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

Early January, 1899

London, England

Celia stood shivering in the front hallway, awaiting her aunt and uncle. Uncle William finally came toward her, with her cousin, Troy, Viscount Shinwell following close behind.

“Good afternoon, Uncle. Cousin.” Celia said cheerfully. “It has been a long time. How nice to see you both!”

“I received no word of any visit,” Uncle William said, sniffing haughtily.

Celia glanced down the hall. “Where is Aunt Etta?”

“Away. Gone for months.”

The trip to London from the Scottish border had been long, tedious, and even precarious. She’d been held up in Yorkshire for several days because of the snowy weather, depleting her funds to a perilously low level. And now, arriving in the city to find her aunt was not home? The crushing disappointment overwhelmed her to such a degree that Celia was ready to collapse from fatigue. “Where is she?” she whispered.

“Your aunt is wintering in Italy,” her uncle said.

What would Celia give to be lounging about on a sunny, sandy beach right now, drinking champagne cocktails, and reading a book?

“Won’t be back until the end of March,” her loathsome cousin added, a self-righteous look on his face.

“Why are you here?” Uncle William demanded. “Where is your blasted husband?”

“Winterwood is dead. He left me nothing.” Celia looked about the hallway where the coachman had unceremoniously dumped her two trunks. She had dragged the things for hundreds of miles. It was all she had left in the world, and that was not saying much.

“That wretch. Always was a penny pincher,” Uncle William groused. “So I am expected to take you in, am I?”

“It would be appreciated,” Celia snapped. “We are family.” She rubbed her aching temple. “I’m sorry. It has been a harrowing journey. I am exhausted and hungry, and I have caught a chill. I would be grateful if you could put me up until I make other arrangements.”

“How grateful?” her cousin leered.

Uncle William punched Troy’s arm, making him wince. “Enough of that. You can stay for a week. Baldwin will show you to the upper-level guestroom. At dinner, I expect you to answer my questions. And do not assume my servants will wait on you constantly. They have enough duties to attend to.”

Celia sputtered. “A week?”

“We can negotiate for a longer stay. We will discuss it more at dinner.”

Negotiate? She had very little money left of the ten pounds given to her by the new Earl of Winterwood. With Aunt Etta away for the winter, what options were before her? Her aunt was her only blood relative. There was Corrine and Selena, her recently reacquainted school friends. What a burden to place on them when neither was in a happy marriage. In Corrine’s case, she may already be in the process of obtaining a divorce from Baron Addington.

Baldwin picked up her case. “The footmen will bring your trunks. If you will follow me, my lady.”

Baldwin had been the butler when she’d come to live with her aunt and uncle after her parents’ untimely deaths. For three years, she resided here, from age ten to thirteen, until Uncle William had sent her away to school. She’d stayed at Miss Langston’s Finishing School for Girls until age nineteen, when Uncle William had stopped paying the tuition—and her marriage to the much older Earl of Winterwood had been arranged.

“It is good to see you, Baldwin,” Celia smiled.

He nodded, a slight smile curving about his mouth. “And you as well, my lady.”

As they ascended the stairs, she asked, “Baldwin, where is my Aunt Etta?” She wanted to see if her uncle and cousin were telling her the truth. Of course, they could have instructed Baldwin to lie. But Celia doubted the butler would tell falsehoods--they had always treated each other respectfully.

“I heard Italy, my lady, but she may travel to more than one Mediterranean country or district. Your uncle would know more about it.”

The butler opened the door, and Celia stepped inside. This certainly was different from the room she had lived in before. It was small, dusty, and looked more like a servant’s room than a guest’s.

Beggars cannot be choosers. Or so the saying went. Celia was too tired to argue.

“I will see all is tidied tomorrow, my lady.” In a lower voice, he said, “I do apologize for the choice of room. But the earl said to place you here.”

“It does not matter. All I need is a bed.” The room was blasted cold, which would not help with the permanent chill overwhelming her. There was no fireplace in the room, either. “I hate to ask, but is there any way someone can bring me something hot? Tea? Soup? Anything?”

“I will see what I can put together.” Baldwin glanced about the room. “I will see that a brazier is brought to the room, my lady, as well. And an extra quilt. It may not come all at once, for I must do this without the earl and viscount knowing.” He lit the large gas lamp, and illumination filled the room.

Celia managed another smile. She had always liked Baldwin and had always been polite with him. Now, he was paying back that esteem in return. “Thank you. Anything you can arrange will be most welcome.”

Bowing slightly, he left the room. Celia kept her coat on and plopped onto the bed. Shivering, she pulled the quilt over her. She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, she was shaken awake.

“My lady,” a woman whispered.

“How much time has passed?” she asked groggily.

“You’ve slept for two hours, my lady,” the maid said. She held a tray, and the aroma of chicken soup and fresh bread filled her senses, making Celia’s mouth water.

Celia sat upright, her back straight, as the maid placed the tray on her lap. “Mr. Baldwin had the footman bring up a brazier an hour ago. If you don’t mind me saying, my lady, it’s a disgrace the earl put you in here. It’s a servant’s room! The last one to stay here was a scullery maid about five years ago. Shameful, it is.” Her words resonated with Celia, making her feel less alone in her predicament. She nodded as she shoved spoonfuls of hot soup into her mouth.

“Mr. Baldwin added lavender seeds and orange peel to the coals, my lady, so the smell from the brazier will be sweeter,” the maid continued, her voice carrying a note of empathy. “On the chair is an extra blanket and another quilt. I also opened the window a crack to allow air circulation.”

“Thank you—what is your name?”

“Jane, my lady.”

“Thank you, Jane,” Celia replied kindly. “And thank Baldwin for me. I’m very grateful.”

“I wound the clock on the wall. It’s the correct time, my lady. The earl says you’re to join him and the viscount for dinner at seven. I’ll come at half past six to wake you.”

Celia glanced at the clock. It would give her another three hours of much-needed sleep. “Jane, I hate to impose, but when you come, could you please bring ink and paper? I have pennies for the post. I need to send letters to my two friends.”

“I’ll mention it to Baldwin, my lady. Good gracious, you finished the soup and bread already. I’ll take the tray.”

Celia snatched the mug of tea. “I will keep this to sip on. Thank you again.”

Exhaustion was covering her in waves, but Celia forced herself to stay awake, taking large gulps of tea. With that and the soup, warmth spread throughout her at last. Draining the last of the tea from the mug, Celia pulled the quilt over her, curled into a ball, and fell asleep.

Baldwin escorted her to the dining room promptly at seven. “While you are dining, I will dust and tidy the room, and ensure fresh coals are added to the brazier,” he whispered as they approached.

“Thank you,” Celia murmured. “You are most kind.”

Neither her uncle nor her cousin stood when she entered.

“Sit there,” her uncle grumbled, pointing to the chair opposite her cousin. Typically, Troy gave her an ogling look that made her skin crawl. Celia must make a point of asking Baldwin if the bedroom door locked. Her reprobate cousin was three years older, and when they were younger, he had tormented her to such an extent that her uncle had felt it necessary to send her away to school. When she was twelve and her cousin fifteen, Troy tried to get into her bedroom late at night--and more than once. Celia inwardly shivered. She had hoped her cousin would be married and out of the house by now. But what intelligent woman would have him? Well, one who someday wished to be a countess, Celia reasoned.

The footman served the fish course, and Celia was tempted to take two portions of the salmon but restrained herself. She had to remember to eat slowly.

“How is your room?” Uncle William asked, smirking.

“Why, it is lovely, Uncle. Thank you,” she replied brightly, her voice steady and her gaze unwavering. Celia would not give her uncle and cousin the satisfaction of seeing her displeasure. They thrived on others’ misery. She remembered that much about them—two peas in a pod. But she would not be another victim in their game.

“About you staying here—” Uncle William began.

“I need to contact two friends of mine,” Celia interrupted. “Baroness Addington and the Duchess of Barnsdale. As soon as I can arrange it, I will leave.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “Aunt Etta will not appreciate you treating her niece in such a shabby manner.”

“Addington? Do you not receive London newspapers in that God-forsaken place?” Uncle William boomed. “Addington was murdered nearly three weeks ago. Shot by a criminal with a notorious reputation. But that is not the worst of it. Baroness Addington has already remarried and to a lowly policeman. The bloody cheek of it. I hear they are off on an extended honeymoon and will be gone for months.”

Celia dropped her fork on the plate, and a small piece of salmon bounced across the tablecloth. “Murdered?” she whispered—and Corrine gone for months? Celia’s heart sank. While she was glad her friend found happiness—and no doubt the man Corrine previously mentioned had caught her attention—it meant Celia had lost one possible place to stay. It was selfish, perhaps, to think of her travails when a man had been murdered, but survival remained of paramount importance. The news about Corrine’s marriage blew Celia’s hopes of finding a safe haven to pieces.

“Not many options left, eh, Cousin?” Troy smirked. “And Barnsdale? What have we heard about the duke, Father?”

Celia kept her expression neutral. She hurriedly finished eating the fish as the footman had reentered to remove the dishes.

“First, tell me why Addington was murdered?” Celia asked. Her uncle must be telling the truth about this, as it could be easily verified.

“Who knows? The papers never said,” Uncle William replied between forkfuls of salmon. “The villain is in prison. That is all I care to know.” He ran a piece of bread through the remaining dill sauce and stuffed it in his mouth. Drops of the sauce dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Watching her corpulent uncle eat always made her stomach churn. “There is an heir, so your friend is no longer a baroness. And since she remarried, she’s no longer a dowager.”

“She is now part of the middle class,” Troy spat. “How droll. Well, the policeman’s wife can’t assist you. And neither can the duchess.”

Uncle William chuckled as another footman entered the room. The footman offered her uncle a platter of sliced roast beef. He speared four slices and put them on his plate. The footman moved toward Shinwell.

“Your duchess friend is not in London either,” Uncle William continued as he cut his roast beef. “The prevailing gossip states that she and the duke have been separated for over a month. Barnsdale is holed up in his residence--not because he misses her but because he is ill. At least, that is the story being put forth. I don’t know why he married that woman. She’s as cold as a dead fish laying on ice in a costermonger’s cart.”

Celia’s heart sank further. “Where did the duchess go?”

“Who knows? And more to the point, who cares?” Uncle William replied as he shoveled potatoes and meat into his mouth.

It was hard to believe that almost a month and a half ago, the three of them shared tea at Corrine’s, reigniting their friendship with promises to write. Celia had left London the next day and had every intention of writing, but Carlton’s health had spiraled downward every day until he died. There had been no time to craft a letter. And if her friends had written to her recently, she hadn’t received the letters before she departed.

When the footman came to Celia, she slid four slices of roast beef onto her plate. Hang polite dinner manners. When the vegetables came around, she scooped significant quantities onto the pile of meat.

Her uncle snorted. “Enjoy this meal, Celia. It will be the last one you have in this room. If you wish to stay beyond the week, I will require a fee to be paid each Sunday. When I think of the money I dispersed on your behalf over the years for clothes and meals, and later that blasted expensive tuition, you owe me .”

“Couldn’t be bothered to pay a dowry, though,” Celia muttered as she speared a piece of roasted potato with her fork.

“No, not after the money I already spent. Winterwood wanted a young virgin to give him heirs. You could not manage that either, I see. As to the fee, I will require five pounds. Every week.” Her uncle gave her an arrogant smile of triumph, for he knew full well she could not afford it over the long term.

Celia laid her knife and fork on the table, then exhaled. “I will not pay such an outlandish amount. Please give me my aunt’s address so I can write to her and tell her about my predicament. If she says I can stay, you will allow me to visit here in a proper guest room until she returns from her trip. If she says no, I will leave. Until we receive a reply, I will stay put. I am a countess. You cannot treat me this way.”

Uncle William pounded his fist on the table. “To the devil with you! This is my house, not your aunt’s! I will dictate the terms, not you. And you are a dowager, less than nothing!”

Celia met his cold stare. It gave her a pull of satisfaction that her uncle’s face was mottled and purple with rage. Perhaps she should not be poking the fat bear, as it were, but Celia was past caring.

“But I am still referred to as a Countess of Winterwood. If you treat me ill, I will let society know how horribly you are treating me. I seem to remember you value your reputation within the peerage. You probably use it as a shield to hide something more nefarious.” Celia knew of no such thing, but she would not leave this room without shooting a few salvos.

Uncle William threw his napkin to the floor and stood so suddenly that his chair toppled. “Get out of this room before I squeeze the life out of you.”

Her uncle’s tone dripped with venom and danger. Maybe she’d hit the nail on the head. Celia rose, took her still half-full plate with the utensils, grabbed pieces of bread and roast beef, tossed them on her plate, and marched toward the door. She stopped by the sideboard and took fruit, cheese, and biscuits. Celia turned toward her uncle and cousin, giving them a radiant smile. “Thank you for the lovely dinner. I enjoyed it immensely!” With her head held high, she flounced from the room.

It was quite an overly dramatic scene for the butler and footman to observe, but Celia might need them as witnesses later. Holding her food plate tight against her chest, she hurried to her room. Her situation here was undoubtedly precarious. But where could she go? Who could offer her assistance?

* * *

William picked up his chair and sat on it as rage boiled his blood to dangerous levels. His doctor had told him not to become over-excited because of his high blood pressure. “Get out!” He yelled at the butler and footman. “And close the blasted door!”

The servants rushed from the room, securing the door behind them.

Troy sliced the asparagus into small pieces. “I thought you told me never to show your cards, emotionally speaking?”

“That mewling bitch! I never liked her, even as a child. Always so blasted cheerful. But your mother insisted we take her in. Now, how in the devil can I get rid of her? Throw her out in the snow? Your mother will make my life a living hell if I do.”

His son was right; he should never have allowed that termagant to goad him into an angry response. But when she mentioned “using his reputation as a shield to hide something more nefarious,” it rang a little too close to home.

Unknown to almost everyone, William Buckingham, the Earl of Darrington, led a double life. Known as Billy Buck on the streets among the criminal elements he associated with, he’d started a smuggling operation after his marriage to Etta, as it became clear that he didn’t have enough money to live comfortably. Gradually, he expanded into handling stolen goods and other underworld dealings, making additional criminal connections. William had taken to the felonious life as if it were second nature.

He glanced at his son, stuffing food into his mouth. He was a good-looking lad but lacked specific attributes, including decent table manners. Troy had recently learned about some of William’s underworld dealings, but not all of them.

“When did you ever care what Mother thinks? You do as you please,” Troy shot back.

“What goes on between your mother and me is none of your affair,” William grumbled. The sad fact of the matter was that deep down, he still loved Etta—as much as he was capable of loving. William had been genuinely hurt when she had announced her departure for a months-long tour of the Mediterranean. Not that he would ever show her how much he still cared. It angered him afresh when he considered their past argument over his plan to marry Celia to Winterwood. Things between them had never been the same after that. It was all her bloody niece’s fault his marriage faltered! However, this recent cold front was due to Etta’s continued exasperation over their son’s insufferable behavior. Blast it, the woman blamed him for the boy being a shiftless gadabout.

“I know of a way to get rid of the bitch, Celia,” Troy said as he gulped red wine.

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“I owe a gambling debt to a certain person in Spitalfields.”

William slammed his fist on the table. “I told you to halt that blasted gaming. It shows a decided lack of character and control. I cannot afford to keep bailing you out of debt!”

“Easy, Father. You will pop a vein in your head if you keep exploding. And I only owe a few hundred pounds instead of a few thousand. And I have cut down. I hardly ever partake in games of chance any longer. They’re starting to bore me. Anyway, this debt concerns cards at The Crowing Cock.”

William’s brows furrowed. “Isn’t that a brothel?”

“Not for several months. The owner has turned it into a respectable restaurant by day and a card-playing pub by night. I say we drop my cousin off there and have her work off the debt.”

William laughed heartily, then sobered. “It is a fascinating notion. But that practice went out with men’s high-heeled buckled shoes and powdered wigs. Indentured servitude is illegal.”

“Since when do you care what is lawful? Besides, the owner will never agree to it. But from what I know of him, he won’t turn Celia into the streets. He feeds the poor, if you can imagine. Bloody do-gooder. Let him feed her .”

All William’s concerns regarding his wife’s anger dissipated. Why should he care after the way Etta has treated him these past years, especially leaving him alone for the winter? Revenge took hold. Retaliation on a girl, now a woman, who had been a thorn in his side for years. And now the ingrate had returned with a begging cup in her hand?

“She must have money of her own,” William ventured.

Troy reached into his side pocket and placed a sheet of paper on the table. With the tip of one finger, he pushed the paper toward William, who took it and read its contents.

“Forty pounds a year, and the payment does not start until next year? What is she living on?”

Troy reached into his pocket and dropped a small silk bag on the table. “There are four pounds and ten shillings in there. It is all that she had.”

“How did you get this?”

Troy shrugged as he took another swig of wine. “I searched her room as she slept.”

William’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You rifled through her room—while she was sleeping?” Then his look changed to one of admiration. Perhaps his son was not a total loss after all. “Clever boy,” he purred. “Well done. We must devise a plan to get her out of the house and to the East End. But what will stop her from returning here? I don’t want her begging at my door.”

Troy shoved the silk bag in his pocket. “I’ll keep her money. She can’t find her way here without coin. Also, I have another idea. A drop or two of chloral hydrate in her morning tea will make her drowsy and pliable enough for transport.”

William’s eyebrows shot skyward. “I don’t want to know how you became aware of such a drug. Who is this pub owner in Spitalfields, anyway?”

“His name is Liam Hallahan.”