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Chapter 9

Isla’s mouth went dry. Lady Maidstone had to be joking. When Lord Bancroft had first suggested that her reason for being at Copfield Hall at this particular time might have something to do with the gunpowder plot, she’d wondered if perhaps she was meant to warn him and Lord Maidstone to stay away from London. Or maybe alert them to the dangers of being associated with the men involved in the conspiracy.

“I really don’t think I should get entangled in this,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, history has already been written.”

“True,” Lord Maidstone said. “But what if Martha is correct? Is it possible that you have always been an integral yet anonymous part of that history?”

Isla’s thoughts spun. How was she supposed to make sense of the past, present, and future when they collided like this? “But what if I’m not? What if, by getting involved, I mess things up? If Guy Fawkes is successful because I do the wrong thing . . .” She swallowed, the magnitude of that disaster washing over her in an overwhelming wave.

Lord Bancroft moved from his place at the fireplace to take the chair beside her, his dark eyes reflecting the turmoil she was experiencing. “As challenging as this is to grasp, we must do our best to think it through.”

He was right. She needed to remain calm and think clearly.

“You said that most historians believe Tresham sent the note. Why has that not been generally accepted?” he asked.

“Most think it was Tresham since he was a relatively new addition to the group of conspirators and his sister would be directly affected if Lord Monteagle were in the chambers when the explosion occurred. But Tresham vehemently denied it, and no one was ever able to place him in the vicinity of Lord Monteagle’s house on the evening of the dinner party.”

“If the conspirators have kept their plans secret for years, it does seem unlikely that one of them would terminate that allegiance immediately before the culmination of all their efforts,” Lord Maidstone said.

“Unless the mounting pressure caused one of them to crack,” Lord Bancroft said.

“Is there any reason why we could not wait to see if a note is delivered during that dinner party?” Martha asked. “If it is, then we know history has remained on course without Miss Crawford’s intervention. If it is not, then we assume she has always been the originator of the warning note. Miss Crawford could have a letter ready and can see that it is delivered to Lord Monteagle by that evening’s end.”

Lord Bancroft gave his sister a startled look. “When did you become so wise?”

“I believe she always has been, Bancroft,” Lord Maidstone said, an unmistakable air of pride in his voice. “You simply did not notice.”

“In fairness, it may have been difficult to see beyond my older-sibling overbearing tendencies,” Lady Maidstone added.

Lord Bancroft gave her a wry smile. “Ah, yes. The overbearing tendency is something I am well acquainted with.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Lord Maidstone said, “I believe Martha has hit upon a sound solution.”

Isla could think of half a dozen solid reasons why it was a terrible solution—most of them involving her inability to fulfill the assignment without drawing all sorts of unwanted attention. She started with one of the most basic. “You do realize that I can barely write a single legible word with a quill. A whole letter is completely beyond me.”

“If Lord Monteagle’s dinner party is not until the end of the month, you have almost four weeks to practice,” Lady Maidstone said, seemingly unperturbed. “I have no doubt you shall have wonderful penmanship by then.”

Isla had no such confidence. “But how would we know if another letter is delivered?”

“It would be all but impossible unless we are guests at Monteagle’s dinner,” Lord Bancroft said.

“That is easily accomplished,” Lord Maidstone said. “Monteagle owes me a rather large favor for giving him the name of a captain willing to transport cargo for him from India.”

“You think he would be willing to extend an invitation for four?” Lord Bancroft asked.

“Without question.” Lord Maidstone leaned back in his chair as though everything was settled. “I have only to suggest it to him.”

Isla fought back her mounting panic. “I don’t think I can navigate all the unknowns of a seventeenth-century dinner party without people noticing my mistakes. The last thing I’d want to do is draw extra attention, but between not knowing the right etiquette or vocabulary, I’d be a walking disaster.”

“She has a point, Maidstone,” Lord Bancroft said, and Isla wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for his support or offended that he thought her such a liability.

“One of us would have to be at her side the entire evening,” Lord Maidstone said. “A subtle prompt every once in a while is all that would be required.”

Lord Maidstone’s faith in her should have brought her comfort. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Lord Bancroft obviously wasn’t convinced, and he’d spent far more time with her. He was a firsthand witness to her many blunders.

“It may not be quite that easy,” Lord Bancroft said. “It will raise eyebrows if you or I remain at Miss Crawford’s side all night, and Martha will undoubtedly be pulled away by someone at some point.”

“You are right,” Lady Maidstone agreed. “But there is a simple solution to that difficulty.”