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Simon detected a flicker of fear in her eyes.

“Not at all,” Martha reassured her. “Belle was my horse for many years. She’s always been a gentle mount—and is all the more so now that she’s aging. We should have sold her when I acquired my new mare, Violet, but we were too attached. And she will be a good training horse when the boys transition from a pony to a full-sized mount.”

“Which should be any day now,” Maidstone said.

Martha frowned at what was likely yet another reminder that her sons were growing up. “True, but tomorrow, Belle shall be your ride.”

“Thank you.” Miss Crawford glanced at Simon. He caught the uncertainty in her eyes a moment before she turned back to Martha. “Answering a few questions seems very little payment for all your kindness. I wish I could do something more.”

“You may yet do so,” Maidstone said. “I would advise you to keep pondering what your reason for being here may be. I daresay once you discover it, we shall be grateful that you are come.”

Her smile was small, but the air of despair that had hung over her appeared to lift a fraction. “I hope you’re right,” she said.

Guy tugged his hat a little lower and averted his head as he approached St Margaret’s Church. If anyone was about at this time of night, they might notice a gentleman walking past the church gates, but they would be hard-pressed to identify him. His black hat and cloak were as unremarkable as they were concealing.

When he reached the corner of the church grounds, he spared a quick look to his right. A shadow silhouetted against the low wall shifted. He narrowed his eyes. A white glove appeared from beneath a dark cloak. Thomas Wintour’s signal. Guy made no acknowledging sound or sign. There was no need. Wintour knew he’d seen him.

Given the choice, Guy would have preferred to work alone. Placing his trust in others did not come easily. But now that the gunpowder had all been transported to the undercroft at the Palace of Westminster, there was too much at stake to risk being seen entering the ground floor storage room. Wintour knew that as well as any of the conspirators. It was unlikely that anyone would be in the vicinity at midnight, but the king’s henchman, Cecil, was known to do the unexpected, and his spies had been trained to do the same. It was pure foolishness to not employ a lookout when Wintour was perfectly capable of doing the job.

Guy paused to listen. A gust of wind rattled the dry leaves on a nearby tree. The lap of the Thames River hitting the boat moorings reached him from the other side of the building before him. An alley cat screeched, and a distant shout followed. It was the closest the city of London could come to complete calm.

Slipping his hand beneath his cloak, he drew the large key from the purse at his belt and moved swiftly across Old Palace Yard. Within moments, a building’s roofline loomed above him, blocking the moonlight and darkening his path. He slowed his steps. A fall would not serve him well.

Instinct told him he was nearing the stairs. Straining to see through the darkness, he picked out the slight change in hue on the ground ahead. He stopped and stretched out his leg. Instantly, his toe touched the edge of a step. With a triumphant smile, he moved forward. Three stairs down. Four more paces forward. He’d been wise to make a mental note of those details the first time he’d come. He reached out his hand and felt the wooden door. Moments later, he had the key in the keyhole. The bolt slid back with a thud. Guy counted to three. No unexpected sound or movement. Opening the door, he slipped inside and closed it behind him.

The air was dank and musty. He wrinkled his nose with distaste and bent to feel for the lantern and flint he’d left beside the door. His fingers brushed against the lantern standing beside a small pail of sand. He seized it, locating the flint moments later. As soon as the wick within caught light, Guy raised it above his head. A scurry of tiny paws sounded at his right. He swung the lantern in that direction and caught the glow of rats’ eyes coming from the wood stacked along the wall. He clenched his jaw. He had no desire to share this space with the vermin, but if they wished to make this their home for another month, so be it. When the time came for Guy to light the fuse attached to the barrels of gunpowder, they would be the first to go.

He started toward the wood, making note of how well the logs and faggots camouflaged the barrels hiding beneath. Casks of wine and cider—enough to supply a household for over a year—lay stacked in front of the wood. Percy had thought it prudent to store decoy barrels in the room just in case it was visited by someone outside their band. Guy could not fault his logic. Casks of wine and cider were appropriate items for the cellar below the Lords’ Chamber. He smirked. They would also contribute well to the upcoming conflagration.

He moved slowly around the room, assessing the level of moisture on the stone walls. He hated the damp. Spain had spoiled him. Long, hot days were brutal when one’s battalion was relocating across the parched hills on foot, but he preferred it to the bone-chilling wetness associated with being near the Thames. He’d had enough of that damp discomfort when he and the other conspirators had spent months digging a tunnel from Percy’s lodgings to the palace. Guy grimaced at the memory. Water from the Thames had continually seeped into the tunnel, and after over a year of digging through the night, they had hit the seemingly impenetrable barrier of the palace’s foundational walls.

With their original plan stymied, this undercroft—with its dank air and rats—had been an unforeseen gift. Guy had discovered Mrs. Ellen Bright clearing out the room that had been used by her late husband for his coal merchant business. Anxious to be free of the lease, she had been more than happy to have someone else assume it, especially a gentleman so accommodating as Lord Percy’s manservant, John Johnson. Guy picked up the crowbar leaning against one of the casks of wine. There was a satisfying irony in the exchange of commodities that had occurred in this space. Coal that could fuel a household had been replaced by gunpowder that would fuel a revolution.

Setting the lantern several feet from the nearest barrel, Guy removed half a dozen logs and used the crowbar to pry off the barrel’s lid. Removing his glove, he ran his fingers through the dark powder in the barrel. Dry. The tension in his shoulders eased. This barrel was up against the wall. If the gunpowder within had been unaffected by the moisture on the stones, the chances were good, the remaining barrels were safe from contamination as well.

Guy replaced the lid and repositioned the logs. Sliding the crowbar behind the barrel, he picked up the lantern and swung it in a slow arc. The cache was enormous, and his chest swelled with pride at all that the conspirators had gathered under cover of darkness. With key in hand, he moved back to the door. It was time to leave. He would send word to Catsby that all was well with the gunpowder, and then Guy would head north and lie low until the appointed time. Percy had left London already. There was no cause for Guy to remain in the plague-infested city any longer.

Setting the lantern down beside the flint, he took a handful of the sand in the bucket and tossed it onto the floor at the undercroft’s entrance. Then he extinguished the flame and slowly opened the door. No warning signal from Wintour. No footsteps passing by. The conspirators’ plan was secure, and the unwitting Mrs. Bright had no idea what she had facilitated. On November 5, the downfall of the English government and the annihilation of the king were all but certain. Of course, if Mrs. Bright’s personal lodgings were anywhere nearby, the widow would never know what she had done until the next life. Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder were going to level far more than the House of Lords alone.

Chapter 7

One of the Maidstones’ servants accompanied Isla along the gravel path that led toward the stables behind the manor. The sun was attempting to make an appearance between the clouds, which seemed an appropriate reflection of Isla’s state of mind. The fear and helplessness that had filled her heart yesterday morning was not gone, but a flicker of hope was attempting to dispel her lingering distress.

She’d spent most of the previous day with Lady Maidstone and Maggie. They’d been unfailingly patient with her. It had taken Isla eight attempts to light some kindling with the spark from a flint, three attempts to lace a bodice tightly enough, and two attempts plus much exertion to plump up the straw-and-feather ticks on the bed. Lady Maidstone had sat with her for hours, peppering her with questions about twenty-first-century life while Isla had tried to write with a quill. Her first efforts had been embarrassingly bad, and when she’d told Lady Maidstone that it looked as though a drunken spider had fallen into the inkwell only to stagger across the paper, her hostess had been hard-pressed to fight back her laughter.

In one hour, Isla’s efforts had improved enough to resemble the work of a sober ink-covered spider walking in a relatively straight line, but she had a horrible suspicion that Sam’s and Will’s penmanship would outclass hers. There had been more than once during the painstaking exercise when Isla had wished that Lady Maidstone could appreciate how extraordinarily fast Isla typed, but explaining computer keyboards after she had already tried describing televisions, radios, and telephones had seemed more trouble than it had been worth.

By the end of the day, mental and emotional exhaustion had overcome her small successes, and she’d asked if she might be excused from joining the family for their evening meal in favor of going to bed early. Lady Maidstone had been good enough to send some warm milk and bread to Isla’s room. Isla had enjoyed it far more than the bite of braised eel she’d eaten the day before, although she’d been surprised by how much she’d missed seeing the gentleman who had enjoyed that food so much.

She didn’t know how Lord Bancroft had spent his day after she’d left the parlor or even if he was any closer to believing her story now than he had been at first. She only knew that the knowledge that she would spend time with him and the twins this morning had made facing today’s challenges a little less daunting.

“Look at me, Uncle Simon!” The young boy’s voice rang with excitement, and Isla increased her pace.

“Nicely done, Will.” Lord Bancroft came into view. He was standing near the stables, watching his nephews circle the wide yard on two dappled gray ponies. Each of the ponies was being led on a rope by a stablehand. “Be sure to sit up nice and tall.”

The boy wearing a pale-blue jacket and breeches straightened his small shoulders, and Isla made the appropriate mental note: Will was wearing light blue. Sam was dressed in navy. She turned her attention to Lord Bancroft. This morning, his jacket and breeches were a dark green, plush fabric, his boots were black leather, and his white shirt collar was wide and trimmed with a narrow band of lace. He chuckled at Sam’s attempts to urge his small pony to move faster, and she caught herself smiling in response.

She was obviously adjusting to her new environment better than she’d thought. If any of the men she’d gone out with at uni or since she’d moved to London had shown up at her door dressed the way Lord Bancroft was now, she would have politely but immediately turned him away. At this precise moment, however, she found herself battling a completely opposite reaction. Dressed in his elaborate clothing, with his well-trimmed beard, thick dark hair, and dark eyes, Lord Bancroft was distractingly handsome.