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She fought for composure. “Martha, I need a horse.”

Her friend looked at her as though she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had. But with this new revelation, there was no way she could stay in the parlor another second.

“But it is full dark outside,” Martha said.

“I know, but I must go to Westminster.”

Fear entered Martha’s eyes, and she rose to her feet. “What have you recalled?”

She should have known Martha would guess the reason for her request. But she could not tell her. Moving closer, she took her friend’s hands in hers. “As much as I hate to leave you here alone, I really think Simon needs me more right now.”

“You cannot go out alone. London is no place for a young lady—”

“I must, Martha,” Isla interrupted. Nothing she was about to do fell under the prescribed codes of conduct for women in the seventeenth century, but at this point, she didn’t care. “Can you find me a horse? I don’t have any time to lose.”

“You must have an escort.”

“No. That is one more horse to locate and more time wasted.” She squeezed Martha’s hands. “Please. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t desperately important.”

“Is Simon in danger?” she asked.

Isla released her hands and stepped back. “If you would send Grantham for a horse, I will run upstairs for my cloak.” Not waiting for an answer, she lifted her skirts and ran out of the room.

Chapter 21

Isla clung to the reins for dear life. Her short canter on Stormy a few days before had been poor preparation for riding a much larger and unknown horse in the dark and on her own. But adrenaline was a powerful tool, particularly when it was combined with desperation.

Grateful that the moon had appeared from behind the clouds long enough for her to spot a few familiar landmarks, Isla released a sigh of relief when the entrance to the New Palace Yard materialized before her. She had no idea how long it had taken her to get here. Dispensing with her farthingale and donning her cloak had been fast and easy. Grantham had assisted her into the saddle after he’d arrived from the nearest stable, drawing a large, black horse behind him on the run. Mounting without Simon’s strong arms around her had been challenging, but it had been nothing when compared to the terrifying sensation of tearing down the Strand toward Charing Cross, not knowing if she had the strength or skill necessary to remain in the saddle. And now, with her final destination ahead, she faced the daunting task of dismounting without breaking a bone.

Offering the most recent of many silent and fervent prayers, Isla reined in her racing mount. The horse shook its head disapprovingly, but with a compliant snort, it gradually slowed its gait, and by the time they entered the Old Palace Yard, the horse was walking sedately, and Isla was attempting to control her ragged breathing.

“Quietly, boy,” she whispered. The horse snorted, and from somewhere nearby, there was an answering nicker. Isla tensed. Where had the sound come from? And was there a person waiting in the darkness with the other horse? Martha’s stricken face as she’d watched her leave flooded Isla’s mind. “This may be the worst idea I’ve ever had,” she muttered, “but I’m here now, and I’m not leaving until I know that Simon is all right.”

Up ahead, the specter-like outline of a tree took shape. Isla made for it. Another nicker told her the invisible horse was close. Her mount’s ears twitched. Which was better: to remain on the horse in case she needed to flee or to get off while she still could? Shadowy outlines made it difficult to gauge her distance to the ground, but her memory of the courtyard was of a fairly even, hard-packed ground. In the dark, she would take that surface over cobblestones.

Reining her horse to a halt, she slipped one foot out of the stirrup and lifted her leg over the pommel. For a full five seconds, she sat completely still, willing herself to jump. Her horse stepped sideways, and Isla dropped. She hit the ground hard but miraculously remained upright. Swinging around, she bumped into her horse and fumbled for the leather straps.

“Come on,” she said softly. “You’re going to wait here.”

Leading the horse behind her, she approached the tree. Two eyes glistened in the darkness. Isla’s heart missed a beat. She froze. And then came the welcoming nicker.

“Blaze?” Scarcely daring to believe it was Simon’s horse, she inched forward. “Blaze, is that you?”

Tossing her own reins over a branch and hoping it would be enough to keep the loaned horse close by, Isla extended a tentative hand toward the second horse. Almost immediately, a friendly nose brushed against it.

“Oh, Blaze!” Isla murmured. “Where is Simon?”

There were no other horses nearby. Did that mean Simon had come here alone? Or did it mean that he was the only one who hadn’t left? Tamping down her mounting fear, Isla ran toward the building Simon had told her was the House of Lords. The main entrance was visible in the moonlight, but that was not what she wanted. Hurrying past it, she followed the front of the building, searching for another door. She had almost reached the corner when she spotted a few steps that led to a door set in the wall just below ground level. Lifting her skirts a couple of inches, she ran down the few stairs and stood at the door in a tortured state of indecision. What now? She had no way of knowing who—if anyone—was inside or how dangerous they might be. Leaning forward, she pressed her ear to the narrow crack between the door and the doorframe. Nothing. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sounds of the slight breeze, the distant river, and a nightingale. And then she heard it. A faint, muffled moan. Without another thought, she opened the door.

A lantern sat on the floor not far from the door, casting a flickering light over a few pieces of furniture, barrels, and chopped wood. For two seconds, Isla stood staring into a rustic room seemingly devoid of people, and then she heard the moan again. She pivoted, her breath catching as she glimpsed a man lying on the floor a few feet to her right. Grabbing the lantern, she lifted it high.

“Simon!” Crossing the distance between them in three rapid strides, Isla fell to her knees beside him. A large red stain covered the left side of his jacket, and more blood marked the floor around him. His face was pale, but at her cry, his eyelids fluttered open.

“Isla?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You are come.”

“Yes.” Vaguely aware that tears were rolling down her cheeks, she set the lantern down and took his hand. “Yes, I’m here.”

“For . . . forgive me,” he said. “It was Fawkes’s knife. There was no time to defend myself.”