Page 2 of Lady Louisa and the Carriage Clock
Cecil moved his gaze to the other man’s face as he held the box up. “What’s wrong? Do you know what this is?”
“I’ve heard of those snuff boxes.” The watchman took a shuddering breath. “I thought they were a myth.”
“What does it mean?” he asked in a growl, losing patience with the man.
The beadle replied grimly, “Nothing good, my lord. This man was most likely killed by a member of the Rogue’s Alliance.”
Chapter One
March 1817, London
“And you’re sure the gold clock will be at the auction?” Cecil asked his employee, Mr. Bones.
“I’ve had confirmation of what Quinn overheard.” The older man paused. “The Irishman wants back in your good books, my lord.”
“He’s got a long way to go,” he replied curtly. The red-bearded Irishman known as Quinn had been an excellent informant at one time until his obsession with a doxy in the employ of the Rogue’s Alliance got the better of him.
Seated on a leather armchair in his drawing room at number four Curzon Street, Cecil adopted a bland expression. He didn’t want Bones to know how desperately he needed that clock.
“Anything else, my lord?”
He shook his head. “That’s all for now, Bones.”
When the man had departed, Cecil let out a long breath. That clock was the key he needed to break the Rogue’s Alliance. It had been three years since his brother’s murder. Cecil had spent those years chasing down members of the alliance only to discover none of the operatives he encountered knew a thing about the clocks.
Soon after his brother’s death, Cecil resigned from his position with the Home Office. His job had been to ensure commerce thrived in the UK during the recent wars. With the country at peace, he felt he’d done his duty, and now he would concentrate on finding his brother’s killer.
Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, had made his decision to leave the Home Office much easier. Cecil had maintained there was more to his brother’s stabbing than mere chance. Sidmouth disagreed and would hear nothing of Cecil pursuing the matter.
Cecil trusted few people enough to share information about his quest to dismantle the RA, and he’d not told another soul about the importance of the Roman mythology clocks.
He employed four servants: Bones, his elderly butler Acker, a maid of all work, and his cook. It was a stretch to call Jameson a cook, and a lucky thing Cecil didn’t entertain as he wouldn’t be able to provide a meal fit to feed a guest. His butler had once resided in gaol, as did the maid Eliza and his cook. All three had proved useful, their ties to the darker side of society a boon when hunting members of the RA.
As things now stood, his staff owed him a great deal as they had little to do caring for him and were, in exchange, well-fed and well-housed.
As for Bones? The man had been a smuggler during the wars before Cecil’s friend Lord Ashford convinced him to be an informant for the Foreign Office. When the marquess spied the man in London a few months ago looking for work, Ashford rightly determined the smuggler’s skill set would be invaluable to Cecil. Bones could blend in anywhere, and he was particularly skilled at intelligence gathering amongst the staff of a London household.
Cecil looked about him at the room he’d furnished himself. The space, elegant yet masculine, was also used as a study and library. After all this time, the tiny townhouse still didn’t feel like home. What was home? His estate in Yorkshire?
His remaining brother, David, was the vicar of Wycliffe village near the family estate. Cecil gave his youngest brother the living soon after their eldest brother died.
“Thank you, Wycliffe.” David had been only nineteen years of age and eager to marry after his period of mourning was over.
“Do not call me Wycliffe,” he replied softly. “That was our brother. I will never be him. You may refer to me as Cecil or Lord Cecil.”
His mother threw up her hands. “My son, you are the new viscount. Wycliffe is now your name.”
“It is one I don’t deserve, Mother. He was the best of us.”
She had said no more. Whether she’d come to agree or whether she knew how stubborn her middle son could be, they never discussed the matter again. It had taken time, but he'd grown accustomed to being addressed as Viscount Wycliffe.
For a moment, he wished his friend Ashford were not at his country estate, but Ashford’s wife would soon give birth. Charlotte had been kind to him, and he would not cause her any worry while she was in a delicate condition.
His other friend from Eton, Baron Nathaniel Harbury, was returned to Town and recently married. Nathaniel’s wife Edith, along with Charlotte and their friend Louisa, knew quite a bit about the RA, having been involved in a few skirmishes with the alliance.
The RA had infiltrated all levels of society. Recently, Nathaniel had exposed a high-ranking Bow Street Runner as a member of the alliance. The runner, Black Jack Henley, had disappeared along with the Assistant Chief Magistrate, another RA member outed by Black Jack himself.
The house around him was quiet, the only sound coming from the pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth as he rose to his feet and walked to the drawing room door. After locking the door, he turned to a low-slung mahogany dresser upon which rested a drinks tray. Pulling one end of the dresser away from a paneled wall, he pushed against a piece of the wood paneling near the floor, and it swung open.
