Page 8 of A Time Traveler’s Masquerade (A McQuivey’s Costume Shop Romance)

S imon waited for Maidstone to take a seat beside Martha before claiming a chair near the fireplace for himself. “Thank you for interrupting your morning activities to meet with Miss Crawford and me,” he said.

“Is everything all right?” Martha’s concerned gaze moved from Simon to Miss Crawford and back.

“Yes,” Simon said. “At least, that is our hope.”

He did not need to look at Miss Crawford to sense her discomfort. But was she fully aware of how much the atmosphere in the parlor had changed in twenty-four hours? Gone was the aura of polite skepticism that had been clearly visible on every face. Everyone’s focus had subtly shifted from what to do about Miss Crawford to what to do for her.

“I assume you have gathered us because you have an update on Miss Crawford’s situation,” Maidstone said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Simon said. “Although it is not so much an update as a possible clue to her reason for being here.”

“Oh, do tell!” Martha said enthusiastically.

At his sister’s instant and eager response, Simon experienced a pang of unease. Had he jumped to a conclusion without truly thinking it through? “I would have you bear in mind that we are still simply exploring possibilities at present.”

“Yes, yes,” Martha said. “But a possibility—no matter how tenuous—is more than we had yesterday.”

He could not argue with that. He glanced at Miss Crawford. She was perched on the edge of her seat, her back taut and her hands clasped together on her knee, but she met his look without flinching. She was ready.

“It occurred to me this morning that just because Miss Crawford arrived at Copfield Hall, we should not assume that her area of influence is to be limited to this family or this area of the country.”

Maidstone stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You are operating under the premise that if the plague had not caused the evacuation of so many from London, she may have found herself there instead.”

“Exactly.” Having Maidstone’s train of thought parallel his own did much to boost Simon’s confidence. “That said, I asked Miss Crawford if she knew of anything of significant import that was to occur there soon.”

“And?” Martha leaned forward. “I assume there is.”

“Apparently.” Given Miss Crawford’s stricken expression at the lookout, Simon had a sinking feeling that Martha’s eagerness would soon turn to something more akin to fear. “I have not asked for details. I thought it better that we hear what she has to tell us as one.”

“Very good of you,” Maidstone said. He reached for Martha’s hand in a rare show of tenderness. “We are ready to hear what you have to say, Miss Crawford.”

Miss Crawford acknowledged Maidstone’s invitation with a slight nod. “Thank you, my lord.” She paused, concern filling her eyes. “To talk about events that are in your future but my past feels very strange. I don’t want to say anything that might change the course of your lives—or of history in general.”

“As commendable as that is, I would rather hear the whole of it rather than a watered-down version that leaves me guessing,” Maidstone said. “You may be assured that we will act with similar caution.”

She looked at Simon.

“I agree,” he said. “Tell us what you know.”

“There is a plot underway to kill the king and destroy the government,” she said.

Maidstone shrugged. “Unfortunately, there are usually several of them floating about.”

“Not like this one,” Miss Crawford said.

Maidstone’s eyebrows shot up at her emphatic tone, but Simon was coming to know the young lady. She would not speak so forcefully without good reason.

“How is this one different?” he asked.

“It has been planned for years,” she said. “The players are well connected and affluent and are fueled by a deep-seated hatred of those who have treated Catholics harshly. Everything they need is already in place, and they are waiting only for the opening day of Parliament to execute their plot.”

“What do they have planned?” Maidstone asked.

“They intend to blow up the Palace of Westminster when the king, his retinue, and all members of the House of Lords are in the building,” she said.

A log shifted in the fire, the sound unnaturally loud in the deathly silent parlor. Martha raised her free hand to her mouth to muffle a cry, and Maidstone found his voice.

“An act such as that would throw the country into a state of total anarchy.”

“I think that is their hope,” Miss Crawford said.

“But ...” Martha’s face was completely void of color. “Would that not kill everyone in the building?”

“Everyone in the building and within at least a quarter-mile radius of the area,” Miss Crawford said. “They’ve stashed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder beneath the chamber.”

Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder! How was that even possible? As the frightfulness of this treacherous plot took root, Simon could not remain seated. He leaped to his feet, then paced to the window and back. “When you first told me you knew of an infamous event that would soon take place, you also said that it would end well.”

“Yes.” Miss Crawford’s hands were tightly clasped again. “The authorities will learn of it and capture the men responsible before the gunpowder is lit.”

“How?” Simon asked.

Maidstone raised his hand. “I beg your pardon for interrupting this line of questioning, but before we go into the details of how this shocking incident shall be averted—and may God be praised if it is—I believe it would be in our best interest to know who is responsible for this treachery.”

“Fair enough.” Simon paused at the fireplace. “Can you give us names, Miss Crawford?”

She grimaced slightly. “This would be way easier if I had internet access.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.” She rubbed her forehead as though trying to encourage memories to resurface. “I wrote a research paper on this event when I was at university, but it’s been four or five years since I studied the material. There were about a dozen men in the conspiracy. I can probably come up with names for most of them, but the lesser-known ones will be harder to remember.”

Martha rose from her chair and walked to her small writing desk in the corner. “I will write them down. That way, if you remember more later, we can add to the list.”

“Thank you, Martha,” Simon said.

Miss Crawford waited until Martha’s quill was raised above a fresh sheet of paper. “The most well-known is Guy Fawkes,” she said. “He is the one who was placed in charge of gathering and lighting the gunpowder.”

“Guy Fawkes?” Maidstone gave Simon a puzzled look. “Is he familiar to you?”

“Not at all,” Simon admitted.

“That’s not terribly surprising,” Miss Crawford said. “He grew up in Northern England—York, actually—but he left the country about a decade ago to fight for the Catholics in Spain. While there, he took upon himself the name Guido Fawkes, and that’s where he learned so much about the use of gunpowder. He returned to England at the urging of Robert Catsby and has been posing as Thomas Percy’s manservant, John Johnson, since then.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Catsby and Percy are in on this?” Maidstone asked.

Miss Crawford nodded. “Catsby is the ringleader of the conspiracy. Percy has provided invaluable access to the royal palace and to a residence that is close enough to the Parliament buildings to allow the conspirators to try tunneling their way beneath the House of Lords.”

Maidstone uttered a quiet curse. Simon echoed the sentiment. Miss Crawford had not been exaggerating when she had told them this band of men was well connected. Catsby’s family was known to be recusant Catholics but were affluent landowners. And Percy—although reputed to be a bigamist, an embezzler, and an all-too-ready swordsman—was the great-grandson of the Earl of Northumberland.

“Who else?” Simon asked.

“There were two Wintour brothers,” she said.

“David Wintour?” Maidstone asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I seem to remember their names were the same as Catsby’s and Percy’s, so Thomas and Robert.” She frowned. “There were another set of brothers. Men who Guy Fawkes knew in school.” She closed her eyes, and Simon wondered if she was visualizing notes she’d taken in class. “Wright!” she said, opening her eyes. “That was their last name. John and Kit Wright.”

“I believe Kit Wright is Percy’s brother-in-law,” Maidstone said grimly.

“Several of them are related,” Miss Crawford said. “Keeping track of how they were connected helped me remember their names. Another one was Francis Tresham. He’s Catsby’s cousin.”

“I would not trust Tresham if my life depended upon it,” Simon said. “And I know of no other gentlemen who would.”

“Catsby’s servant, Thomas Bates, was involved too,” she said. “And a couple of horse breeders.”

Horse breeders? Simon’s thoughts whirled. He knew most of the reputable horse breeders in England—at least by name and reputation. “Where were they from?”

“The Midlands, I think,” she said.

“Smythe, Townsend, Grant, Rookwood?” Simon rattled off the names of the best-known horse breeders from that part of the country.

“Rookwood,” Miss Crawford said, seizing on the unusual name immediately. “And I think the other was Grant. Their responsibility was to supply the conspirators with getaway horses to escape London during the chaos that would ensue after the explosion. And one of them was to organize some kind of hunt at which Lady Elizabeth was to be kept until they brought Duke Charles to join her.”

“Blast it all, they’ve thought of everything,” Maidstone said, running his fingers through his hair.

“Not everything,” Simon said. “They must have made at least one error, or else they would not have been found out.”

“True.” Maidstone released a tense breath. “Perhaps the time has come to learn what will cause their downfall.”

Simon looked over at his sister. “How many names do you have, Martha?”

“Eleven,” she said.

Frustration lit Miss Crawford’s eyes. “There were more. Two or three, I think. Some of them joined the group just before November, and so they played a lesser role in my history books.”

“You’ve done well to remember eleven of them,” Simon said.

She offered him a grateful smile. “If the other names come to me, I’ll let you know.”

“Join us again, Martha,” Maidstone said. “And we shall have Miss Crawford tell us what lies ahead for these scoundrels.”

Martha left her writing table and took her place beside Maidstone. Simon opted to stay on his feet.

“Whenever you are ready, Miss Crawford,” he said.

“I believe most of the conspirators have temporarily left London,” she began. “I don’t remember where they all went or even when they will reunite, but they’ll regroup within a week or two of November 5. As Lord Maidstone said, they’ve thought through every element of their plot, including having a ship at harbor, ready to transport Guy Fawkes away from England after he escapes the city.”

Maidstone grunted his displeasure even as Simon marveled at the traitors’ forethought. “How are they to be prevented from seeing their plot through to its nefarious end?” Simon asked.

“A member of the House of Lords will have a dinner party at the end of the month,” she said. “During that party, a letter will be delivered to a servant, warning his master to stay away from the chambers on the opening day of Parliament. At first, the gentleman isn’t sure whether to take the message seriously, but he decides to take it to Robert Cecil, who brings it to the attention of the king when the king returns to London. The king orders a search of Parliament House.”

“And they find the gunpowder,” Martha guessed.

“Not immediately,” Miss Crawford said. “But men go back on the evening of November 4. That’s when they discover Guy Fawkes in the undercroft and arrest him.”

“Why on earth would they wait until the final hour?” Maidstone said. “A few minutes too late and all would be lost.”

“Cecil would want to catch the perpetrators red-handed,” Simon said grimly. “To send a message to all other would-be traitors.”

“I think that’s right,” Miss Crawford said. “Cecil must be very good at his job, because within a week, every member of the conspiracy is accounted for—most are dead.”

“Cecil is extremely powerful,” Simon said, “and utterly ruthless when crossed.”

A flicker of awareness lit Miss Crawford’s eyes. “He’s the one you said has spies everywhere.”

“He is. And I would hazard a guess that the letter you refer to will not be the first Cecil has heard of this conspiracy.”

“Perhaps not,” Maidstone said, “but it is obviously the catalyst for action that saves countless lives and the government as we know it.” He came to his feet. “Who is the gentleman who receives the warning note?”

Lines crossed Miss Crawford’s forehead. “I’ve been trying to remember. He’s titled. Lord Mount or Mont-something, I think.”

“Lord Montague?” Martha suggested.

“No.”

“Lord Montgomery?”

In obvious frustration, Miss Crawford shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it either.”

“It will come to you,” Simon said, genuinely believing it was true. Already, he was astounded by her ability to recall so many details from a history lesson given years before. “What of the person who sent the letter? Did one of the conspirators succumb to a prick of conscience?”

“I don’t know.”

Maidstone leaned forward. “You do not know, or you do not remember?”

“I don’t know. Nobody does.” She shrugged. “It’s one of the great mysteries surrounding the gunpowder plot. Many historians believe it was sent by one of the conspirators. The most popularly held belief is that it was Tresham because his sister was married to the gentleman.” She paused. “That’s it! That’s how we can figure out who received the warning. He’s Francis Tresham’s brother-in-law.”

“Lord Monteagle,” Martha said. “His wife, Elizabeth, is Mr. Tresham’s sister.”

Simon stared at his sister. “How ever did you know that?”

Martha shrugged. “Ladies have to talk about something whilst the gentlemen are discussing politics. Familial relationships are a common enough topic.”

Along with desired familial relationships, no doubt. Simon was well aware that ladies regularly bandied his name about in parlors, wishing to make a match for their daughters or granddaughters. Setting that discomforting thought aside, he focused on what Miss Crawford had been about to say. “So, centuries later, no one knows who sent the letter?”

“No. Lord Monteagle didn’t recognize the handwriting. I assume Cecil didn’t either.”

“No one ever claimed responsibility?” Maidstone asked.

“Not as far as historians know.”

“Miss Crawford.” Martha’s voice was unusually hushed. “What if you are the one who wrote it?”