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“The plague?” She swallowed. “You mean COVID?”

“Pardon my ignorance,” Maidstone said, “but what exactly is COVID?”

Miss Crawford reached for the back of the chair closest to her and gripped it tightly. “A disease,” she said tightly. “But maybe not the one you’re talking about?”

“I don’t believe so.” Simon eyed her warily. “The one I am referring to is also known as the Bubonic Plague or Black Death.”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought that might be it.”

“It is the reason almost all members of the House of Lords have vacated their London homes.”

“Including you,” she guessed.

“Yes. My country residence is a considerable distance from London, in Derbyshire. The Maidstones are good enough to allow me to stay here when I am required to return to the city within a relatively short period of time.”

“Although we regret the terrible suffering occurring in London, Simon’s extended visits to our home have delighted our sons,” Martha said, seemingly attempting to redirect the conversation to something lighter.

Her approach proved successful, for Miss Crawford’s eyes widened. “You have children?”

“We do.” Martha smiled. “And if I had taken you down the east wing of the house, you would doubtless have heard them in the nursery. They will be so jubilant when they learn of Simon’s arrival, I fear their voices will not be contained to that part of the house.”

Simon grinned. Much as he appreciated Martha and her husband’s company, in his opinion, Copfield Hall’s biggest draw was his rambunctious nephews. The boys had a way of making the most difficult of circumstances seem less trying and the most challenging problems more manageable. “Are you telling me that I must wait until tomorrow to see them?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” Martha eyed him sternly. “As Hobbes has already informed me that supper is ready, I believe we should relocate to the dining room and enjoy the meal uninterrupted.”

Simon accepted her directive with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. But your cook had better have outdone herself if there is to be any hope of assuaging my disappointment.”

“I believe she has,” Maidstone said. “I have it on good authority that there will be braised eel for supper tonight.”

“Ah.” Simon guessed Martha had specifically requested the dish because she knew he liked it so well. “I daresay braised eel may be worth the sacrifice.”

Maidstone chuckled and led Martha to the door. Left with only one polite option, Simon offered Miss Crawford his arm. She gave him a mystified look, but when he raised an eyebrow, she tentatively set her hand on his sleeve.

“I shall not eat you,” he said. “You have my word.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, lifting her chin slightly. “It may ruin your appetite for the braised eel.”

Surprised but unaccountably pleased by her response, Simon fought back a smile. Miss Crawford may say exceptionally odd things, but it appeared that she was not without a sense of humor.

Isla stared at the long, brown object on the pewter plate before her and suppressed a shudder. Braised eel. She might have tried it if she hadn’t known what it was. But thanks to Lord Maidstone, she did know. And she was genuinely worried that if she put a piece in her mouth, she might gag.

Across the table from her, Lord Bancroft was already halfway through the portion on his plate. Isla shuddered again. Live eels gave her the creeps; cooked eels weren’t much better. The first course had been roast beef, lamb, and turnips. She hadn’t expected or needed a meal of eel and leeks after that. Would she be considered horribly rude if she left it untouched? Lady Maidstone had been incredibly kind, and the last thing Isla wanted to do was insult her, but eating eel . . . She honestly didn’t think she could do it.

After stabbing a small piece of leek with the short, sharp knife she had found beside her plate, Isla slid the vegetable into her mouth and chewed slowly. If she knew Lord Bancroft better, she’d offer him her eel, but since she’d only just met the man, it would probably be weird to suggest it. Not that every conversation they’d had so far hadn’t been weird. Her chest tightened. Pretty much everything about her situation and surroundings right now was surreal.

She was sitting at a large, rectangular, wooden table in a wood-paneled room in a Tudor manor. A fire in the large fireplace augmented the light from the candles lining the center of the table. The dishes were filled with simple foods, yet they tasted unfamiliar. Ale filled the goblets, and the others in the room—all dressed in elegant Jacobean clothing—appeared completely at ease. It truly seemed as though she were the only one who felt out of place.

“Bring me up-to-date on news from London, Bancroft,” Lord Maidstone said. “Do whispers of death threats directed toward the king continue?”

Lord Bancroft grimaced. “In almost every social gathering. And I see no reason for them to stop. Not until the monarch is willing to offer the Catholics some concessions.”

Death threats? Catholics? What on earth were they talking about? Isla set down her knife. It clattered against the rim of the plate. Instantly, silence fell over the table, and everyone’s gaze landed on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Lady Maidstone cleared her throat. “At the risk of causing offense, Miss Crawford, would you be willing to tell us your religious leanings?”

“My . . . my religious leanings?”