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Guy guided his mount into the stables attached to the Bell Inn in Daventry, grateful to be out of the drizzling rain at last. The deepening darkness of evening had dropped the temperature, making his sodden state all the more miserable. If Catsby had not reserved a room with a roaring fire, they would be relocating forthwith.

“Give her a good rubdown,” he told the stableboy, who appeared out of the gloom. “It has been a long, wet ride.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy took the reins and led the horse to a nearby stall. “I’ll see t’ ’er right away.”

“Very good.” Guy hesitated. He avoided sharing his plans with anyone unless absolutely necessary, but the lad had best be told that he would not be staying long. “I shall return within the hour. My horse must be ready.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated.

The lad likely thought him mad to be going back out in such inclement weather, but he would not stay here. Not if other members of the conspiracy had rented rooms. He would find another inn. One closer to London and the safety of his well-established position as Percy’s manservant. Besides, the sooner he reached the city, the sooner he could check on the gunpowder.

Opening the stable door, he lowered his head against the rain and cut across the small yard to the inn’s back door. Once inside, he assessed the passage beyond. Empty. Although, if the voices and laughter coming from the front room were any indication, the inn was busy tonight. Turning his back on the sounds of merrymaking, he took the narrow staircase to the upper floor. At the top, he stopped, listening. No voices. No footsteps. Catsby’s letter, which had arrived mere hours before Guy had departed his mother’s home, had given him a time and a very specific location: third door on the right, upper floor, Bell Inn, Daventry. Cautiously, Guy moved down the passage. When he reached the third door on the right, he knocked. Two taps, a pause, two taps. Seconds later, the pattern was echoed on the other side of the door. It was safe to enter.

Guy walked into the room and closed the door behind him. Four gentlemen sat around the fire: Wintour, Bates, Catsby, and Kit Wright. A fifth gentleman, Jack Wright, stood beside the door. He had obviously been assigned to give the all-clear knock.

“Welcome, Fawkes,” Catsby said, rising to greet him. “We wondered if you were coming.”

“Daventry is a considerable distance from York,” Guy said, removing his hat and shaking off the water before doing the same with his cloak. “And traveling on horseback in this weather is less than ideal.”

“You would have been better served to take a coach.” Catsby pointed to a row of hooks on the wall, where the other gentlemen had hung their outerwear.

Tamping down his irritation, Guy hung his cloak and hat on the farthest peg. Catsby’s comment deserved no response. The fellow knew full well that Guy did not own a carriage. Traveling by stagecoach would have exposed his journey to far too many witnesses and would have taken him twice as long. “I am here now,” he said, claiming a stool close to the fire. “But I am not of a mind to stay long. What is the reason for this gathering? I assume you have news of some import.”

“We are in need of money,” Catsby said bluntly. “Percy has paid no rent on the property across from the Palace of Westminster, and Ferrers is hounding him for payment. We cannot afford such attention.”

“I will see that he is paid,” Guy said. One payment was all that would be needed before he left the country.

“That is not all,” Catsby continued. “The captain of the ship scheduled to take you to Spain after the gunpowder blows is requiring advanced payment for his services. The extra horses Rookwood acquired for those of us who must ride north to reach Lady Elizabeth and Duke Charles must be purchased.” He paused, likely knowing that he had already made his point. “I have approached my cousin, Francis Tresham. He has taken the oath of secrecy and is willing to assist us. Not only is he a friend to the Catholic cause, but he is also in possession of a fortune in land and coin.”

“He is also known to be unpredictable and untrustworthy,” Wintour said, the scowl on his face expressing his displeasure as unmistakably as his verbal censure.

“He has vowed to help us,” Catsby said.

“And you believe him?” Kit Wright’s voice held a concerning level of skepticism.

“He is my cousin, and he gave me his word.”

“Tell me more about this fellow,” Guy said. His decade on the continent had proved advantageous in preparing him for this assignment, but it had left him without vital connections in Society or a working knowledge of those who wielded significant influence among England’s nobility.

“He was imprisoned for assaulting a man and his expectant daughter,” Kit growled.

Catsby waved the accusation away with a flick of his hand. “They owed Tresham money, and he went after it.” His eyes hardened. “Perhaps you also remember that he was imprisoned for his participation in the Essex rebellion. That, amongst other things, should prove his dedication to the Catholic church. For a gentleman of his position to openly oppose the Protestant queen took courage and devotion.”

“He did not die for the cause, nor stay incarcerated for long,” Jack Wright argued.

“For which we should all be thankful,” Catsby said. “Had either of those things happened, he would not have been in a position to now aid us in bringing an end to our devilish government and king.”

Catsby’s final argument was impossible to refute, and he appeared to know it. Reaching for one of the flagons of ale on a nearby table, he poured some into a goblet and handed it to Guy. After refilling his own goblet, Catsby offered the flagon to Bates. Catsby’s longtime servant topped off the goblet of each of the gentlemen in the room, and when he set the flagon back on the table, Catsby raised his cup. “To the unqualified success of the gunpowder plot,” he said.

“To the gunpowder plot.” The chorus of male voices, though low, brimmed with passion and conviction.

Guy took a swig of the pungent drink, the desire to see the successful culmination of their plans burning within him. The scheme had taken overly long to reach fruition. If Tresham’s money ensured speedy and efficacious results, he would not fault Catsby for bringing him into their circle. Guy may never meet the gentleman himself. And that was just as well. Even now, he itched to be gone from this gathering and on his way to London. He would remain in this private room long enough to eat a hot meal and catch up on any updates these gentlemen had to share, but that was all. The rainy weather notwithstanding, he would linger no longer.

Three days of rain had left the road to London pitted with puddles. Mud coated the wheels of the Maidstones’ carriage, causing the vehicle to occasionally slide in a rather alarming manner. Isla sat on one side of the carriage, across from Martha and Maggie, but although they were protected from the damp, chilly weather, it was proving to be the most uncomfortable ride Isla had ever experienced.

The carriage rolled over another rut in the road, and Isla lurched right, hitting her elbow on the side of the vehicle. She winced from the instant pain, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, she wished that she could have made this journey in the comfort of a twenty-first-century car. Attempting to ignore her throbbing her arm, she wiped the fog off the window and peered outside. The glass was slightly opaque, and twilight was falling, but she could just make out the forms of Lord Maidstone and Simon riding their horses alongside the vehicle.

The greenery that had been their backdrop for most of the journey had disappeared. Buildings now lined their path. Dogs barked. The babel of voices coming from the crowded, narrow street was muted inside the carriage, but Isla could hear the louder cries of those hawking their wares on the street corners. Oysters, pies, and chestnuts. Isla’s unsettled stomach rebelled at the thought.