Page 4 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

T he priest brought his prayer to a close. In unison, the ten men in the Duck and Drake Inn’s upstairs room raised their heads. All but one kept his eyes on the religious leader as he offered an acknowledging nod to Robert Catsby. Catsby was the person responsible for calling this meeting. He insisted upon beginning all their clandestine gatherings with a mass. It was a worthy practice, and Guy Fawkes could not fault the man for doing it. Even if it meant that one more person was aware of the connection between the conspirators in the room.

For his part, Guy chose to ignore the priest and study his associates. Every gentleman within these four walls claimed full devotion to the Catholic cause, and despite the Anglican leanings of their current monarch and his henchmen, a heady sense of power, determination, and influence pervaded the small, dimly lit room. With swords unsheathed, these men had sworn an oath of fellowship and secrecy. Guy thrilled at the memory of the night he had joined them. It had marked the beginning of real change. There would be no more waiting for King James to fulfill vague promises. Diplomacy had long since proved to be a futile endeavor. The time for action had come, and it would commence with ending the monarch’s reign.

Unaware of the true reason for the gathering, the priest offered a final blessing on those in the room before slipping out through the door. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The whisper of footsteps in the outside passage faded. In the distance, another door closed. And then Catsby rose to his feet.

“You are undoubtedly aware of the king’s recent edict, demanding that the opening of Parliament be delayed until November 5.” His lip curled contemptuously. “King James’s assertion that the plague has become overly rampant in London is a characteristically weak excuse. He simply wishes to take more time to flatter Scottish noblemen on yet another royal hunt.”

Jack Wright scowled. “No matter the reason, he has thrown our plans into commotion.”

Across the room, Kit Wright shook his head. “Where’s your faith, brother? A delay is merely a delay. It is not the termination of our efforts.”

“Well said, Kit.” Thomas Percy played the part of Gentleman Pensioner to perfection. His attitude was as haughty as was his voice. “Our plans shall move forward; only the date of the end of the Church of England’s stranglehold on this country will change.”

Catsby looked askance, and Guy smirked. Notwithstanding Catsby’s undisputed leadership, Percy was well positioned to put the older Wright brother in his place. Percy’s pedigree set him apart from most of the men in the room. His connections were impeccable. They’d gained him access to a house across the street from the House of Lords, which had been a godsend when they’d been searching for a way to enter the revered building. Those same credentials also gave Percy admittance to the royal residence.

Guy leaned back in his seat, watching the interaction between the gentlemen with interest. It would not be long before Jack Wright backed down and resumed his rightful place. If Catsby was the group’s leader, Percy was his deputy. And Guy? Well, everyone here knew his position. To the outside world, he was John Johnson, manservant to Thomas Percy. To those in this room—and a handful of others currently working with the Spanish on the Continent—he was a fearless combatant and foremost authority on the use of gunpowder. No matter the lowly station he had assumed since returning from Spain, he was indispensable to the success of Catsby’s plan, and everyone in this group knew it.

As though Catsby’s thoughts had mirrored his own, the tall, broad-shouldered man turned to Guy. “What say you, Fawkes? Can the gunpowder withstand the wait?”

Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder sat in an undercroft beneath the chamber where the House of Lords gathered. They’d been painstakingly transported there under the cover of darkness from Robert Keyes’s house in Lambeth.

“The damp coming from the Thames is the greatest threat,” Guy said. It was a factor he’d rarely had to consider in Spain’s dry climate.

“How great a threat?” Catsby pressed.

Guy shrugged. “Until I have inspected the barrels, I cannot say for certain.”

“Can you access them within the next twenty-four hours without drawing attention?”

Guy did not deign to answer the question directly. Over the last few weeks, he’d been in and out of the undercroft more times than he could count. Always at night. Always with an associate keeping guard across the street. “Assign a watchman to go with me tomorrow evening, and you shall have your answer by the next morning,” he said.

Catsby gave a satisfied smile. “Wintour, go with Fawkes.”

Thomas Wintour exchanged a brief nod with Guy. “I shall be on the corner of Margaret Street and King Street at half past midnight tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Guy said. It would be easy enough to exchange a few words with Wintour before venturing into the Parliament building. At that time of night, the street should be empty—the king’s mandate had worked in their favor in that regard, at least. Few members of the upper class remained in London; even fewer were venturing outside their homes.

“When you have ascertained the status of the barrels, send word to me at the Bell Inn in Daventry,” Catsby said before turning to the remaining men. “On the assumption that Fawkes discovers nothing amiss, we shall set our plans in motion on November 4. I advise each of you to leave the plague-ridden city until that date. Contracting the disease will do nothing for our cause. Do not spend time alone together. No hint of collusion or subversion must reach Cecil. He will not rest until he uncovers the source of the faintest of whispers.”

Every man nodded. They would scatter, but it would not be hard to locate them when the time was right. Rookwood and Grant would return to their respective horse farms. Sir Digby would undoubtedly join a hunt in the Midlands. Robert Wintour would likely wait for his brother, Thomas, to return from standing guard before joining his family. There would be no questions asked if the Wright brothers traveled together, nor if Bates remained with Catsby. Bates was Catsby’s right-hand man and would be expected to go wherever his master went.

“I believe I am overdue for a visit to your country home, Catsby,” Percy said.

Catsby eyed him narrowly. “In case you have forgotten, you possess a well-furnished manor of your own, Percy. Make use of it. My wine cellar is depleted far too quickly when you come to stay.”

Percy grinned, not the least perturbed. “Your loss, Catsby. I have a feeling the month of October shall see you pacing your spacious rooms just as a caged animal would.”

As expected, Catsby ignored the goading. No one in the room had witnessed Catsby ruffled. He was a man of deliberation followed by brisk action. During the months that had passed since they’d first met, Guy had come to appreciate Catsby’s calm, measured approach. It was a quality that boded well for a leader and his followers.

“That is all, gentlemen,” Catsby said. It was time to disperse—slowly, one at a time, so that no one in the lower room of the inn was aware that a meeting had occurred on the upper floor. “Fawkes. I wish you well.”

Guy rose, grateful to be the first to leave. It was safer that way. He eyed Percy speculatively. If the gentleman followed Catsby’s orders and relocated to his own house in the country, he would be surrounded by retainers and would have no need of his so-called servant, John Johnson. Perhaps this dismissal might last a little longer than Guy had anticipated.

He started for the door, his thoughts shifting from the inn near London to a small house outside York. He’d not seen his former home or his mother in over ten years. If he were forced to flee the country after the events of November 5, it was unlikely that he would see either one for years to come. He reached for the door and opened it a fraction. The passage beyond was quiet. With ears pricked for the sound of an unexpected footfall, he opened the door wider and stepped out. He had an important task to perform. Once that was behind him, he would consider making a journey up north.

Isla rolled onto her right side. The mattress beneath her rustled, the noise penetrating her troubled sleep. She’d bought a new memory-foam-topped mattress not more than six months ago. It never rustled. Afraid to open her eyes, she held completely still, listening for the grind of a London bus’s engine or the honk of a taxi’s horn outside her bedroom window. Instead, she heard a rooster crow. She tensed. There were no roosters in Knightsbridge. There was probably a city ordinance prohibiting them.

Reluctantly but unable to put off the inevitable any longer, she opened her eyes. A narrow chink of light spilled through the small gap between the shutters at the window. It was just enough to illuminate the dark beams running across the ceiling and the large fireplace filled with the ashes of yesterday’s fire.

The heavy fabric hanging from the top of the four-poster bed in which she lay blocked her view of the rest of the bedroom, but there could be no doubt about where she was. Last night, she’d done her utmost to persuade herself that if she fell asleep in the seventeenth-century bedchamber, she’d wake up in her modern London flat. It hadn’t happened.

She snapped her eyes closed again. “Stay calm. Stay calm.” Her words were barely audible, but they circled the room in a taunting whisper.

Somehow, she’d fumbled her way through an entire Elizabethan meal. At least, she’d thought it was Elizabethan, but she’d been wrong about that too. She clenched the blanket. Sixteen oh five. The beginning of the Jacobean era, with all its political turmoil and domestic hardships. When the significance of the date had finally hit her, shock had left her virtually speechless.

In retrospect, Isla realized that her continued silence at the table may have come across as rudeness, sullenness, or shyness, but she would accept any of those labels over having a complete meltdown or saying something that would send her to the Tower of London. She took an unsteady breath. What was the right thing to say? If she had truly traveled back in time, did she tell the people living here about the dangers the government was about to face? Or would giving them that kind of information somehow rewrite history? Over the last few months, she may have wished for more influence at work, but this was taking responsibility for the workings of Parliament to another level.

She pulled back the bedcovers. The room felt chilly and damp, but she slid out of the bed anyway. When her bare feet touched the wooden floor, she shivered. There was a small pile of logs lying beside the fireplace, but with no matches in sight, she had no idea how to start a fire. Helplessness mingled with panic. Starting a fire without matches was only the beginning. She didn’t know the first thing about how to survive in a seventeenth-century world.

Attempting to tamp down her fears, she focused on what she could do. Her best chance of warming up was to put on a few more layers. The gown Lady Maidstone had loaned her lay across a nearby chair. Her costume shop clothing hung on a clothes rack in front of the empty fireplace. Tiptoeing across the floor so as to limit how much her feet actually touched the cold surface, she reached for the cream-colored floral gown. It was dry.

Isla wasn’t sure whether the speed at which she donned the clothes was due to practice, or if she was just desperate to warm up. Either way, she dressed quickly and hurried over to the window. Opening one of the shutters a fraction, she peeked outside. This bedroom faced the front of the house. Morning mist hung over the trees, shrouding the world beyond. Puddles caused by the rain the night before appeared like pockmarks on the gravel driveway, and the grass glistened with moisture. Beyond the nearest cluster of trees, she could just make out the tiled roof of the woodshed.

She gripped the window frame. Was it a woodshed? Or was it some kind of time portal? The thought that she might actually be experiencing life in 1605 was mind-blowing. And completely terrifying. She had to check the shed one more time. Before anyone else was awake. If she had actually traveled into the past, there had to be a way for her to go back.

With a whispered apology to Lady Maidstone, Isla slipped her feet into her hostess’s size-six shoes and crossed the room. She opened the door carefully. It creaked, but the hall beyond was silent. Just enough light was coming through the chinks in the shutters to guide her down the stairs and to the front door. There was no sign of a servant, so Isla turned the enormous key in the lock. The bolt drew back with a loud thud. She stood very still. Voices reached her from the back of the house. Something clanged. A pan in the kitchen maybe? Not waiting to find out, she opened the door and stole outside.

Closing the door behind her, she ran down the steps and cut across the gravel driveway to the grass. The damp ground muffled the sound of her running feet, but it was slippery. She slowed her steps slightly. She’d fallen in this area once before and still had grass stains on her gown to prove it. Moving more carefully, she wove around a small grove of trees, and suddenly, the woodshed was right before her. From the safety of the trees, she glanced up and down the driveway. There was still no sign of anyone, so she stepped onto the path and cautiously approached the shed door.

The black wood and wrought-iron latch were discouragingly familiar. She walked around the right side of the shed. An empty wheelbarrow was parked against the wall. She continued past it to the back of the small building. It pressed up against a thick hedge, and even though she could just make out the muted greens of a field beyond, there was not enough space for anyone or anything to pass between the wall and the dense foliage.

Doubling back, she walked around the front of the shed to study the other side. Three large logs lay on the ground, and if the dusting of wood chips on the grass was any indication, this was the spot where much of the wood for the house was chopped. There was no sign of any tools. Presumably, the Maidstones’ servants knew better than to leave axes or saws outside in an area where unexpected rain was common.

Like it or not, it seemed that there was no other entrance or exit to the woodshed. The black door was the only one she could have come through the night before. She stared at the unimposing entrance to the woodshed with mounting trepidation, then she reached for the latch. It lifted. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The wood was stacked just as it had been before. Tidy rows piled almost as high as the uneven roof. No painted walls, no mirror or hooks, no polished wood floor.

Isla fought back tears as her hope crumbled. Lord Bancroft was right; this building was nothing more than a woodshed. She would never understand how she’d come here. And if there was a way for her to return to modern-day London, she didn’t know where to begin looking for it. She pressed her hand against the roughly hewn doorframe, her thoughts and fears tumbling over each other. What was she to do? Without ID, money, a home, or family—at least, none who would know her, even if she knew where to find them—she was basically destitute.

And what of the life she’d left behind? How long would it be before her parents, siblings, friends, and coworkers realized she was gone? Her heart ached at the thought that her mother and father would never know what had happened to her—or how much she loved them.

“Miss Crawford?”

At the unexpected voice, Isla gasped and swung around. “Lord Bancroft!”

“Are you quite all right?”

All right? No. Not remotely. “I ... uh ...” She fought for control of her emotions.

He must have sensed her helplessness, because his eyebrows lowered. “If I can be of assistance, I am willing.”

“Thank you. You’ve already been marvelous. I just don’t know if you’ll ...” She shook her head. The man was hardly more than a slight acquaintance. If she told him the truth, he’d think her a certifiable nutcase. But what other choice did she have? She didn’t know nearly enough about the early 1600s to survive another twenty-four hours without help. Besides, she had nowhere to go and no one else to turn to besides him and the Maidstones.

“I have a considerable number of well-connected friends and associates,” Lord Bancroft said. “Lord Maidstone has even more. No matter what has happened in your past, between the two of us, we are well positioned to give you aid.”

Isla wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not sure that anyone here can help me.”

“I should like to try.”

Hope made a valiant attempt at surfacing through her deepening despair. “Why? We hardly know each other.”

Shrugging off his cloak, he stepped forward and set it around her shoulders. It was heavy and warm and smelled of horses and leather. He drew it around her. “First, any young lady wandering rural Britain in late September without a cloak is, of necessity, in need of aid. Second, my father taught me that being born into privilege simply means that one is in a better position to offer assistance to others.”

Isla stared at him. “Your father is a remarkable man.”

“He was. He died when I was eighteen years of age. That was ten years ago, but I miss him fiercely even now.”

“I’m sorry. Is your mother still alive?”

He shook his head, regret in his eyes. “She followed him to the grave two years later. Martha and I are the only ones left now.”

“I have an older brother and sister,” she said. “Both married and living their own lives. My parents still live in York.” She paused, the ramifications of her new situation settling on her with even greater weight than Lord Bancroft’s cloak. Would she ever see any of her family members again? Battling an unexpected surge of emotion, she cleared her throat. “They ... uh ... They ...”

“If you wish to return to York, that can be arranged,” he said.

“Thank you, but they won’t be there.”

He frowned. “Forgive me. With the prevalence of the plague in London, I assumed they would be in residence in York. Are they visiting friends or relatives elsewhere?”

“No.” Isla took a deep breath. There was no easy way to explain this. “They won’t live there for over four hundred years.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I honestly don’t know if there’s anything you can do to help me, but if you’re willing to suspend disbelief for a few minutes, I’ll tell you exactly where I came from.”

Lord Bancroft’s frown deepened. “‘Suspend disbelief’ is not an expression I am familiar with.”

“Sorry.” Isla rallied her thoughts. Perhaps her unusual expressions were something she could use to her advantage. “I’m afraid my speech is probably full of unfamiliar words and expressions.”

He acknowledged her comment with an inclination of his head and a slight smile. “I have been trying to ascertain the origin of your unusual vocabulary. Have you spent time in Wales?”

Isla shook her head. Under normal circumstances, she would have laughed. At the moment, however, she was too stressed to even smile. If Lord Bancroft didn’t believe her, she would be in even more trouble than she was now. “I’m simply asking you to listen to what I tell you with an open mind,” she said.

“Of course.”

That was easier said than done. As was uttering the words she needed to say.

“I’m from the future.” The sentence tumbled out, and Isla hurried to continue. “I know it sounds crazy, and I have no idea how it happened, but it’s true. I promise.”

“You are from the future,” Lord Bancroft repeated. His voice showed no hint of emotion, but she caught the twitch in his jaw.

“Yes. One minute, I was in a changing room in a costume shop in Westminster in 2025, and the next minute, I was caught in a storm on the Maidstones’ front lawn in 1605.” She gestured toward the woodshed. “I know it sounds mad. I walked out into a completely different world. Well, not a different world, exactly, but a completely different time.”

Lord Bancroft’s jaw remained tense. “And you expect me to believe this?”

Tears pricked Isla’s eyes. “No. I don’t. It’s too far-fetched. But it’s all I’ve got because believable or not, it’s the truth.” She clasped her hands together tightly and willed the tears to stay at bay. “I don’t know what to do. The only people I know are you and Lord and Lady Maidstone. All I have are the clothes I’m wearing.”

“I beg to differ,” he said. “The shoes and cloak do not belong to you.”

“You’re right.” She slid the cloak off her shoulders and offered it to him.

“Put it back on,” he said gruffly. “It’s far too cold out here to be without one.”

“But it’s yours, and now you’re without one.” She didn’t understand him. One minute, he was calling her on the carpet, and the next minute, he was being chivalrous.

“My jacket is warmer than your gown,” he said. “And no matter how ludicrous your tale, I am not so inconsiderate that I would walk away from you with the cloak.”

Isla’s heart sank. “Are you going to walk away, then?”

“If I had a modicum of sense, I would be halfway to the front door by now.”

“Yes.” She looked down at the cloak in her hands, and a tear escaped. “You would.”

There was a moment of silence, and then with a frustrated grunt, he took the fabric from her and draped it across her shoulders again. “There is a bench on the other side of the grove of trees,” he said. “I shall give you five minutes of this so-called suspended disbelief, and then I shall decide what is to be done.”

With you . The additional words went unsaid but hung in the damp air between them. Isla drew the cloak more closely around herself. He had offered her more than she’d dared hope for. For now, it was enough.