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The narrow space lived up to its name. Two maids knelt beside a large metal tub, their arms elbow-deep in water. They were scrubbing trenchers, pots, and platters clean.

“Lord Monteagle’s guest is needin’ some fresh water,” Agnes announced from the doorway.

The two girls looked up with a start. The one who looked to be the oldest immediately rose to her feet, and drying her hands on her apron, she crossed to a wooden pail in the corner. “We just dumped th’ last of it int’ th’ tub. I’ll fetch some more.” She eyed Isla’s gown. Even with the room’s faint candlelight, the stains were obvious. “Might ya be needin’ a rag as well?”

“That would be wonderful,” Isla said. “But don’t trouble yourself to go for water. I can do it myself.”

The maid’s eyes widened in shock. To have a member of the upper class offer to do such a menial task was probably unheard of, but Isla had just been gifted a way out of the house, and no matter how many protocols she was bending, she was determined to take it. She reached for the pail. The girl’s hesitation was so slight, it was almost unnoticeable, but as she relinquished the pail to Isla, the concern on her face remained.

“Think nothing of this,” Isla said. “It will take me only a moment. You have your work to do, and Agnes needs to return to the great hall with more mead.”

“As you say, miss.” The maid offered her a small rag. “You’ll find th’ rainwater barrel on th’ left, just outside th’ back door.”

“Thank you.” Isla exited the scouring room. “Which door takes me outside, Agnes?”

Agnes pointed down the passage. “That one, miss. It’s right after th’ cheese room an’ bake’ouse.”

“Perfect. You’ve been most helpful, but I can manage now.”

Agnes’s anxious expression was a mirror image of the scullery maid’s. “If you’re sure, miss.”

“Absolutely. I am perfectly capable of mopping up a spill, and I shall find my own way back to the great hall.”

By now, the cook would have the platter of apples ready for Lord Monteagle’s guests. She’d heard nothing to suggest that it had already left the kitchen, but she had no doubt it would happen soon. Mentally willing Simon and the Maidstones to slow their enjoyment of the food already on the table so that the delivery of the next course was delayed, Isla hurried toward the exit.

A gust of cold air accompanied the opening of the door. Dropping the rag into the empty pail, Isla slipped outside and closed the door behind her. Moonlight painted the back garden in shades of black and gray. Trees and shrubs appeared in ghostly silhouettes, and at her left, a large barrel partially blocked her view of a gravel path—a path that undoubtedly led to the front of the house. Setting the pail on the ground beside the barrel, Isla lifted her frustratingly wide skirts a few inches higher and started running.

The gravel crunched loudly beneath her feet. Too loudly. She turned the corner of the house and stepped onto the grass. If Lord Monteagle’s servant was already outside, he would hear her approach. He must not know that she’d come from within the house. Staying on the grass and moving as quickly as she dared, she followed the silver-ribbon path as far as the next corner. Here she paused to listen. In the darkness, every sound was magnified: the rattle of tree branches in the breeze, the distant hoot of an owl, and the rhythmic thud of footsteps drawing steadily nearer.

Pressing herself against the wall, she peered around the corner. Dark shadows marked the shrubs lining the front of the house. She was within a couple of yards of the spot where Lord Maidstone had hidden his cloak, but did she dare hunt for it now? The footsteps sounded closer. Could it be the servant she was supposed to meet? If so, she had to find the cloak straightaway.

Bending low, she scurried past the nearest bush, aiming for those that grew closer to the steps. A branch caught on her skirt. She tugged at it, and it snapped. She froze, but the footsteps kept coming. Dropping to her hands and knees, she extended her arms, groping in the darkness for the cloak. Rocks, sticks, dirt, thorns. Her fingers encountered everything except what she was looking for. She inched a little closer to the steps. Candles burning in lanterns on either side of the front door partially illuminated this area. It was probably only a matter of seconds before the person approaching the house was close enough to catch sight of her. Offering up a silent prayer for divine help, she thrust her arm around the base of the nearest bush. Thorns scratched her fingers. She pressed her lips together to prevent a cry from escaping, and then she felt it. The soft pile of fabric was pressed against the base of the rosebush. She drew the cloak out, backing away from the illuminated stairs as soundlessly as her voluminous skirts allowed.

She’d almost reached the corner of the house when the front door opened. She held perfectly still. A man exited. Short but broad shouldered, he stood on the top step, gazing out across the front garden. Perhaps he heard the approaching footsteps, too, because he appeared to stiffen.

“Who goes there?” he called.

“You know full well who I am,” a man’s voice replied. He must have stopped within the shadow of the large ash trees that lined the front lawn because he remained invisible.

The man near the door descended the steps. “No matter that I expect a visit whenever Lord Monteagle entertains, I cannot be too careful.”

“Most wise.”

The two men were close enough to each other that they could converse in whispers. Isla strained to hear.

“What news?” the newcomer asked. “Any hint that your master is hosting one of Cecil’s spies?”

Isla tensed. Lord Maidstone and Simon had warned her of the men who infiltrated Society, gathering information for Sir Cecil. Surely no one at the table this evening fell in that category.

“No mention has been made of the king or the delayed opening of Parliament,” the servant replied.

“Any whisper of frustration or hint of defiance?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm.” The visitor paused as though thinking through the information. “My friends and I are most appreciative of your allegiance to the Catholic cause, Ward. With good men such as you keeping an eye on the evil and misguided course Protestant nobles intend to pursue, we better know how to counteract their actions.”

Isla pressed her hand to her mouth, her thoughts spinning. Ward. That was one of the names she’d been unable to recall. Thomas Ward. He was the servant who read the letter to Lord Monteagle. He was also the man who would inform Catsby that a warning had been sent to his master. It seemed that Sir Cecil was not the only gentleman in London employing spies. The Catholic conspirators had some of their own.