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The 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.