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Isla lapsed into silence, and Simon could not help but wonder if Martha’s reminder had hit her as forcibly as it had him. When his sister had first suggested a betrothal between him and Isla, he’d been completely opposed to the notion. He’d acquiesced only for the good of the nation and the safety of his colleagues in the House of Lords. But it had been weeks since he’d considered that aspect of his fabricated relationship with Isla. It had been a critical motivator at the start, and it remained so. But at some point, his primary focus had shifted from saving the king and government to supporting Isla. To being with Isla. And now, with most of the key moves to save England’s political structure made, he was trapped in a bizarre world where he had been granted access to the future in one area of his life while he looked to lose all in another.

“Simon?” Isla’s whisper brought him back to the present with a start. Martha must have taken the quiet to mean that they were all in agreement, and she was now engaged in a softly spoken conversation with Maidstone. The steady grind of the carriage wheels masked their voices.

Simon shifted to face Isla. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For saving you from having to agree to have braised eel for dinner and a discussion of the height of ladies’ heels?”

“Yes. And for knowing me so well.” The moonlight caught her small smile, and his heart responded.

“In truth, it is quite a remarkable feat, given that we barely speak the same language.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Although I am trying.”

Blast it all. Why did she have to be so charming?

“You are doing marvelously well.” Seemingly of its own volition, his hand reached for hers, and when her fingers closed around his, he knew he was sunk. He would not let go until he absolutely had to.

Guy closed the door of Percy’s lodgings and studied the scrap of paper in his hand with a frown. The urchin who had delivered the unsigned note was long gone. Not that he needed to know who had paid the boy to drop it off. There were very few people who considered it their place to give Guy orders and even fewer who knew where to find him. He read the message once more.

Urgent. Survey for any sign of disturbance, and then meet at WSI at noon to receive update and report on findings.

Irritation smoldered within his chest. Catsby knew Guy sufficiently well to assume that he would have checked on the contents of the cellar at the Palace of Westminster as soon as he’d returned to London. It was equally possible that Catsby had been informed the moment Guy had entered the city. A request for another visit to the site of their gunpowder stockpile so soon afterward—especially one conducted in broad daylight—was pushing the boundaries of Catsby’s authority. Guy clenched his jaw. Another meeting, also done during daylight hours, suggested something unforeseen had arisen. Something that could not be delayed. Concern surfaced above Guy’s annoyance. What did Catsby know that he was not telling him?

Guy moved to the window and stared down the street. An old man dressed in threadbare clothing pushed an empty cart across the road. Two dogs—strays by the lean, hungry look of them—followed close behind. A woman passed by carrying a basket of flowers. She was likely coming from Bedford House. More than one flower seller gathered there in the mornings before finding a busy corner in the city from which they could peddle their wares. The sun was barely up. Working people were about, but it was too early for members of the nobility. Which might make it the best time to venture into the cellar beneath the House of Lords.

His decision made, Guy donned his hat and cloak and left the house. He walked briskly and with purpose; the sooner he reached his destination, the better. Once there, however, he would employ more caution. His attention to detail had saved him on more than one occasion in Spain. This would simply be one more instance in which his natural wariness proved providential. His lips twisted into a cynical smile. All it would take was opening the door to the storage room and he would instantly know if anyone else had been there.

It took very little time to reach the Old Palace Yard. Much as he’d supposed, there were fewer people here than on the nearby streets. The empty courtyard notwithstanding, Guy slowed his pace, studying the windows and doorways in the buildings across from the undercroft. Shutters covered all but two windows, and there was no sign of life at the open windows. The doors were closed; the only occupant on any of the steps was a solitary mangy cat. Guy continued walking until he turned the corner around the House of Lords. There he stopped to survey the path ahead. It was clear. Satisfied that no one would enter the courtyard for the next minute or two, he retraced his steps until he reached the entrance to the undercroft. With one more careful look around, he withdrew the key from the purse at his belt and hurried down the three steps that led to the solid wooden door.

The lock drew back with a loud thud. Guy waited, his ears strained. Nothing. Pushing the door open, he stood at the threshold and studied the floor. The undercroft had been used as a storage room for years, and the hard-packed dirt floor was pressed smooth. Except at its entrance, where a fine layer of sand coated the floor. An unsuspecting visitor to the room would be hard-pressed to notice, especially in the poor light. But Guy was no unsuspecting visitor.

He studied the floor with a critical eye. The small pail of sand he’d brought to the undercroft weeks ago had proved perfect for his needs. Dusting the area nearest the door with sand every time he left the room was almost as good as employing a watchman. There was no semicircular scrape made by the opening of the door, scuffs left by shoes, or exposed dirt where significant movement had displaced the sand. He gave a gratified nod. No one had entered this way since he was last here.

Stepping sideways to avoid displacing much of the sand, Guy entered the room. He lit the lantern and gently pushed the door closed, then raised the light as he moved toward the far wall. The barrels filled with wine, cider, and gunpowder appeared just as he’d left them. He noticed no displacement of wood, and the small table and chair he had placed in the room in preparation for his long wait on the evening of November 4 had accumulated a thin layer of dust. As far as he could ascertain, fresh rat droppings at the foot of the chair were the only addition to the room.

With a scowl, he kicked the droppings away from the furniture with the toe of his boot. He was tempted to bring a piece of bread laced with hemlock the next time he came. One or two fewer rats might be worth the effort. Then again, he had to endure them only a short time longer, and dead rats were almost as repugnant as live ones. He sneered. Rats and the gentlemen comprising the king’s cabinet. They were one and the same. And they would soon come to the same ignominious end.

Satisfied that all was as it should be in the undercroft, he returned to the door and opened it a crack. He tilted his head to listen. No voices. No footsteps. Snuffing out the candle, he set the lantern on the ground and took a fistful of sand from the pail. He then pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. A quick sprinkle of sand covered the footsteps he’d made before he closed the door and locked it. Grateful to exchange the dank, stale air of the undercroft for the crisp morning air outside, he climbed the steps and surveyed the empty courtyard. No one was visible, but someone was whistling nearby. It was a timely reminder. Once he left the courtyard, there would be more people about.

Lowering his chin, he started to walk. Even if he took a circuitous route to the rendezvous location at the White Swan Inn, he would arrive before the noon hour. But that was just as well. Catsby was known at the White Swan, and although members of the conspiracy had met there often, up until now, it had been done under the cover of darkness, and they had entered through the back door. It was safer for everyone if those at the inn believed Guy was having a chance encounter with Catsby rather than a scheduled meeting.

Guy had been nursing his goblet of mead in the shadowy corner of the inn’s front room for over an hour when Thomas Wintour entered the establishment. Wintour perused the room, his eyes settling on Guy before moving on to assess the other three occupants: two old men already well into their cups and unlikely to have noticed his arrival, let alone his identity, and a young maid wiping down tables and chairs on the other side of the room.

Exhibiting no outward indication that he had recognized Guy, Wintour walked up to the bar just as the innkeeper appeared from the back. Keeping their voices low, the two men exchanged a few words, and then Wintour walked around a few tables to disappear through a door that led to the upstairs rooms. Guy waited, listening for the soft thud of Wintour’s footsteps ascending the stairs. Above Guy’s head, the wooden floor creaked and then fell silent.

Guy leaned back in his seat, swirling the liquid in his goblet thoughtfully. So, this meeting was to involve more than Guy and Catsby. And it would surely lead to discussion, else why the need for a private room? Frustration seared his chest once more. And with it came a generous dose of resentment. Given his pivotal role over the next few days, if something had arisen that might impact their plans, he should have been informed privately and straightway.

Coming to his feet, Guy tossed a few coins on the table beside his half-empty goblet and made for the door. No matter the innkeeper’s seeming willingness to allow known Catholics to meet secretly within the walls of his establishment, Guy would find his way to the upper rooms through the back entrance.

Under three minutes later, he issued the preassigned knock on the door of an upper room.

Wintour opened it almost immediately. “You took your time.”

“I could say the same.” Guy brushed past him to stand before Catsby near the fire. “I have been listening to those two drunkards downstairs discuss London’s bear-baiting pits for the best part of two hours. Sending word that you planned to meet upstairs would not have gone amiss.”

Catsby acknowledged his complaint with an inclination of his head. “Wintour and I arrived within minutes of each other. You would have been waiting just as long.”