Page 3 of The Chef and the Countess

Chapter 1

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.”