Page 12 of The Chef and the Countess

Chapter 4

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.”