Page 1 of The Chef and the Countess (The Duke’s Bastards #2)

Northern England

December, 1898

Celia Gillingham, Countess Winterwood, the wife of Carlton Gardiner, the Earl of Winterwood, was acutely aware that this day was inevitable. Her husband, a man of sixty-five, had been ailing for the past six years, his health deteriorating with each passing week. Sitting outside the sick room, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for the doctor’s verdict, she couldn’t help but wonder about her future. What will become of me?

It was rather selfish to think of such while Carlton fought for his life, but Celia could not help it. Every time she raised the subject during their marriage, Carlton dismissed her concerns regarding her future with a wave of his withered hand, stating all was as it should be, whatever that meant. She wished now she had taken firmer control, demanding to see his solicitor and be shown the documents—if any existed. Not that a married woman could make such a request. Celia would possess more legal rights if she were single instead of married, a fact that she found profoundly unjust and disheartening. She had no idea of just how much a husband could legally control a woman, especially when it came to finances.

Sitting alone in the shadowy hallway, Celia admonished herself for allowing a topic as imperative as her future well-being to slide. What would she do? She had no family except for her Aunt Etta, the Countess of Darrington, and they had not been in contact for years. Celia still harbored a lingering hurt over her arranged marriage and the fact that when it counted, her aunt did not stand up for her. But then, the countess’s husband, William Buckingham, the Earl of Darrington, was not a man to refuse. There was something entirely sinister about Uncle William. And her loathsome cousin, Troy Buckingham, Viscount Shinwell, was worse. These earlier experiences left her with a deep mistrust and uncertainty about her future.

At least the past few years had been peaceful. Life in Marshall Meadows, a small hamlet in Northern England near the border with Scotland, meant isolation and a quiet existence. Especially now with snow blanketing the countryside. By the end of January, travel would become nearly impossible until spring. It gave her time to read and lose herself in fictional adventure and romance. Perhaps Celia had become too impassive and, because of it, she had stopped asking questions about securing her future. Well, that and Carlton had categorically refused to discuss it. The realization of her complacency filled her with a sense of urgency and regret, a burden she could not shake off.

As the door creaked open, the doctor’s solemn expression told Celia all she needed to know. The room was filled with the acrid scent of illness and the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth . This is it, then. Celia sat by Carlton’s bedside, a feeling of sadness washing over her. After all, he was her husband and, after a fashion, a friend.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he muttered, his head tossing to and fro on the pillow. Sweat ran in rivulets down his pale, hollowed cheeks.

“Forgive you for what, Carlton?”

“He’ll look after you. He promised me.”

Celia’s blood chilled. She had heard those words before—from her uncle on the day of her arranged marriage. “Whom are you speaking of?”

Carlton coughed, and saliva dribbled from his mouth. “My heir.”

The shock of that declaration hit her hard, reverberating through her nerve endings. This was the first time Celia had heard of an heir. Carlton had entered into marriage for the specific reason of begetting an heir, and they had tried for the first five years of their marriage. At least, that was the reason he gave. Alas, she did not become pregnant. Soon after that, Carlton became ill.

“To your earldom?” Indeed, he had to be mistaken. It was the sickness talking. What else could it be? He hadn’t been well for years. The fever must have affected his mind. Celia knew deep down they should never have traveled to London last month. He’d taken a turn for the worse as soon as they arrived home.

“My late cousin’s boy. We haven’t written much.” Carlton started coughing again. “He said he will look after you. It is the way of things.”

The way of things? Celia did not like the sound of this. “What do you mean? What about your will?”

Carlton shook his head, struggling for breath. “None—recent.”

After more than a decade together, the revelation of an old will—a will that might not include her—left Celia in a state of shock. As a countess, wasn’t she entitled to a living from the estate? But that provision was from a bygone era, when aristocrats had tenants making money and paying rent. A feeling of dread crossed her soul. Then annoyance rose within her. Celia did not get angry often, hardly ever, but there was no holding back her rising aggravation.

“How could you? How could you not tell me of an heir? You lied when you said you needed an heir!” Celia’s sense of betrayal was overwhelming, a sharp pain that pierced her heart. She was tempted to grab and shake him, but what would be the point at this juncture? He had lied all those years ago regarding the title. Celia had even felt sorry for him and agreed to marry him—not that she had much choice. The depth of his duplicity left her feeling utterly deceived.

“I wanted my heir,” Carlton wheezed. “I did not want my cousin’s boy to have it, but it’s his now. Forgive me.”

No, she would not forgive him. For once in her life, fury overcame any compassion. “What’s his name? Where is he?” Carlton’s eyes closed. This time, she did shake him, though gently. “Do not die on me yet. Not until you explain how you could be so thoughtless and selfish. I thought we were friends. I thought you cared for me, at least a little.”

His eyes popped open, and his milky gaze slid toward her. “His name is Franklin Gardiner. From Canada. I wrote him two months ago. Here. Now.” Every spoken word was an effort.

Celia’s mind spun from the multiple tumultuous revelations. The anger vanished, and a deep hurt took its place. “You knew you were dying and never said a word. That’s why we went to London, so you could make arrangements. Oh, Carlton. How could you do this to me?”

“I went to see a doctor for a second opinion. Did not. Want. To worry you.” His breathing grew shallow.

Holy crow. Celia was in a fix.

“The heir will look after you. He promised. ” Carlton gasped as his gnarled fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You were good to me.”

Perhaps too good. “You appreciated my company and care. But not enough to legally secure my future or be truthful. Instead, you placed me in the hands of a stranger.” Celia shook off his hand. “You failed me. You neglected your basic duties as a husband and a friend.” Celia snorted. “I failed myself. After being handed off to you by my family, I should have insisted on legal guarantees. But I was nineteen; what did I know? I became too content and comfortable with my life.”

“Forgive,” Carlton gasped. “Please.”

Forgiveness would be the decent thing to do, but just as she started crafting a response to do so, Carlton began coughing, sputtering, and gasping for every breath until he grew still.

The doctor entered the room, stood by the bed, and felt for his pulse. “He’s dead.”

He was gone. It happened so swiftly. And with it, her life as she knew it—swept away with a raspy, rattled final breath. She felt another twinge of sadness at Carlton’s death. But it was mixed with uncertainty and resentment.

“Mr. Frankin Gardiner is waiting to see you in the library, my lady.”

Celia whirled around to find Patrick, the footman, standing in the doorway.

Well, the second cousin didn’t waste any time. He’d traveled here to claim the title and everything that came with it. Standing, Celia smoothed her gown and headed downstairs with as much dignity as she could muster. When she entered the library, a tall, thin man turned to greet her.

Franklin Gardiner looked to be in his thirties. He was not homely as such but certainly not handsome—much like Carlton. His expression remained neutral and guarded. “Countess, I am Franklin Gardiner. How is the earl doing?”

“Dead. Not five minutes ago,” Celia replied flatly.

“My condolences,” he said, giving her a slight bow. “I did not know the earl. I was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada, but my late father remembers him from when they were younger.”

He acted polite enough, though somewhat distant. She would do the same. Celia motioned toward the leather chairs by the fire. “I had no idea Carlton had an heir. To say I am shocked is an understatement.”

“I would imagine so, my lady,” he murmured as he sat across from her. “I have met with the late earl’s solicitor, Mr. George Sanderson, since my arrival here last week. He found me a room across the Scottish border at the inn in Lamberton. It is only a few miles from here, but a difficult journey overall.”

Celia did not reply, as she could not participate in polite conversation. She was still in shock.

Gardiner cleared his throat. “Well, then. I will get straight to the point. The will is over twenty years old, but Mr. Sanderson says it is valid. I am to inherit the entailed country estate.” He paused. “And I’m to inherit this cottage.”

Yet another shocking blow. Where could she go? They rented a modest town house during their first five years in London when Parliament was in session. After that, they stayed exclusively in Marshall Meadows. Celia’s mouth quirked. “Which leaves me homeless. Carlton said you would look after me. He made you promise. Correct?”

“That is so, my lady. I met with the earl three days ago in his sick room. He said you were not to be disturbed.”

More secrets. No one told her of the visit. What did they do? Smuggle Franklin Gardiner through the servants’ entrance?

“How convenient that you arrived a week before his death and met with the solicitor. Did it occur to any of you to update his will before he died? To inform me of your arrival?” Celia’s voice remained steady, but the intensity of her emotions was palpable, threatening to break her resolve.

Mr. Gardiner bristled. “My lady, I tried to reason with my cousin during my visit. I told Mr. Sanderson I would do so. The solicitor himself tried many times in the past few years to convince the earl to update his will, but he would have none of it. Two months ago, Mr. Sanderson sent me a cablegram stating I should come at once to get the estate in order before the earl died. Mr. Sanderson has copies of our trans-Atlantic correspondence if you wish to see them.”

Celia sighed. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your character, Mr. Gardiner, but surely you can understand my frustration at being left out of these discussions. However, I am at fault, too. I should have insisted that my future was secured years ago. So, where does this leave us?”

“Alas, my lady, there is not much wealth attached to the earldom,” Mr. Gardiner continued solemnly. “There hasn’t been for many years. As it is, I must sell this cottage and the land. It is not entailed, you see. I will need that money to support my wife and two sons. The move here alone will cost a pretty penny.” His financial burden was evident in his grave tone.

Wife? Which meant Celia—

“I believe that makes you the dowager countess. ‘Celia, the Dowager Countess of Winterwood,’ the solicitor told me. I am unfamiliar with all the rules regarding the aristocracy, although Mr. Sanderson mentioned that you’re entitled to an income from your dowry.”

The news of her new title left Celia momentarily speechless. “There was no dowry.” Her blasted uncle never offered one, the skinflint.

Mr. Gardiner tsked. “Oh, my. The solicitor said there was no record of one. I had hoped that was a mistake in bookkeeping. You see, there are no tenants to collect rents from, and because of the primogeniture, entailed properties and the goods therein are now mine as the heir. And the late earl left me his investments, which, I am told, are barely enough to live on.”

It took a moment for this shocking information to digest. “So I am to have nothing, then.”

“I promised the late earl and intend to keep it, my lady,” the new earl replied firmly. “There will be a yearly payment of forty pounds a year. The first payment will not be until next year on this date, but I am prepared to give you ten pounds now so you can comfortably travel to London. It is all I can spare at this moment. My travel here cost more than I thought, and I have yet to make arrangements to sell my home and possessions in Nova Scotia and pay for travel for my wife and sons. But you do not want to hear of my travails. Mr. Sanderson tells me you have an uncle and aunt, the Earl and Countess of Darrington. Surely, you can stay with them until the estate is sorted.”

Celia’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot be serious. Forty pounds a year?” It was a good income, and most people would kill to have it. But after all she had endured, this was all she would receive?

Mr. Gardiner stiffened. “I can show you the books, my lady. There is no spare money. As it is, I will have to cut back on the staff and sell some of the earl’s belongings. And I am told the country estate requires extensive repairs.”

He wasn’t wrong on that fact. Celia had only been there twice, and it was a decrepit and drafty manor house situated on a desolate hill in Sussex. Oh, she was in a pickle. To wind up back at her aunt and uncle’s place?

Blast Carlton! Celia immediately felt terrible for cursing a man not even in the grave, but he had left her with nothing. Not even her dignity. But she must keep her head and act rationally.

“I would like to see the books and meet with Mr. Sanderson. I cannot believe I am not entitled to more than that. I am—was—the countess. We were married close to eleven years.”

“The late earl should have made provisions for you, my lady. It was not well done of him. Your husband came from a generation where wives were not a factor in wills and other documents regarding inheritance. It is why he would not brook any argument concerning updating the will.” Mr. Gardiner paused and met her gaze. “Societally speaking, I am not under any obligation to give you anything at all. We are not blood-related. But a promise is a promise. We will do this legitimately, draw up papers, and the like. I will even include a provision that if the investments improve, I shall raise the yearly stipend to reflect that.”

Celia eyed the new earl. She did not appreciate the blood-related comment. It sounded as if it were Mr. Sanderson speaking. Could he cut her loose with no support? She didn’t know much about the ins and outs of inheritance but was aware that the laws favored men in all ways. Celia started laughing--she couldn’t stop. It was either that or cry. To live as a widowed dowager in reduced circumstances, depending on the whims of her estranged aunt and uncle—and a stranger from Canada—was too much to bear.

At the age of thirty, her life was over.