Page 59 of Lady Louisa and the Carriage Clock
Cecil surmised from his bearing that the young man worked for the crown.
“I am he.”
“A missive from Lord Sidmouth.” The man handed over the letter and promptly took his leave.
Cecil closed the door and returned to the kitchen. Retaking his stool, he took a long swallow of his coffee.
“Well?” Nathaniel raised a brow.
“A message from Lord Sidmouth.” Placing his cup on the table, Cecil used the end of a nearby spoon to break the wax seal on the letter and then read the missive.
“You don't work for him anymore,” Nathaniel replied.
He shrugged. “I imagine he heard about my burning the ebony boxes yesterday and wishes to discuss the matter.”
“Why?” Nathaniel frowned.
“The Home Secretary may not have been overly interested in the RA three years ago, but the organization has become more powerful. Even The Home Office can no longer ignore their activities.”
“When does he want to see you?”
“Now.” He folded the letter and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket along with the note from Louisa. “Thank you for bringing me Lady Louisa’s findings.”
Cecil escorted Nathaniel out of the house before making his way to the mews, subsequently rousing his groom and driver from a nap.
“My lord!”
“I’m off to Castle Street. Bring my carriage around.”
It was a nuisance there was no servant to send to call for his carriage. More and more he was determined to reopen his principal residence in Town and hire a full staff.
Cecil entered the house, donned his outerwear, and took up his walking stick. A moment later, he stepped out on the front stoop to see his coach pull up in front of the townhouse.
His groom held open the door of the carriage. As Cecil entered the conveyance, he called to the driver, “The George and Vulture on Castle Street.”
Sidmouth had suggested they meet for a meal in a neutral spot. The traffic through Mayfair was heavy, and his stomach rumbled several times during the hour long drive. The carriage stopped to pay the tolls on each end of the congested timber-built Pulteney Bridge; moments later, his carriage halted on Lombard Street. Cecil was starved for a good chop by the time he ambled a few yards down Lombard Street and turned into the narrow alleyway that was Castle Street.
The messenger who’d delivered the letter from Lord Sidmouth stood near the entrance to the chop house. “Lord Wycliffe, I’m one of the secretary’s clerks and will conduct you to Lord Sidmouth.”
“Proceed.”
They entered the main dining room, a dimly lit, low ceilinged chamber. The paneled walls and heavy wood furniture provided a vast expanse of brown, aging wood wherever he looked. The clerk stopped in front of a table in the left corner of the inn, where Sidmouth was seated alone with his back against the wall.
Henry Addington, 1st Viscount Sidmouth, nodded to Cecil. “Have a seat, Wycliffe.”
The clerk took a seat on a chair at a table some distance away.
“Port?” Sidmouth lifted a bottle in one hand.
Cecil nodded. “Please.”
A pretty buxom young woman appeared with two pewter plates and placed them on the table before sashaying away.
“I took the liberty of ordering,” Sidmouth said with a smile. “You mentioned several times before your preference for this establishment’s beefsteak, so I determined it was time I sampled the fare.”
Their plates held warm, fresh bread, golden roasted potatoes, and huge steaks. Both men began to eat as if by silent agreement. Several minutes later, Cecil had nearly finished his steak when the Home Secretary sat back in his wooden chair. He was nearly fifty years old but appeared younger. Cecil realized the man was the right age to be the third founder of the RA.
“You destroyed the mythology clocks.” The secretary narrowed his gaze on Cecil’s face.
