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“Yes.” Lady Maidstone didn’t look away. “Do you align yourself with the Protestant faith or Catholic?”

During an evening filled with odd questions, this one might win the prize.

“When I go to church, I attend Church of England services,” Isla said.

The tension left Lady Maidstone’s shoulders. “That makes life easier, does it not?”

“I . . . I suppose so. Why did you ask?”

“There always seem to be negative repercussions when one is seen fraternizing with Catholics.” Her expression dropped. “It is awful. And I hate that we have to even consider it, but for the sake of the boys . . .”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Martha.” Lord Maidstone set a comforting hand over his wife’s. “Today’s political upheaval is not of your making. Neither is the rift it has caused between those of differing religions.”

Isla’s thoughts spun. This discussion and the distress it had engendered felt incredibly real. And heavy. Heavier than pretense should ever be. She allowed her gaze to traverse the room again. There were no electric plugs or cords, no items made of plastic or rubber. Nothing remotely modern. Was it possible that this historically perfect building was no set, these people weren’t acting, and she’d actually traveled back in time? No. It couldn’t be.

More than ever before, she wanted to escape the room and this bizarre conversation. But her newfound doubts lingered. What if this wasn’t fake? Ever since she’d stepped out of the changing room, she’d been in such a state of shock and disbelief that she’d not allowed herself time to think. To really think. What if the inconceivable had actually occurred? What if she really had been dropped into the past? She needed to shake off her shock and focus. And she’d better start drawing on whatever she could remember from all her college history classes too.

In a final act of defiance against the preposterous situation, she raised her eyes to meet Lord Bancroft’s. “What’s today’s date?” she asked.

“It is the twenty-ninth of September,” he said.

“And the year?”

He gave her an odd look. “Sixteen oh five.”

Sixteen oh five! Isla attempted to keep her breathing even and racked her brains for anything she could attach to the time period. Queen Elizabeth had just died. King James was on the throne. But there were factions who didn’t believe he belonged there. And if she remembered right, those factions were almost exclusively Catholics who longed for a monarch who would restore the rights they’d enjoyed under the reign of Queen Mary.

“Would you say that King James is more concerned with uniting England and Scotland under one monarch than in uniting people of differing faiths in those same countries?” she asked, offering a silent prayer that she’d remembered right.

“Undoubtedly.” Lord Bancroft was still staring at her. “Although few outside those serving in Parliament recognize it.”

For a monarch who would be instrumental in producing the King James version of the Bible, his lack of sensitivity to varying religious beliefs made no sense. But Isla’s schooling had taught her that history was riddled with such contradictions.

“It must have been a disappointment to the Catholics that Mary Queen of Scots’ own son would treat them so badly,” she said.

Something flickered in Lord Bancroft’s eyes, but before Isla could identify the emotion, he turned to Lord Maidstone. Isla followed his gaze. The sandy-haired man was looking unusually grave.

“If your bent is truly toward the Church of England, Miss Crawford,” he said, “I would suggest that you curb your public criticism of the king’s treatment of Catholics. There are assuredly others who share your feelings, but there are equally assuredly spies circulating at every social function, keeping track of anyone who speaks ill of the king. Once those names reach Cecil, those people are considered potential traitors to the crown.”

Cecil. Isla was obviously supposed to know the name. It sounded vaguely familiar. It also sounded as though he wielded a great deal of power. “How do you know who the spies are?”

“Guesswork,” Lord Bancroft said. “Those who appear a little too interested in conversations not meant for them. Those who encourage Catholics who practice their religion in secret to speak openly of their religious observance. Those who appear at inns where the proprietors are known to turn a blind eye to clandestine gatherings.”

“Unfortunately, they are rarely obvious.” Lord Maidstone’s expression remained grim. “I have lost some good friends to Cecil’s witch hunts.”

“What happened to them?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Isla regretted them. Lady Maidstone bowed her head as though inexplicably burdened. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“If you truly do not know, it is best that I enlighten you,” Lord Maidstone said. “They were taken to the Tower. Most are already dead.”

“Because they were practicing Catholics?” It was almost too terrible to comprehend.

“Yes. And they were seen as a threat.” Lord Maidstone straightened his shoulders. “Now, perhaps you better comprehend why Martha asked about your leanings. No one in this room harbors ill feelings toward those of the Catholic faith—quite the opposite, in fact—but I believe I speak for Lord Bancroft when I say that neither of us will ever be sufficiently swayed by religious fervor to condone an assassination attempt on the king.”

“I understand.” And she did. It had taken her a few minutes, but the penny had finally dropped. Unfortunately, the new awareness brought more fear than comfort. “Thank you for your warning; I’ll be more careful from now on.”

Slipping her trembling hands beneath the table, she fought for composure. She should have registered the importance of the date the moment Lord Bancroft had enlightened her. Sixteen oh five was no ordinary year in British history. It was the year Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators had attempted to blow up Parliament and the king.

Chapter 4