored gown, realizing as she did so that it was the dress she’d been wearing when she’d first arrived at Copfield Hall. She had been afraid then too. But for very different reasons. The terrified young lady standing on the manor’s doorstep that evening could never have anticipated how much she would come to love the Maidstones and Simon. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Especially Simon.

In the fireplace, a log shifted. Isla’s thoughts did the same. There should be no reason to fear. Her history books had reported that the general search at the Palace of Westminster had come up empty and that it was Knyvett and a guard who had captured Guy Fawkes later that night. Simon had gone for Knyvett. Surely the magistrate and his associate must have been willing and had responded to the call. After all, the two men would be hailed as heroes and be well rewarded for their actions.

The two men . Isla’s deliberations tumbled to a screeching halt. The two men. She reached for the back of the nearest chair to steady herself. If Simon had accompanied Knyvett and the guard to the undercroft, there were three men with Fawkes. Simon would not simply walk away when Fawkes was taken into custody. He would want to ensure that the traitor was safely delivered to the king. But if that had happened, there would have been a record of it.

Isla’s grip on the chairback tightened. Had there been any casualties during the capture of Guy Fawkes? With every man in the vicinity bearing a sword, it seemed almost impossible to believe that no one had been injured—or worse. The air left Isla’s lungs. Was there no mention of Simon in the history books because he had not made it out of the undercroft alive?

She fought for composure. “Martha, I need a horse.”

Her friend looked at her as though she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had. But with this new revelation, there was no way she could stay in the parlor another second.

“But it is full dark outside,” Martha said.

“I know, but I must go to Westminster.”

Fear entered Martha’s eyes, and she rose to her feet. “What have you recalled?”

She should have known Martha would guess the reason for her request. But she could not tell her. Moving closer, she took her friend’s hands in hers. “As much as I hate to leave you here alone, I really think Simon needs me more right now.”

“You cannot go out alone. London is no place for a young lady—”

“I must, Martha,” Isla interrupted. Nothing she was about to do fell under the prescribed codes of conduct for women in the seventeenth century, but at this point, she didn’t care. “Can you find me a horse? I don’t have any time to lose.”

“You must have an escort.”

“No. That is one more horse to locate and more time wasted.” She squeezed Martha’s hands. “Please. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t desperately important.”

“Is Simon in danger?” she asked.

Isla released her hands and stepped back. “If you would send Grantham for a horse, I will run upstairs for my cloak.” Not waiting for an answer, she lifted her skirts and ran out of the room.