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“Is this Charing Cross?” she asked.

“Yes,” Simon said. “And that is the memorial to Eleanor of Castile.”

“How amazing.” The monument was smaller and simpler than the one that stood outside Charing Cross Station, but it was the first thing Isla had seen that bore a resemblance to something she knew.

“And this,” Simon said, taking the road at his left, “is King Street. The high-pitched roofs may prevent you from seeing beyond the buildings, but the street runs parallel to the Thames on the left and St. James’s Park on the right.”

“Does it run down toward Westminster?” Isla asked.

“It does.”

Notwithstanding the vast differences in scenery, dress, and transportation around her, an odd sense of familiarity washed over her. The raucous seagulls overhead, the distant lap of water, and the glimpse of St. James’s Park’s greenery were just as she’d always known them.

“In the London I know, this road is called Whitehall,” she said.

“Whitehall,” he repeated. “Named after the king’s residence, the Palace of Whitehall.”

“Yes.” This was probably not the time to tell Simon that the royal palace no longer existed.

“Then, you must also be familiar with the Palace of Westminster,” he said.

Familiar, yes, in a vague sort of way. “Westminster Abbey still stands, but most of the other buildings associated with the palace you know have either been destroyed or rebuilt.”

Simon kept Blaze at a steady walk, his expression thoughtful. “And yet, we are fighting to keep that very thing from happening within the week.”

“True. But this time, our concern is not just for the buildings or upholding the law of the land. It’s also about saving countless lives.” Particularly, the lives of people she had come to care for deeply.

They were approaching a wall, and beyond it, a cluster of buildings surrounded what Isla guessed was the original portion of Westminster Abbey.

“No matter what happens,” Simon said, “the king will be protected.”

“But not the other innocents.” A sickening blend of dread and panic welled within her. They were mere days from the culmination of Guy Fawkes and Robert Catsby’s elaborate conspiracy, and they had no idea whether any steps had been taken to prevent its implementation. “Promise me that no matter what happens, you will not come here on November 5.”

“Hush,” he warned, his voice low. “We have reached New Palace Yard. It is the entrance to the House of Commons. Beyond the archway is Old Palace Yard and the House of Lords.” He paused to look up at the venerable structure ahead of them. “Within these walls, men linger longer than is needful, listening for conversations not meant for their ears.”

A chilling frisson skittered up Isla’s spine. Weeks ago, Simon and Lord Maidstone had warned her of Cecil’s spies. Was this where they gathered? And was it possible that at least one of Catsby’s accomplices was also in the vicinity, watching over their cache?

“Will you show me the House of Lords?” Isla asked softly.

With a nod, Simon led the way beneath the archway and into a second courtyard. “It is the building immediately to your left,” he said, giving no indication that he meant to stop.

Isla understood. The prickly sensation that she was being watched had begun the moment they’d entered the second courtyard. Attempting to ignore it, she gave the structure at her left a brief glance and then forced her attention to linger on the other buildings they were passing. Built of stone, with arched windows and tall chimneys, there was a similarity to the structures. She dropped her gaze from the rooflines to the ground level. How would one enter an undercroft? In this era, it would have been like a cellar or crypt accessed from outside the building.

Near the corner of the farthest building, Isla noticed a set of shallow steps leading down to a door partially visible above the ground. Her pulse quickened. If that led to an undercroft, the chances were good that there was a comparable door in the building that accommodated the Lords’ Chambers. Steeling herself not to turn around and look, she kept her eyes forward and her expression passive. Once she was safely back at the Maidstones’ house, she would pass along her observation to Simon and Lord Maidstone. Perhaps they, in turn, could pass it along to Lord Suffolk.

Simon was unprepared for the relief he felt when he guided Isla out of Old Palace Yard and back onto King Street. In his many visits to the House of Lords, he had never before experienced the sense of foreboding that had hovered over the palace grounds today. Not even the foul stench wafting on the light breeze from the alleys that led to the humbler dwellings near the river could compare to the malicious aura that had seemed to hang over the palace buildings. He chanced a brief glance over his shoulder. All appeared as it should. And that was particularly concerning. Where was Cecil? Had he taken Isla’s note seriously? Would he act upon the clue he’d been given?

Simon tightened his jaw. He could not remember a time when he had felt less in control. Not only could he learn nothing more about whether any effort was being made to foil Catsby’s plot until he and Maidstone had spoken to Suffolk, but he also had no way of knowing how long Isla would remain in the seventeenth century. With his burgeoning desire to have her forever in his future, the unknown was eating him up one painful bite at a time. And if Isla’s gentle probing at Maidstone’s house was any indication, he was doing a very poor job of hiding his inner turmoil. She deserved an explanation. But exactly what he should say and when he should say it, he did not know.

“Simon. We must stop.”

With a start, Simon reined Blaze to a halt. He was every kind of blockhead. He’d been so consumed with weighty thoughts about his current situation, he’d all but ignored the young lady at the center of them. And now she was half a dozen paces behind him, attempting to free her foot from the stirrup. Wheeling Blaze around, he moved his horse to stand beside hers.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Getting off.” Isla dropped the reins to untangle her skirts from around the pommel.

Unprepared for the unexpected movement, Stormy nickered and sidestepped. Isla wobbled.