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“I aim to do my part with full diligence, sir,” Thomas Ward said, his voice low.

“I am glad to hear it.” There was the sound of a slap—perhaps a hand on a back or arm. “I trust that you will send word should you learn of anything that might be of value to us.”

“I shall.”

“Good man.”

The visitor was leaving, and that meant Ward would return to the house. Isla fumbled with the cloak, throwing it across her shoulders and raising the hood. Her farthingale held the fabric in a wide circle, but it was long enough to cover all but the bottom few inches of her gown. If she remained in the shadows, Ward might not notice, and if she masked her voice well enough, he might be tricked into thinking she was a short, stout man.

She looked toward the trees. The stranger had chosen his location strategically. Close enough to the house to attract the attention of someone on the front step without raising his voice, yet far enough away to remain anonymous. Isla would do well to follow his example. Ward still had his back to her. A rustle of footsteps suggested that the stranger was already heading back across the lawn to the road. Hoping the retreating man had no further interest in what was happening behind him, Isla darted out from behind the corner of the house. She crossed to the other side of the narrow path in one leap and ran for the closest tree. Sliding her hand into the pocket in her skirt, she pulled out the letter.

Ward stood waiting. Isla inched closer, listening for the distinctive sound of footsteps on the hard-packed road. Moments later, she heard them. The visitor was off the Monteagles’ property. Ward must have reached the same conclusion. He turned toward the steps.

“Ward!” The rasp in Isla’s voice was partly intentional and partly breathlessness.

The servant swung around. “Who goes there?”

“A friend of your master’s.”

Ward took a step back, but his gaze remained fixed on the tree that obscured Isla from view. “A friend of my master’s would not come to his house only to remain in hiding.”

“At times such as these, the very best of friends choose to conceal themselves,” Isla croaked. “You know this.”

“Why have you come?” Ward asked.

“I bring a message of vital import to Lord Monteagle. You must take it to him this very night. There can be no delay. His very life depends upon it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Isla grasped the tree trunk with tense fingers. Somehow, she had to motivate him to act. “Why should you not?”

Ward’s laugh was hollow. “Half of what is spoken abroad these days should not be believed.”

“True. But the other half—the half that hints at a change that will impact all true believers—should be taken seriously.”

For an agonizingly long three seconds, there was complete silence.

“I will give your letter to Lord Monteagle,” he said. “What he chooses to do with it, however, is his concern.”

Relief left Isla’s knees weak, but she took an unsteady step forward and thrust the sealed message at Ward. “There is no time to lose,” she said. “Take it to him directly.”

“That is not possible. He is at dinner with guests at present.”

“Do not underestimate the urgency of this message,” Isla said. “The danger to Lord Monteagle increases with every minute that passes. He must be notified immediately.”

The servant grunted his displeasure at her injunction, but he accepted the letter. “You’d best leave here,” he said. “No matter whose errand you are on, there is no safety to be had in these parts.”

“A well-deserved warning,” Isla said, retreating farther into the shadows. “You shall not see me again.”

That, it seemed, was the very assurance Ward had wanted. Without another word, he turned and strode across the short distance to the front steps without a backward glance. The moment he entered the house and closed the door behind him, Isla tore the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it to the ground. Raising her skirts, she raced across the lawn toward the back of the house. Dunking her hands in the rainwater barrel would be enough to wash off the dirt on her fingers. A few splashes on her clothing would give the impression that she had attempted to soak the stains. A modern-day stain-remover stick would have been really helpful right now. Instead, she would simply have to hope that the candlelit grand hall was shadowy enough to mask the new grass stains on her skirt and scratches on her hands.

Simon did not know exactly how long Isla had been gone. He knew only that he could not sit at the table pretending to enjoy his meal much longer. The maid who had led her out of the great hall had returned long ago, her pitcher refilled. But there had been no opportunity to surreptitiously question the servant about Isla’s whereabouts, and he was quite sure that Isla would not wish him drawing any attention to her prolonged absence.

He’d told her that he would wait until the sixth and final course was served before going after her, but he’d been rethinking that vow from the moment she’d disappeared. So many things could go wrong. He knew full well that her focus was on seeing the letter delivered to Monteagle and preventing a tragedy of catastrophic proportions. He desired those things just as badly, but he also desperately wanted Isla returned to him safe and uninjured. The depth of that desire was uncomfortably revealing. Their betrothal might be a sham, but his feelings for her were not.

He glanced at Martha. She and Simon were the only people at the table who had yet to finish their poached apples, and he had the distinct impression that she was fully aware of it. He watched her take a tiny bite and then pause to exchange a few words with Lydia. His sister was either suffering from the same lack of appetite that he was, or she was deliberately delaying the servants’ removal of the remains of the fifth course.

Across the table, Mr. Tanner set his spoon in his dish with a clatter. An echoing thud sounded from without the great hall. Had that been the front door closing? Simon pushed his half-eaten apple aside, wishing he could do the same for his mounting anxiety. Isla had been gone too long. Something must have happened to prevent her from passing along her letter. His gaze darted to the top of the table again. This time, he caught Maidstone’s eye. His brother-in-law’s shrug was almost imperceptible, but Simon noticed and understood. The final course would likely be cheeses and would be consumed in no time at all. If a servant was truly meant to make an appearance during the meal, he should have done so by now.