Page 5 of The Chef and the Countess

“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.