Page 14 of Lady Louisa and the Carriage Clock
“Do you still believe the clock Louisa has is the golden clock your brother spoke about?” Nathaniel asked.
Cecil decided that it was time to confide in someone. “I do. It is in the box I found in Wycliffe’s study the night he was murdered. The box that had disappeared from the townhouse when I returned from Yorkshire to close the house.”
“Someone in your household must have taken it.”
“That is why I didn’t employ any of those servants in my rooms on Curzon Street. I didn’t know who I could trust.” He added, “As Louisa said, the clock is one of a pair crafted by Gaston Jolly. The clocks were made for the Duke of Montagu, and its twin is presumed missing.”
“The duke’s title went extant when he passed in 1790. Most of his personal belongings were auctioned off soon after, as I recall.” Nathaniel peered at Cecil. “You still haven’t told me how the carriage clock is linked to the RA.”
“As Louisa mentioned, the clocks aren’t actually carriage clocks. That is proof of how a story can evolve over the telling. And the stories never mention their French provenance.”
Nathaniel frowned. “Cecil, what aren’t you telling me?”
“The clocks weren’t sold off. They were gifted to the other founding members of the RA.” He paused. “The old duke formed the Rogue’s Alliance.”
“You have proof?” Nathaniel sat up straighter in his chair.
He nodded. “And I have the other clock.”
“Never say so!” Nathaniel whistled. “Does anyone else know you have it?”
He shook his head. “Only a dead man.”
So he told Nathaniel how he came into possession of the clock last October.
He’d been in his rooms at four Curzon Street since soon after his brother’s murder. The family had traveled to Yorkshire to bury Wycliffe, and his mother had never returned to London. David took orders at the parish church near the estate, and with only himself in Town, Cecil shuttered the Mayfair townhouse.
“There is a Mr. Wilkes from Wilkes, Jones, and Smythe Solicitors to see you, my lord,” his butler informed him one afternoon.
“Show him in, Acker.”
Cecil rose from a stuffed armchair in his drawing room to greet a tall, thin elderly gentleman carrying a leather portfolio.
“Mr. Wilkes,” the butler announced, hovering in the doorway after the solicitor entered the room.
“Do you require refreshment, Mr. Wilkes?” Cecil asked his visitor.
“No, my lord.”
Cecil nodded to the butler. “That will be all, Acker.”
He was seated and waved for the older gentleman to do the same. “What is this visit all about, Mr. Wilkes? I am aware of no business my family has with your firm.” He raised a brow.
“That is true, my lord. I am here on behalf of my client, Lord Daventry.”
Cecil frowned. “Daventry? I heard he’d recently died, but I am little acquainted with the man.”
“Be that as it may, my client left you a bequest in his will.”
“What type of bequest?” he asked, sitting forward in his chair.
“A crate.” The man added, “I do not know what is in the crate. I have stored the item in a basement beneath my law premises for several years. The earl also left you a sealed letter.”
The man pulled a letter from the portfolio in his lap and handed it to Cecil.
“I have some papers for you to sign, and then the crate is yours.”
“Where is this bequest?” he asked.
