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“Only on occasion. But my boys adore you, so I suppose I must offer you leniency on the day I catch you kissing your betrothed in my parlor.”

With a chuckle, he leaned forward and brushed his sister’s cheek with his lips. “Thank you, Martha.”

“No more kissing,” she warned.

“None,” he promised. “At least, not in your presence.”

Martha gave him a long-suffering look, but before she could lecture him further, the sound of the front door opening and closing reached them.

“I did not hear a knock,” Martha said. “It may be Hugh returning.”

Sure enough, moments later, Maidstone appeared at the parlor doorway, still wearing his cloak and hat.

“Do you have news?” Simon asked.

“I do.” He removed his hat. “I spoke to Suffolk. He remains skeptical that the letter is anything more than a prank, but Cecil disagrees. By way of compromise, Cecil agreed to do nothing until he had spoken with the king. The king returned today, and upon reading Isla’s missive, he insisted that a thorough search be made of the entire Palace of Westminster.”

“Thank goodness,” Isla breathed.

“Indeed,” Maidstone said. “The news was a long time coming, but thankfully, it is what we wished to hear. Suffolk was asked to conduct the search. He will begin at daybreak tomorrow and will be accompanied by Monteagle. He has vowed to send word when they have completed the assignment and has agreed to inform me of what they find.”

“Your connections to these gentlemen have been invaluable, Maidstone,” Simon said.

“I am glad that I have been able to contribute to this essential effort in some small measure.” He sighed. “We have but one day remaining until November 5, but God willing, we shall yet beat the conspirators at their game.”

Chapter 19

Guy used the tip of his dagger to scrape more soil out of the narrow channel he’d dug in the dirt floor beneath the barrel of gunpowder and then leaned back to survey his work. The groove was little more than the width of his smallest finger, but that was all that was needed. Wide enough to hold the fuse in place, small enough to go unnoticed. With a satisfied smirk, he reached for the cord at his waist and tucked one end into the newly created space beneath the barrel. It fit perfectly. Threading the cord carefully through his fingers, he set the remainder in a straight line. There must be no slowing the hungry flame.

He had practiced lighting various lengths of cord at Percy’s lodging. Countless times. To make a mistake with something so seemingly simple was pure foolishness. This fuse was precisely the right measurement. From the time he lit one end to the time it reached the other would be exactly fifteen minutes—just enough time for him to leave the undercroft, reclaim his horse from its hiding place behind the abbey, and gallop to the dock, where a ship was waiting to take him to Flanders.

The lantern he’d placed on the nearby wooden chair shed sufficient light to illuminate his handiwork, but the shadows cast by the barrels served to hide the newly set fuse. Guy rose to his feet, brushed the dirt off his knees, and walked to the door. From this position, one would have to know what to look for to notice the faint line cutting across the floor. How likely was it that anyone would visit the undercroft in the next twenty-four hours with so specific an assignment? He scowled. A fortnight ago, he would have put those chances at nil. Now, however, he could not be so sure.

Given the information Cecil had received, the king’s adviser may suspect arson. And more often than not, arson involved fuses. Crossing to the opposite corner, Guy seized the rickety old table the previous tenant had left behind. It was not sturdy enough to hold anything of any substance, but it was bulky and would further darken the floor where the cord lay. He set it over the cord and moved back to survey the scene. A leaning table, two chairs, a single lantern, and a blanket sat before barrels of gunpowder that were indistinguishable from the barrels of wine and cider stacked around them. Wood, chopped and set in tidy piles atop the barrels further disguised the primary contents of the room, and in the far corner, hidden behind a broom, was a small bundle containing a flagon of ale and a loaf of bread. It was minimal nourishment, but as long as he kept the rats from it, the bread would be sufficient to keep him from going hungry during the long vigil ahead.

He opened the purse that hung from his belt and withdrew a smooth, round pocket watch. The metal glistened in the lantern light and sent a beam of light dancing across the shadowy barrels. Guy had never owned anything so elegant. Percy had given it to him as he’d prepared to leave. The nobleman had said the miniature clock was necessary so that Guy could mark the time correctly as he awaited the arrival of the king and his cabinet in the room above. In Guy’s mind, it also served as a well-deserved token of appreciation. During the months he had spent living under the guise of Percy’s manservant, Guy had played his part well. And with extraordinary tolerance. As far as Guy was concerned, Percy was an extremely fortunate fellow. Few men with so important a role in the course of history as Guy would deign take on the role of a retainer, no matter the noble lineage of his coconspirator.

He checked the time. Almost noon. By this time tomorrow, King James and his lords would be no more. The explosion would kill others, of course. There were always innocents affected when men resorted to violence. But countless blameless Catholics had died because of oppressive Protestant laws. It was time for Protestants to experience a similar loss. The flames of hate and justification burning in his soul grew stronger. Annihilation of the current regime was the only way to make a change. And if unsuspecting Catholics died in the explosion, they would die as martyrs.

Voices sounded outside. Guy froze. Then slowly, carefully, he slid the pocket watch back into his purse and crossed to the nearest chair. The sword at his side thumped against his thigh, and the spurs on his heels clinked. The light jingle was a good reminder to stand still if anyone approached. A servant taking inventory in his master’s wine cellar might carry a sword to ward off undesirables, but he would have no need of spurs. An arsonist anticipating a swift escape on horseback, however, would desire both.

The voices were louder now, and they were accompanied by the steady thud of footsteps. Guy seized the logs lying on the closest barrel of wine and set them on the poor excuse for a table. Taking his knife, he pried the cork from the hole on the barrel’s lid. Instantly, the sweet aroma of fermented grapes filled the room.

There was a scrape of a key in the lock. Guy tensed. Upon entering the undercroft, he had locked the door behind him, and the key was safely in his purse. Whoever was about to enter had access to another key. The door opened, and three men entered. One held a lantern. Guy recognized him immediately as the fellow who had rented this room to Percy. Frustration simmered beneath Guy’s falsely placid expression. Percy should have insisted that every copy of the key to this door be handed over with the signing of the lease.

The two other intruders were unknown to him, but based on their finery, they were gentlemen of some means.

“Who are you?” the taller of the men demanded.

“John Johnson, m’ lord,” Guy said. “Manservant to Lord Percy.”

“And what are you doing in here?” The taller man spoke again.

“His Lordship requested a tally of his best wine, m’ lord. He is planning a dinner party after the opening of Parliament tomorrow.”

The second nobleman stepped into the small circle of light coming from Guy’s lantern and studied the stacked casks. “That would seem an inordinately large amount of firewood for a gentleman who spends much of his time away from London,” he said.

“I daresay.” Guy followed the direction of his gaze. “Though with his position in court, and the king returned, I believe he aims to be here most of the winter.”