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“Hmm.” The skeptical nobleman turned to the other. “What do you make of this unusual supply, Suffolk?”

“I find it odd that a gentleman would keep his wood so far from his fireplace, but otherwise, I cannot fault the fellow for wishing to stay warm.” The Earl of Suffolk sniffed the air. “I would hazard a guess that Percy keeps a well-stocked wine cellar. He is known for his fondness for madeira.”

“Well stocked indeed,” the other man said, eyeing the nearest barrels.

Guy maintained his silence even as a drip of sweat trickled down his back. The tall nobleman was standing close enough to the end of the fuse that if he shifted his foot a fraction to the left, he would displace it from its shallow groove.

“Is this cellar let to Percy, Whynniard?” Suffolk asked the leaser.

“It is, m’ lord. And this ’ere is ’is servant. Mr. Johnson was with ’Is Lordship when ’e signed the papers t’ use th’ place.”

“I believe we can leave the man to his business, Monteagle,” Suffolk said. “If Whynniard can vouch for him, we should move on to the next room.”

The tall gentleman slowly walked the length of the stack of barrels, studying those in the shadows with particular attention. Guy remained completely still. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fuse twitch as the nobleman named Monteagle stepped on it, but as of yet, no one had noticed the sword and spurs Guy wore.

There was a whisper of movement in the corner. All three visitors swiveled in time to see the beady eyes of a rat gleaming in the lantern light. Monteagle muttered an oath, and the creature scuttled back behind the barrels.

“Percy can keep the vermin-infested place,” Suffolk said. “Let us all pray that the creatures stay belowstairs.”

Guy repressed a contemptuous snort. As far as he was concerned, the room above their heads housed the truly threatening vermin.

“We should go,” Monteagle said. “Our search must be completed before evening.”

Guy’s chest tightened. So, it was a search. Under whose orders? If Cecil had requested it, why were he and his henchmen not conducting it themselves? He wanted to ask, but a servant would never be so forward.

Whynniard was already opening the door.

“Good day to you, m’ lords,” Guy said.

The noblemen ignored him. It was as he’d expected, but he inclined his head deferentially regardless. This would be the last time he did it. And the last time he would see any of them.

Isla poked at the small piece of carrot on the plate before her. She’d managed to eat three bites of bread, one bite of roast goose, and two bites of carrot. It was a poor excuse for an evening meal, but it was all she could manage. And if the barely touched dishes on the rest of the table were any indication, Simon and the Maidstones were struggling with a similar lack of appetite.

“We should have heard by now.” Simon set his knife down on his pewter plate, the clatter sounding especially loud in the unusually quiet dining room.

Lord Maidstone glanced at the darkened window. “Suffolk wished to have every room in the palace searched by nightfall.”

“Perhaps he did, and the crisis is averted.” Martha made a valiant attempt to infuse her words with hope. “Suffolk and Monteagle may have already captured Fawkes or Catsby or whoever else was lurking around where they should not be.”

Isla said nothing. She had lain awake much of the night, attempting to remember the names of the men who were credited with arresting Guy Fawkes. She’d come close to capturing the names lodged somewhere in the deepest recesses of her memory, but up until now, they had eluded her. Unfortunately, she was quite certain neither of those soon-to-be heroes was named Suffolk or Monteagle.

“I shall go to Suffolk’s residence,” Simon said, coming to his feet. “If he has not yet sent a missive, he can deliver the news to me in person.”

“Is that wise?” Lord Maidstone asked. “At a time filled with whispers of treason, I would not wish seemingly undue curiosity to cause suspicion to fall upon you or any member of this household.”

“I am open to another suggestion, as long as it does not involve simply sitting here waiting.”

A knock sounded on the front door. Simon pivoted. Lord Maidstone pushed away from the table and was on his feet when Grantham entered.

“A note was delivered for you, my lord,” the servant said.

“Thank you, Grantham.” Lord Maidstone accepted the sealed paper with practiced calm and waited until the servant closed the door behind him before resuming his seat.

“Open it,” Martha begged.

Isla’s throat tightened. Simon stepped up behind her. She knew he was as anxious as she was, yet the feel of his hand resting upon her shoulder brought an unexpected measure of comfort.

Lord Maidstone broke the seal and opened the paper. He cleared his throat, then read,