Page 21 of The Chef and the Countess (The Duke’s Bastards #2)

The next time Liam glanced at the clock, it read one in the morning. Finally, they had finished the scrubbing. Timmy swept the last of the broken glass from the floor, and the staff stood in a semi-circle, staring at Liam.

Right. He should say—something. Celia’s words entered his tired mind.

Open up, and welcome them into your heart. Sit at the head of the table and get to know them better. Share a laugh and praise them for a job well done where warranted.

“I want to thank you for all your hard work. I also want to apologize for my rude behavior earlier tonight. I was angry over Teddy’s situation and took it out on you. I’m sorry. As far as Teddy is concerned, I sent him on an errand, but little did I know that the man in question would claim to be Teddy’s father. Teddy elected to stay with him.”

Gasps and murmurs moved through the staff, and their expressions showed shock and worry. Liam couldn’t blame them; the entire incident sounded fantastical—as did many other incidents and revelations over the past several months.

“Teddy is sixteen, old enough to make up his mind,” Liam continued. “His father owns a chop house, and Teddy wants to work there, make improvements, and the like. Timmy and Tommy, he says he will be in contact soon. Meanwhile, we’re to pack up his things. It’s nothing against you, lads, or anyone else here; Teddy was ready to move on. If you have any questions about this, ask me tomorrow, yeah?”

Everyone nodded, but Tommy looked genuinely hurt, and that made Liam’s heart tighten. “One more thing, Celia mentioned about the staff sharing a family meal. I think it’s a brilliant idea. Starting tomorrow, we’ll close the restaurant at half past five, instead of six. Gather for the meal, day and night staff, then continue our duties afterward. I figure about forty-five minutes will be enough. Tommy, your suggestion of the potato shavings is brilliant, lad. Well done.”

Tommy flushed with pleasure.

“It’s late. Let’s call it a night. A little extra will be in your pay packets for tonight’s hard work. I appreciate every one of you. Thank you.”

The staff moved toward the exit. Some touched their forelocks, and some smiled. Liam heard one of the night staff whisper to another, “Cor, I ain’t never heard him speak that much.”

“Tommy, come here, lad.”

Tommy came to stand before Liam. “Aye, Liam?”

“Are you upset about Teddy?”

“A little. I thought he liked it here.”

Liam smoothed Tommy’s thick, black hair. “He did. But Teddy is older than we thought and ready to strike out alone. He saw an opportunity and he took it. His father is a criminal type in Devil’s Acre, where Teddy lived with his mother for a while. Is he this man’s son? They claim the connection.”

“Like we do?” Tommy whispered.

“Aye. Your mother says so, just like Teddy’s mother says so. That’s all the proof we or anyone needs.”

“Timmy says I should move upstairs since you’re my father. He said he would stay in the room behind the kitchen.”

“Whatever you decide.”

“I want to think about it,” Tommy murmured.

“Aye. You and I will talk with Timmy soon to see what he wants to do. He can continue being an apprentice here, working his way up, or finding a job elsewhere when the time comes. Do you know how old he is?”

“He thinks he’s thirteen, maybe twelve, like me. He has no family.”

“He does now, here with us. Timmy has plenty of time to consider his future.” Liam hesitated a moment. “I’d like to mention to everyone tomorrow at the meal that you’re my son. Is that all right with you?”

Tommy nodded and gave him a wide smile.

“Good. Go to bed, lad.”

Tommy nodded, then scampered toward the door. But he stopped, turned, and ran toward Liam, throwing his arms about his waist. Liam was so shocked by the embrace that he momentarily froze. Then he hugged him, patting him on the back.

“There, lad. It will all work out. We move forward together,” Liam said tenderly.

Tommy looked up at Liam, smiled again, and then ran toward the door.

Liam stood alone and glanced around the eating and gaming area. This was his place, and he had worked hard to bring it along as far as it had. At age twenty-one, he’d been offered a commis or junior chef job at one of The Savoy Hotel’s restaurants, but that had not appealed to him. Being his own boss meant much more. If Liam had accepted the Savoy job, he would have gained a reputation over time and moved up the hierarchy that existed in elite and expensive restaurant kitchens, like in ten years, making it to chef de partie or sous chef.

Besides, he had no interest in learning French or gourmet cooking—not that there was anything wrong with such fare. Liam wanted to bring flavorful, everyday meals to the masses. Alexis Soyer’s cookbook had become an instruction manual for his life—the one he’d wanted most to live. He’d studied the famous chef and all aspects of his life and career. Alexis Soyer was French and started his career in the best Paris kitchens. However, the chef had grown up in poverty and understood what it was like to be hungry. Soyer believed that hearty eating and good cooking should not be only available to the wealthy. Liam believed that, as well.

Once the famous chef moved to London, Soyer became renowned for his extravagant banquets for any aristocrat who hired him. But it was Soyer’s work beyond cooking for the elite, like assisting in feeding those caught in the Irish potato famine or tirelessly assisting Florence Nightingale during the Crimea War, that caught Liam’s attention. Many soldiers had been ill from malnutrition, and Soyer had shown the army how to run a well-organized kitchen and create healthy meals, which slashed mortality rates.

While Liam could never aspire to the late Soyer’s multi-layered achievements, he could affect change in his little corner of Spitalfields. His customers consisted of the underprivileged, the working class, the middle class, and every now and then a few toffs even wandered in. That was when he’d been offered the position at The Savoy. Someone in upper hotel management had liked his meal and wanted to speak to the chef. It so happened that Liam had cooked it. What dish had he prepared that day? Probably grilled steak, onion puree, and grilled mushrooms. It had been—and still was—one of his most popular dishes.

Did he have any regrets? Liam may have been young, but he wasn’t without some intelligence. He took the man’s card and spoke to Walter about it. Walter touched his shoulder and told him, “Go if you want, but know that I’m leaving this place to you. I’ll put you in charge of the menus this very day, but I must agree to the meals. Nothing too fancy, eh? I’ll make up a will and show it to you. Stay, Liam, and become the carriage driver of your future. Once I’m gone, you can do what you want with the place. Until then, we’re partners, eh?”

Was that what Liam wanted with his son? His son. It was still hard to grasp. We move forward together.

Liam had no past regrets regarding his choice of occupation. His commercial plan came to fruition, and everything clicked into place—until the shed fire and the disturbance last night. Bad word of mouth could put him out of business, which might be what the person or persons behind this mischief wanted. Liam yawned. Enough of this. After collecting his wool coat and scarf, he turned the gas lights off and headed through the rear exit, locking the door behind him.

The bracing cold wind slammed him hard when he stepped outside to climb the stairs. The snow fell gently, collecting on his coat and in his hair. Hopefully, it would not accumulate, which might affect his customer traffic tomorrow.

Liam tapped his snow-covered boots against the stairs and then entered. Someone had lit the coal stove, which cast a rolling warmth along the long, wide hallway. He silently entered his room. Had Celia returned to her bed? God, he hoped not. He tore off his coat and scarf, tossed them to the sofa, and entered. He listened and then heard her quiet breathing. One panel of the draperies was open, casting muted moonlight across the floor. She was lying on her side and looked beautiful, her long golden-brown hair spread across his pillow. Removing his shirt and boots, he crawled in next to her. He was too bloody exhausted to wash up.

Celia stirred. “What time is it?” she whispered.

“It’s past one in the morning.” Liam hesitated. “Do you want me to carry you to your room?”

“No. I want to stay here. If you do not mind.”

Mind? What would he give to have this lovely lady waiting for him every night, warm in his bed? “Aye. Stay.” He curled in next to her, careful not to lay his arm across her injury. Celia sighed contentedly and pulled his arm under her breasts. Tired or not, he grew hard. “Ignore that; it happens whenever you’re near.”

“I don’t mind.” Celia yawned. “Good night, Liam.”

He kissed her cheek and drifted into a deep sleep. It turned out to be one of the most restful nights of his life.

* * *

“My lord!”

William snapped awake. Baldwin stood over him, looking worried. “What is it? Is the house on fire?” William roared.

“No, my lord. Detective Sergeant Morrisey from H Division wishes to see you as soon as possible. He says it is of the utmost importance.”

Damn, and blast it! “Did he ask for Shinwell?”

“No, my lord. Just you.”

“Hand me my dressing gown.” William had a sinking feeling that this copper visit had to do with his reckless son. Troy had been acting cagey the past few days. William tied his gown as he stepped into his slippers. “Where is this copper?”

“In your study, my lord. Shall I bring tea?”

“Yes, along with toast and cheese. I am ravenous.” William slowly descended the stairs and found himself breathless when he reached the ground floor. That boded ill. One usually became winded when ascending. William shook away the worrying thought and lumbered toward his study. He entered, and the detective stood.

“What do you want, Morrisey? And how dare you call at such an early hour! Coppers have no manners,” William grumbled as he sat behind his desk.

“It’s half past eight, my lord, the beginning of my work day. Regardless, here is my card.” Morrisey laid it on the desk and then sat in the chair opposite him.

William ignored the card. “Well, speak your piece.”

“Is your son, Viscount Shinwell, available? He should be included in this interview.”

“He is not at home. I assume he stayed at a friend’s residence.” The slugabed was likely upstairs, sleeping off a drunken revel from the night before.

Morrisey removed a notepad and pencil from his side coat pocket. “No matter. We will address that later. Last night, four hoodlums entered The Crowing Cock at approximately half past seven and caused a disturbance, even grabbing one of the female employees and holding a knife to her neck.”

William’s blood began to simmer. He fought to keep his expression neutral. “What is that to me?”

“The man threatened bodily harm and said to the woman hostage, and I quote, “Ain’t you a tasty dish. Just like he said.” The woman is Countess Winterwood, your niece. You are aware she is at The Crowing Cock in Spitalfields?”

“I am aware,” William ground out. “And she is a dowager countess.” William had no idea why he added that. It made him sound petulant, like Troy. As Etta had told him on many occasions, Troy had had to learn that abhorrent behavior somewhere. Tasty dish. God above! Troy had just used that phrase to describe Celia the other day.

“Some weeks ago, she was dragged there by your son, Viscount Shinwell, to pay off a debt of some 240 pounds, correct?”

“I met with Hallahan, and we came to an agreement as to the debt. Celia is welcome to return here any time she chooses. It was an ill-advised prank on my son’s part, and I reprimanded him severely.” Not severely enough, it appears.

Morrisey wrote in his notebook, not reacting to William’s reply. “Your recently widowed and impoverished niece came to you, with no other place to stay. Since Lady Celia only recently arrived in London after living away for years, not many men in her acquaintance could be this mysterious ‘he,’ correct, my lord?”

“I could not say,” William growled between clenched teeth.

Morrisey looked up and gave William a curt smile. “I can say, my lord. There is Hallahan and his employees, Bruce Shepherd and Jack Davies. Beyond that, there is only you and your son.”

Damn Troy’s blasted hide! All the threats and warnings had come to naught.

“There was also the arson incident at the property,” the detective continued. “A shed and all its contents were destroyed. I spoke to the brigade captain early this morning, and he said the fire had been deliberately set. He has the proof.”

“Hallahan mentioned the fire at our meeting. It has nothing to do with me,” William stated emphatically.

“Well, we will see where the investigation leads me. And we do have a lead. So, my lord, you state that you have no knowledge of the assault, property damage, or the arson?”

“That is correct,” William replied icily.

Morrisey snapped his notebook closed. “I shall return in three days at the same time. Have your son available for an interview, or I shall send out uniformed officers to forcibly take him into custody. I can do that, for he is a suspect. Top of my list, as a matter of fact.” Morrisey fetched his hat from the nearby table and touched his forelock. “Good day, my lord.”

Baldwin stepped into the room to escort the detective to the door, returned with the tea tray, and sat it before William. “My lord, a note arrived. It is from Mr. Hallahan.” He held out the folded note toward William. He snatched it from the butler and opened it.

Billy Buck. I told you that if anything happened to me, my employees, or my business, I would give your slimy son’s name to the peelers. After last night’s doings at my pub, you have left me no choice but to do so. You also owe me the original debt of 240 pounds, as our agreement is now null and void. I’ll accept a bank draft. If the payment does not arrive by six o’clock the evening after next, I will have no choice but to tell Morrisey about your secret identity. I have witnesses to back up the claim. If you do pay, the police will hear nothing further from me. You have my word.

Hallahan

William crumbled the note in his fist. It was rank extortion, but William had no choice. Hallahan would keep the money for himself or give to Celia. Either way, he’d have to pay. He must protect his criminal identity as it was his only means of income. It also meant he would have to accelerate his plans for his idiot son.

“Listen to me,” William hissed menacingly to Baldwin. “Do not tell the viscount of the copper’s visit. Instruct the staff as well.” He splashed tea into his cup. “Also, no one is to know of this note. You are to go to Brown’s Hotel and ask to see Mr. Silas Foster. He is American. Tell him I am ready to close the deal, and he is to meet me at my place in Hamstead at one this afternoon. The man has the address. Got that? I want you to deliver the message, no one else. See me when you return.”

Baldwin bowed slightly. “Yes, my lord.”

“Tell my valet to have my afternoon suit pressed and ready. Tell the cook to hold breakfast. I will eat at my flat.” William frequently had food delivered from a nearby tavern. A tasty fried steak with all the trimmings and a pint of bitter would be just what he needed to calm his anger.

“Yes, my lord.” Baldwin turned and exited, closing the door behind him.

William stuffed a wedge of cheese and toast into his mouth and chewed furiously. There was nothing else to be done. He had warned his son more than once. Now, he was in trouble with the law. A competent solicitor could see that Troy served little or no prison time, if his stupid son’s involvement was proven. Regardless, the family name would be tarnished, and Etta would never forgive him. His distant wife would blame him—and rightly so—for allowing Troy to run amuck. And Troy in Newgate Prison? That pampered pillock would not handle one night there, let alone several weeks or months.

Foster’s heiress daughter yearned to marry into the British aristocracy. Foster showed William a mini-portrait of the girl—what was her name, Louise? Lynda? Who cared? The girl looked presentable enough.

With this latest development, he had no choice but to act swiftly. He had thought a few weeks of courting would not go amiss, but that plan had gone by the wayside. If he had to, he would throw Troy on a ship bound for America with Foster and his daughter himself. Foster had agreed to put Troy to work in the man’s Pennsylvania steel factory, learning the trade from the bottom up. His son would have to stay in America for several years until this nasty business calmed down. Or until William cocked up his toes, whichever came first.

There had to be an heir. The earldom had to live on, Troy was his only hope. He would get Troy’s assurance on the matter, one way or the other.

No son of his would ever be arrested. Not while William drew a ragged, wheezing breath.