Page 5 of The Chef and the Countess (The Duke’s Bastards #2)

Liam passed Doctor Hornsby a glass of scotch. After examining Celia, he’d come to see Liam in his flat. “You’re sure it’s not serious?”

Hornsby took the glass and sat opposite him. “As sure as I can be. How did she act when she first arrived? Confused? Loss of balance?”

Liam shrugged. “Aye, she slurred some of her words. I assumed she was drunk.”

“Her pupils were dilated, and she complained of blurred vision and confusion. I did not smell any alcohol on her. In my medical opinion, she may have been drugged. Not enough to cause unconsciousness, but enough to make her biddable.”

“As in easy to remover from her uncle’s house?” The thought twisted Liam’s insides and brought forth every protective instinct he had. He wished now he had given that arrogant viscount a thrashing.

“Yes. It’s only a medical opinion, but one based in fact. Although I did not smell any alcohol, there was a faint pear odor. One drug has that characteristic--chloral hydrate. Thankfully, Celia Gillingham was not given enough to do any lingering harm. The worst of the effects have already passed.”

“Bloody hell,” Liam muttered.

“I’m curious,” Hornsby mused. “Why call me in when there are plenty of doctors in the East End?”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Have I inconvenienced you, Hornsby? I thought being part of this group meant we help each other out.”

Doctor Drew Hornsby was Liam’s recently discovered half-brother. Hornsby and Detective Sergeant Mitchell Simpson, the widowed Baroness Addington’s new husband, had approached Liam a little over a month ago, claiming they, too, were the offspring of the notorious late Duke of Chellenham.

“Do you remember?” Liam continued. “You said the group would be called The Duke’s Bastards and that we would assist those associated with the duke through a shared bloodline. To rise above the late duke’s despicable legacy. To assist those less fortunate, whether in our immediate sphere or beyond. And especially to those Edward Cranston left to flounder: his own children. Or words to that effect.”

Liam had found the argument compelling but had not been looking for a family connection. He’d gotten this far without one. Regardless, he had agreed to join. Hornsby was already assisting Liam by coming by once a week to offer medical care to the unfortunate people lined up before the restaurant opened to get a free bowl of stew. Hornsby and Simpson had their toff friends send along uneaten food from their aristocratic kitchens for Liam to reuse, either by giving it to the poor or selling it to his customers to raise money for his charity undertakings. He frowned. What had he done to contribute to this venture? Not much. He supposed assisting the woman upstairs would be a place to start. It certainly qualified as ‘assisting those less fortunate, whether in our immediate sphere or beyond.’

“Call me Drew, please,” Hornsby said, tearing Liam from his thoughts. “We have been acquainted long enough to move towards a more casual form of address. And yes, I recall speaking those words. I am glad to help you. Who is the woman?”

“Viscount Shinwell dropped her here. The repugnant bastard said she was his cousin and would work off his card gaming debt. I rejected the premise outright--it’s illegal and it’s obvious he was using it as an excuse to remove her from his residence. Celia Gillingham claims she is recently widowed and has no money. Now she’s sick. I told her she could stay until she made other arrangements. And once she’s better, she will help in the kitchen. The money she makes will be hers. Do you know Shinwell?”

Drew sipped his scotch. “No. It’s too bad Mitchell isn’t here; we could have the arse investigated. But I will send a telegram to my father, Viscount Hawkestone. He runs a sizeable progressive caucus in the House of Lords. He knows—or knows of—just about everyone. I’ll ask him for any information regarding Shinwell and his family. He can send a response by train. It would be faster than by post. I should have an answer the next time I come.”

“I would appreciate that—Drew.” Liam frowned. “I’m still not sure why you want me in this venture. I haven’t done much to contribute.”

Drew raised an eyebrow. “Not done much? Before your restaurant opens, you feed the unfortunates of the neighborhood”

“Not every day, not any longer. As of the first of January, I’m closed on Sundays. Not for religious reasons, but because my staff needs a day of rest. I also changed Monday’s hours as it’s my slowest day. We open at two in the afternoon until six with a light menu. I still feed the poor on Mondays, only later, around one o’clock.”

“Well, there you are. You have proven the point. I have been contemplating cutting back on my punishing schedule as well. A human can only do so much. You no doubt need the rest, too.”

Drew wasn’t wrong there. Liam was at the height of his vigor, but the constant fatigue was starting to take its toll.

“Not only do you feed the unfortunates of your district, but you have also taken in three apprentices—youths you found living on the streets,” Drew continued. “The ladies who work with you, weren’t they employed at the brothel before you closed it?”

Liam never liked that Walter Henning, the man who had taken him in off the streets, had run a brothel above the pub. When Walter died and left the place to Liam, he’d first wanted to close it down. Unfortunately, there was not enough money to make the changes he required--like turning the place into a respectable restaurant during the day. The women who worked for Walter suggested they keep it running while he made the necessary renovations as long as they had a say in the new business plan and were part of it in the future.

And so, Fiona, Enya, Hannah, and June became his de facto business partners. He constantly consulted them over the physical reconstruction, menu ideas, staffing, finances, and the rest. June departed two months ago to get married, and while Liam was pleased she’d found happiness, he also could admit he missed her. He had known them for years, and as he told Drew and Mitchell when they approached him, he wasn’t looking for a family. The people who worked with him were as close to a family as he needed—or wanted. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

“Yes. They have responsible positions in my business.”

“Most business owners would have turned them out into the street. You did not. See? You are meeting the core ideology of The Duke’s Bastards. ‘To assist those less fortunate, whether in our immediate sphere or beyond.’”

“Why don’t you have that embroidered on a cushion,” Liam muttered.

Then Drew did the strangest thing: he laughed. Liam had never heard the self-contained doctor do so. He even slapped his thigh. “I needed that, thank you. My parents constantly tell me I’m too serious for my own good. I suppose the past is hard to shake.”

Liam agreed, but the last thing he wished to do tonight was to start rooting around in his dark past or that of Drew Hornsby’s. They had similar starts: a single mother living in poverty, on the run from Chellenham. Aye, none of that.

Liam stood. “I have supper for you to take home. Not only are you far too serious, but your eating habits are atrocious, either by skipping meals or not eating properly. You have a standing order. When you come every Thursday, you will stay for a hearty meal—on the house. No argument.”

Drew downed the last of his scotch. “And I will not refuse excellent food when offered. Thank you.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. As you said, we assist each other. Consider the food sufficient payment.” Drew stood and reached for his doctor’s bag. “I know many places that will take in Celia Gillingham, charity homes, and the like. They can assist her in getting back on her feet. Say the word, and I will make inquiries.”

Liam already felt responsible for her. It didn’t sit right with him to fob her off to some charity. Or maybe he should, since he’d had a physical reaction to touching her when assisting her to sit upright. “I’ll mention it to her. Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve lamb stew, fresh Irish soda bread, and seed cake. We have to fatten you up, Doctor.”

Drew smiled as he followed Liam down the hall. Liam glanced at the closed door to Celia’s room. Was she resting comfortably? Was she warm enough? Did she have enough to eat?

Bloody hell. He was right. She was affecting him already.

* * *

Celia opened her eyes and stared at the wall clock. It was past ten in the morning. She had slept more than nine hours. Groaning softly, she struggled to sit upright. Once she did, Celia had a good look at the room . A window! She hadn’t noticed that last night. Grabbing the bedpost, she forced herself to stand. Now fully awake, she could hear the noises from downstairs--muted voices mixed with kitchen sounds like pans and dishes being rattled about.

Celia inhaled, not that she could smell much with her stuffy nose. The unmistakable and enticing odor of onions and beef filled her senses. With careful steps, she made her way toward the window. Celia pulled aside the heavy draperies. The window was bowed with the sill large enough to sit on. Celia did precisely that, pulling her flannel nightgown over her legs and wrapping her arms around her bent knees. The street below was alive with activity, with people wearing fur-lined coats stopping to examine the costermonger’s carts. The streets were filled with carriages, hansom cabs, horse-drawn omnibuses, and the odd automobile.

After spending the past six years in the barren wilds of Northern England, watching passersby and transportation vehicles was a pleasant change of scenery. She sat for the longest time, watching a woman in a brown wool coat and matching hat buy bread from one vendor and potatoes and carrots from another. The lady slipped her purchases into a wicker basket she carried. Then, the lady ducked into a drapery shop.

It would be easy to bemoan her fate. Instead, a smile crept across Celia’s face. Not everything was hopeless. It could be worse. She could have perished during the journey to London or been tossed into the street instead of being brought here. Liam Hallahan could have kicked her to the cobbles as well.

The restaurant owner was sheltering her, and Celia would be eternally grateful. A chill tore through her, and she sneezed. She must locate the water closet and return to bed. So, she headed to the table and drank a glass of water.

Shivering, Celia opened the door and peered into the hall. No one was about. Where was the water closet located? Right. Next door. Celia held onto the wall and hurried as fast as she could. After she finished, she stepped into the hallway, and a wave of dizziness overcame her. Her legs trembled, and she wobbled. At that moment, she was swept up into strong arms, squealed at the sudden motion, and grabbed the neck of the person holding her.

“What are you doing out of bed?” a deep voice snapped.

It was Mr. Hallahan—Liam. She met his intense gaze. My, but he possessed beautiful crystal blue eyes with long black lashes—and he had a small mole at the corner of his right eye. Celia had the urge to touch and caress it. She waved her arm toward the water closet. “I had to—you know.”

He kept staring at her, not moving to put her down or take her to her room. How wonderful it felt to be held in his sturdy arms; he was as warm as a wood stove and as solid as—Celia wasn’t sure what words to describe him. She trailed the tips of her fingers across his shoulder and partway down his arm. He was so muscular. And tall. He had to be three or four inches over six feet.

Liam strode toward her room. Celia had left the door ajar, so he kicked it open with his boot. She stroked his longish hair at the nape of his neck. So silky—what was she doing?

Celia pulled her hand away. How shameless.

Liam lowered her to the bed. “Doctor Hornsby said you’re to stay in bed today. I’ll fetch breakfast.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself. Someone can bring me porridge later when you are not busy—”

“I will bring it,” he replied firmly.

Right. There was no arguing with this man.

“Cover up.” He poured a glass of water and thrust it toward her. “Drink this.”

Celia gave him a proper salute. “Yes, sir!” She smiled to show she teased him.

He stomped from the room. Liam Hallahan was obviously not fond of teasing—that was good to know. But she couldn’t help it; he acted far too seriously— such a grumpy man. Celia pulled the quilt up to her chin and waited.

Not ten minutes later, Liam returned with a tray.

“It must be difficult in this weather to bring food trays outside and up the stairs,” she ventured. “But then, I suppose, it’s not something anyone does often.”

“No,” he grunted as he placed the tray on her lap.

“Holy crow. This is a veritable feast,” she murmured, impressed at the fried eggs, ham, toast, and cheese. “Thank you so much.”

Liam turned to leave.

“Wait, can you sit with me? I would love the company. I have had no one to talk to for weeks. Well, longer, really. Oh, do stay. Please.” However, she had the notion that Mr. Liam Hallahan wasn’t much for conversation.

Liam looked toward the door as if trying to craft an excuse to depart. Then he glanced at her. “A few minutes,” he ground out as he pulled the chair over to the bed and sat on it.

Celia sliced into her ham. “The most inviting smells are coming from your kitchen. What are you making?” she asked brightly.

He pointed to the food. “It is cold?”

“Not at all.” She took a sip of tea. “Even this is still warm. You must have sprinted up the stairs. So, what are you cooking?”

“Beef stew.”

Carrying on a conversation with this man will be a challenge. “Is your restaurant open?”

He folded his arms. “Not until noon.”

“Enya says your place turns into a pub and gaming room at night. How fascinating. Do you run that, too?” Celia took another bite of the egg. “This is delicious. How did you get the edges so crispy?”

“I cook the eggs in rendered bacon fat and baste the edges with a few drops of olive oil.”

“Olive oil? From the Mediterranean? I didn’t think it was used for cooking.”

“Not so much here in Great Britain. Other countries use it. Olive oil gives the eggs crispy edges. The previous owner of this place used olive oil to lubricate the meat grinder. I cook the eggs on high heat and baste them with hot fat. That’s the trick.”

Celia smiled. So, to get him to talk—mention food. “How did you learn about cooking with olive oil?”

“I read it in a cookbook.”

“Do you run the pub?”

“No. I have a night manager, Fiona. Her room is across the hall. I’m finished work at six or sometimes earlier.”

Celia could listen to Liam talk all day. His deep voice was rich, like decadent chocolate, with that barely-there lyrical Irish lilt. “Do you serve food at night?”

“No, not usually. If food is left from luncheon, we sometimes offer it.”

Celia took a bite of toast. “That is very clever. Why waste food?” Celia pointed to the window. “Isn’t it a glorious day? Look at that winter sunshine. There is not a cloud in the sky. I cannot wait to recover so I can go for a walk and explore—when I’m not working, of course.”

Liam’s eyebrows shot skyward. “How can you be so blasted cheerful?”

She met his gaze frankly. “Because it is a lovely day. I believe in positive thinking. Smile, and let people know you feel that way. Even at the most horrible times of my life, I tried to stay away from brooding thoughts.”

He shot to his feet. “If you’re done, I’ll take the tray. Someone will come to check on you after the luncheon rush.”

Celia’s smile disappeared. “Oh. I had hoped you might visit again. You do take a break at some point, I assume?”

He nodded as he picked the tray off her lap. She had all but licked the plate clean.

“Why not come and chat?” she asked, giving him another inviting smile.

Liam looked at her incredulously, as if he couldn’t believe she would make such a request.

“Maybe. Try to rest.” Liam turned on his heel and departed, closing the door behind her.

Celia fluffed her pillows and lay prone, bringing the blankets and quilt to her chin. As she drifted off to sleep, images of Liam at a stove cooking her eggs filled her thoughts. What woman wouldn’t want a handsome man making her a meal? She fell asleep with a smile on her face.