Page 1 of Lady Louisa and the Carriage Clock (The Rogue’s Alliance #3)

N ovember 1813, London

Cecil entered the Cock and Crow, looking about warily. His brother Wycliffe had sent a missive asking him to meet at the tavern at midnight. A glance at his silver pair-cased pocket watch, a gift from that same brother, showed him to be on time.

Only two men were drinking in the establishment, a sorry pair that looked to have imbibed too much that evening as their heads were bobbing in an effort to stay awake.

“What will you have?” the publican asked after Cecil was seated at a scarred oak table in a dark corner of the taproom.

“I’m merely waiting on my brother.”

“Lord Wycliffe went out into the alley,” the tavern keeper replied in a low voice. “He looked to be in a hurry.”

Cecil rose from his rickety chair without a word and made his way past the bar to the back door of the establishment.

“Hello, Lord Swell, what are you doing back here?” a comely but none-too-clean barmaid asked him playfully.

“Have you seen my brother, Molly?” he asked, ignoring her jibe at his fashionable appearance. He didn’t point out that he was the younger brother of a viscount and thus a mere mister.

“Oh aye, I saw the great Wycliffe.” She added in a purr, “You’re not him, mind you, but I’d keep you company just the same.”

In no mood for the barmaid’s banter, he asked roughly, “Did Wycliffe leave the tavern alone?”

“Despite my attempts to join him,” she replied, pulling her heavily rouged lips into a pout.

Cecil said no more as he rushed by the woman, flung open the oak door, and stepped into the night. As the chilly air struck him, he was glad of his caped greatcoat.

Shadows surrounded him, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The moon was full, giving off a faint illumination to the area. He saw no one in the immediate vicinity and did not call out; something unexpected must have happened for his brother to miss their meeting.

Cecil picked his way past overflowing trash bins and assorted boxes and crates in the alley until he came to the cross street of Camden Way. Beneath the light of a coal-fueled gas lamp at the end of the road, he glimpsed two men racing away from him as he heard a loud groan nearby.

Following the sound to a shadowed alcove further down the road, Cecil spied a lump on the ground and heard a man moan. He cautiously approached the body; his worst fears were realized when he recognized the dark hair and pale face of his brother.

“Wycliffe!” Cecil dropped to his knees beside his eldest sibling, his gaze focusing on Wycliffe’s face, encouraged at the sight of his brother’s warm breath against the cold night air. “Lie still. I’ll get help.”

“I’ve been stabbed.” Wycliffe shook his head, a pained expression on his face. “Get my clock. The gold clocks are the key. You must stop them, Cecil.” He took a ragged breath and said no more, his eyes wide open and staring.

“Wycliffe! Brother!” Cecil watched for the rise and fall of his brother’s chest that never came. He put a hand near Wycliffe’s nose to check for breath, although the white puffs he’d observed a moment ago had ceased.

Cecil felt something wet on the hand that rested on the cold earth next to his brother’s body. Raising his palm to the light, he recognized the sticky substance coating his hand as blood. He stared at the blood, transfixed, until he heard shuffling footsteps.

A man with a hat and long coat appeared and walked toward Cecil in the low light, a lantern swinging in his hand. “What you be doing there, now? I’m the beadle for this parish, and it looks like you’re up to no good.”

“This man has been murdered.” Cecil rose to his feet, pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket and scrubbing the blood from his palm. “Let me see your lantern.”

“And who might you be to give me orders?” The supervisor of the local night watch squared his shoulders.

“Cecil Barrington of the Home Office,” he replied shortly, balling the bloodied handkerchief up and stuffing it into the pocket of his coat.

“Why didn’t you say so?” The man hurried to his side and held out his lantern.

Cecil took the light and examined his brother’s body, not allowing emotion to deter him. A puddle of blood was pooling under Wycliffe’s outstretched right arm. Cecil held the lantern in his right hand and, with his left hand, gingerly reached to pull free a pocket knife protruding from his brother’s underarm.

He set the lantern on the ground nearby and used the handkerchief to clean the knife. The blade displayed the engraving of a star and Maltese cross, the symbol for Joseph Rodgers and Sons, cutlery makers. On the reverse side of the blade was engraved No. 6 Kettering St. Sheffield, England. Cecil recognized the pocket knife as quite common; there would be no way to trace the owner.

The hand of his brother’s outstretched right arm was partially closed around a small black snuff box. Cecil picked up the item, held it toward the lantern, and observed the letters R and A emblazoned on the box in white script.

The beadle made a strangled sound in his throat.

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.”