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He led Isla toward the portly man wearing an elaborately embroidered blue doublet and jerkin with a wide ruff around his short neck. The fair-haired lady beside him was wearing pale green, and the ruff at her neck was even wider than her husband’s.

“Lord and Lady Monteagle,” Simon said, executing a low bow. “May I introduce my betrothed, Miss Isla Crawford.”

Isla curtsied. “It is an honor to meet you,” she said. Her eyes lingered on Lord Monteagle, and Simon was struck with the unsettling thought that for the first time since she’d arrived in this time period, Isla was meeting someone she had read about in her history books.

“The pleasure is ours, Miss Crawford,” Monteagle said.

“Yes, indeed,” his wife concurred. “I was thrilled to learn that Lord Bancroft is to be married. May I offer you both my congratulations.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Simon said. “I am a most fortunate gentleman.”

Even as he spoke the words, the truthfulness of the statement struck him. It was possible that his good fortune would last only another week or so, but he was grateful for the time he had been given with Isla.

Lady Monteagle smiled. “I daresay Miss Crawford feels the same, my lord. We are glad that you could both join us for dinner.”

“And with that said, I believe we should take our places at the table.” Monteagle’s jovial voice carried across the room, and the hum of multiple conversations dimmed. All eyes turned toward their hosts. Monteagle gestured at the long table. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please be seated.”

Lord Monteagle sat at the head of the table in the only chair. His wife and guests were seated on stools. Lady Monteagle was at his right, with the Duke of Tunstow and Lydia beside her. Across from them, Lord Maidstone and Martha were seated beside Lord and Lady Whitely. Upon taking her place next to Simon farther down the table, Isla had been offered a brief introduction to the other guests seated near them: Lord and Lady Byrdsall, Mr., Mrs., and Miss Ellerson, and Mr. Tanner. They all seemed pleasant enough, and she couldn’t help but be glad that the Byrdsalls and Ellersons separated her from the Whitelys. Not only had she developed a strong dislike for the couple, but it would be far easier to slip out of the room if Lady Whitely’s attention were directed elsewhere.

Surprisingly, Isla’s impression of Lydia was more positive. She hated the way the young lady had treated Simon, but under different circumstances, she thought it likely that she and Lydia might have been friends. In an odd sort of way, Isla was glad. It meant that Simon’s judgment was not skewed. Lydia would probably have made him a very good wife—if the Duke of Tunstow had not interfered.

She glanced at the tall, thin gentleman now. His fair hair fell to his shoulders and was thinning on the top of his head. His goatee was scraggly and his teeth crooked, but despite her reluctance to be introduced or to think well of him, Isla had to admit that he had a ready smile and appeared genuinely interested in those around him. She hoped he would be good to Lydia, because there was no doubt in her mind that without his title and money or Lydia’s parents’ avarice, he would not have won the young lady’s hand. Simon was a better man—in all respects.

“You must eat something, Isla.”

At Simon’s gentle urging, Isla shifted her attention to the trencher in front of them. They had eaten meals at the Maidstones’ house on pewter plates. Isla hadn’t realized at the time that Martha’s passion for the latest fashions extended beyond clothing. Apparently, her table was one of the few that had embraced the individual plates and two-tined forks now used in France.

Isla stabbed a piece of meat with the small dagger in her hand and slid it into her mouth. She hoped it was chicken but couldn’t be sure.

“I don’t think I can manage much more,” she said. Nerves and unfamiliar foods were poor companions.

“Try some bread,” he said, tearing a piece off the loaf in the basket at the center of the table and handing it to her.

Isla accepted it but didn’t take a bite. “The next course will be the fourth.”

“It will.”

She glanced at the people sitting closest to her. Mr. Tanner was making a valiant attempt at maintaining small talk with Miss Ellerson, but most were intent on eating. Isla had made an effort to discourage conversation by averting her gaze whenever she caught someone’s eye. It was a shame because she would have loved to learn more about these people and their lives, but this evening, it was more important that she be forgettable.

“I will slip out with the servants after they bring in the platters,” she said.

He nodded, his expression serious. “I wish you were not the one tasked with this errand.”

“I know. But it must be me.”

Simon set the bread in his hand on the edge of the trencher and slid his arm under the table. Moments later, his fingers found hers. He’d held her hand a few times now, and each time, she’d drawn comfort and strength from it. But that was not all. The simple act engendered something else. Something she’d only ever experienced with Simon. It was harder to identify but incredibly powerful. A sense of connection as rare as it was wondrous.

“Given that an unexpected missive has yet to appear, I fear Martha may have the right of it: you were always meant to deliver the letter.” His jaw tightened. “But that does not mean I have to like the notion.”

Isla didn’t like it either, but now was not the time to admit to it. She glanced down the table. Lord Monteagle was speaking with the Duke of Tunstow, a large piece of meat dripping from his knife. If the history books were right, he would allow a servant to interrupt his meal and his conversation. Her stomach churned. Could she really count on the accounts in those centuries-old records? Movement at the left of Lord Monteagle caught her eye. She shifted her attention only to meet Lady Whitely’s critical gaze.

“I confess, Miss Crawford, though I have asked around amongst many of my friends and acquaintances, I have yet to find anyone familiar with your family.” The lady’s strident voice carried across the table, effectively silencing everyone else. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell us more about them.”

Simon’s fingers tightened around hers, but Isla met Lady Whitely’s look without flinching. “My father was raised in a small community in north Yorkshire, my lady. It is not an area familiar to many.”

“And your mother?” Lady Whitely pressed.

“Another village, not more than ten miles from my father’s home. They met when they were quite young.”