Page 57

Simon pushed his stool back and had just begun to rise when a servant he hadn’t seen before entered the room. Dressed more grandly than those who had served the food, Simon guessed this was Monteagle’s personal manservant. Simon dropped back onto his stool, his pulse quickening. The fellow had a sealed letter in his hand.

“Ward?” Monteagle had spotted him. “What are you doing here?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” The manservant bowed. “A letter was just delivered, and I was told that it must be given to you without delay.”

Monteagle frowned. “I am not in any position to read a letter at present.” He raised his hands, and even though Simon sat some distance away, he could clearly see the meat juices and apple syrup coating his host’s thick fingers.

“Of course, my lord.” The servant took a reluctant step back.

“Blast it all, Ward, you cannot come barging in here and wave a mysterious letter beneath my nose only to take it away again unread.”

“No, my lord.” Ward appeared distinctly uncomfortable. “What would you have me do instead?”

“Why, read it, of course. You can hold it and read it out loud for all to hear. I daresay it might be quite amusing.”

Simon swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. He did not dare look at Maidstone or Martha. It was happening. Just as Isla had said it would.

An expectant silence fell across the table. All eyes were on Monteagle’s manservant. The fellow straightened his shoulders and broke the seal on the letter. Simon attempted to maintain an air of mild interest even as his chest tightened. He may be one of the only ones in the room who knew what the letter contained, but he could not be sure of the response it would receive.

Ward cleared his throat. “My lord,” he read. “I have a care for your preservation; therefore, I would advise you to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at the opening of this Parliament. God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time, and you would be best served to retire to the country, where you may later learn of the events to come. For though there shall be no appearance of any stir, Parliament shall receive a terrible blow, and none shall see who hurts them. May God give you the grace to make good use of this warning.”

Some of the ladies gasped. Monteagle appeared temporarily dumbfounded.

Whitely issued his signature contemptuous snort. “What rot!” The arrogant gentleman dismissed the message with a shake of his head. “You are being played for a fool, Monteagle.”

“How can you be so sure, Whitely?” Maidstone countered. “The letter was exceedingly well written, and everyone in this room is well aware that the king and his policymakers are despised by many powerful men.”

Monteagle dipped his fingers into the small washbasin on the table and reached for the cloth beside it, his expression grave. “Who gave you this missive, Ward?”

“I cannot say, my lord. The gentleman wore a hooded cloak and remained in the shadows. I did not recognize his voice.”

A heady blend of relief and gratification flooded through Simon’s veins, and it was all he could do to prevent a smile from forming. Isla had managed to pass along the letter without divulging her identity—or even that she was no gentleman.

“You see!” Whitely was on his self-important pedestal once more. “No honorable gentleman would send a message in such a secretive, disreputable way. It can only be the work of ne’er-do-wells.”

“If you believe that, my lord, you must be wholly unfamiliar with the methods of Cecil’s men,” Simon said.

Whitely scowled, but before he could respond, the Duke of Tunstow spoke. “Cecil’s spies are well known for their clandestine behavior. Could this message have come from one of them?”

“There is only one way to find out.” With the passage of time, Monteagle’s confidence was returning. “I am well enough acquainted with Cecil; I shall raise the question with him myself.”

“Given that his men do not own to being spies, Cecil is unlikely to admit to it,” Tunstow pointed out.

“True. But I am not in need of knowing the identity of the deliverer or his master. I simply seek to know if there is any truth behind this warning. If Cecil is aware of the threat, he will surely tell me that much. If he is not, then I shall leave it up to him to determine how to proceed.”

“No matter Sir Cecil’s response,” Lady Monteagle said anxiously, “after so specific a warning, I would wish you to be absent when Parliament reconvenes.”

Monteagle leaned over and patted his wife’s hand. “Have no fear, my dear. If I am unable to get to the bottom of this myself, I shall insist that Cecil investigate.”

“Do you think he will?” Lydia’s face was pale, her eyes wide.

Monteagle cast a silencing look at her father. “Yes, Your Grace. Cecil has reached his current position because he is ruthlessly thorough in all that he does. I see no reason to believe he will ignore so troubling a message.”

A hum of assent hung over the table. Everyone present was aware of Cecil’s unpopular draconian methods. He was more likely to accuse an innocent than allow an innocent to go free. If Whitely thought otherwise, he was wise enough to hold his tongue. No matter what his wife thought of his opinions, it appeared—in this instance, at least—that his daughter had been swayed the other direction.

Monteagle waved his hand, and the servants, who must have been awaiting some kind of signal at the door, flooded forward, platters of cheese and flagons of mead in their hands.

“We shall finish our meal,” Monteagle announced, “and then, if you will pardon my discourtesy, I shall ride to Westminster to meet with Cecil. At this juncture, I believe it would be foolishness to ignore the message or the messenger, and so I must act upon the warning with haste.”