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“Are we getting close to our final destination?” she asked. Standing upright in some fresh air was the only thing that might save her.

Martha took her turn peering out through the rudimentary glass. “Once we have crossed London Bridge, it will not take long to reach the house.”

London Bridge in 1605. It had been the only bridge across the Thames, and the tall, timbered structures that lined it had served as kindling when the Great Fire had swept through the city six decades later. Isla wiped at the window again, hoping for a better view. Lord Maidstone and Simon must have moved ahead of the carriage because the road was even narrower now, barely wide enough for the carriage to pass by. The buildings pressed in on them, leaving little room for sunshine or fresh air. Isla could smell the chimney smoke even though the carriage was enclosed. Perhaps it was smog obscuring her view.

“I do not like bringing the boys to London,” Martha said. “They are curious and eager to see the sights, but the chaos, the squalor, and the stench . . .” She shook her head. “If I am able, I shall spare them from experiencing those things a little longer.”

“I understand,” Isla said. “Though it must be difficult to be apart for so long.”

“It is.” Martha managed a brave smile. Along with missing her sons, she was probably feeling the negative effects of the juddering ride too. “But they will be well cared for at Copfield Hall, and we have important work to do here.”

Isla’s queasy stomach did a slow roll. The closer they’d come to London, the harder it had become to ignore the primary purpose of their journey. Lord Monteagle’s dinner was tomorrow night. A full eight days before the opening of Parliament. With the twins far away, Simon had better come up with a good alternate diversion for the meantime, or she was going to go crazy.

She closed her eyes and pictured the boys as she’d last seen them, playing with their tops in the nursery. It had been hard to say goodbye, not knowing exactly what her future held. But no matter what happened to her, they would have their parents and Simon. Protecting them—and the hundreds of other people who would be in the vicinity of the House of Lords on November 5—had to be her focus.

Their progress was slower now. The carriage stopped occasionally, only to jerk forward again a few moments later. With the oncoming darkness, it seemed as though the congestion on the roads might clear. The lack of street lights probably made for an early night for merchants and shoppers alike. Occasionally, Isla spotted a candle flickering in the window of a building. It should have been a comforting sight, but as the shadows deepened, she found herself growing more and more uneasy at the strangeness of it all.

At last, the carriage came to a stop outside a tall building. Large timbers framed the house, and each of the windows on the upper level glowed warmly with candlelight.

Martha gave a heartfelt sigh of relief.

“We’ve arrived?” Isla guessed.

“Thankfully, yes.” She smiled. “Welcome to Maidstone House.”

Before Isla could respond, the door to the carriage opened, and Lord Maidstone appeared. He extended an arm toward his wife.

“It appears that the servants are ready for us, my dear.”

Martha took his hand and eased herself out. “Thank goodness for that. Let us hope there is a warm fire burning in every room.”

Isla waited for Martha to exit and then shuffled along the bench toward the opening. She had just reached the doorway when Simon materialized out of the darkness.

“May I assist you?” he asked, offering her his hand.

Moving slowly and stiffly, she accepted his help. “Thank you.”

Once she was standing, he studied her with a concerned expression. “How are you faring?”

“A bit rocky.” She took a hesitant step forward. Remarkably, her legs cooperated.

“Which is more similar to a rock? Your limbs or your stomach?” he asked.

She grimaced. “Neither. They’re both like a wobbly jellyfish.”

“I fear that long carriage rides are not for the faint of heart—or stomach.”

“You should have warned me. I might have persuaded Martha to let me ride Belle.”

“Had you managed that remarkable feat, you would assuredly be extremely saddle sore and significantly chilled.”

He was right. But if they’d been riding together and talking like they’d done at Copfield Hall, he might have been able to ease her burgeoning worries.

“I should probably go in,” she said. “Martha will be wondering what’s become of me.”

“Undoubtedly.” He didn’t move. “Isla?” She sensed his scrutiny. “Is there something more than physical discomfort ailing you?”

“We’re in London, Simon.” Her voice caught, and she lowered it to a whisper. “And it’s a little over a week until November 5.”