Page 55 of The Chef and the Countess

Chapter 17

Finnian’s Chop House had seen better days, a carryover from another century. In the last fifteen or twenty years, a new breed of chop houses had opened, serving stews, puddings, rump steaks, mutton chops, and pork chops in a more modern and hygienic setting to the growing working class.

Unlike any other place, Finnian’s seemed frozen in time, its decor and atmosphere a direct portal to the 1790s. Drew couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the distinct scent as they settled the cab fare. The sun had set, and the street lamps cast an unnerving glow over the proceedings.

“That’s the stench of dubious meat, probably mere hours from being rotten,” Liam explained. “It’s what makes this pub a haven for those seeking a cheap meal. And it’s also what draws a particular crowd.”

“Like thieves?” Drew murmured.

“And the working poor. I’m unsure we will find Sharpe here. He has taken his meals here for years, though I don’t know why.”

They stepped inside the dimly lit tavern. The smoke from pipes, cigars, and cigarettes hung in the air like a dense fog. The tobacco smell, mixed with the dodgy food and the odors from the working men, made for a toxic mix. Liam often wished he could run a smoke-free eating establishment, as the smoke clung to everything and coated the walls. Keeping the ashtrays empty was enough of a challenge. But placing no-smoking rules would lose him two-thirds of his customers.

“Look, in the corner. I can see his beady eyes from here,” Liam whispered, his voice barely audible.

As before, a muscular bullyboy halted them. “Liam Hallahan and Doctor Drew Hornsby to see Lucian Sharpe,” Liam stated loudly.

Sharpe gave a brisk nod, and the bullyboy quickly checked them before waving them forward.

“Come to collect your pot?” Sharpe stated emotionlessly. Today, he wore another garish suit of blue and green plaid. A black derby hat sat on the table before him. Sharpe wore several gold rings, one with an enormous onyx. With his golden hair and chiseled looks, Lucian—with the appropriate evening wear—could pass for quality at any society occasion. He remained remarkably unscathed for a man from the streets—no visible scars or tattoos (except one on each index finger) to mark him as a rookery boss, and the aforementioned dead eyes, which bespoke of a soulless bastard with no morals.

The more Liam studied him, the more a shocking revelation took root: tall, blond hair, blue eyes—bloody hell. Sharpe couldn’t be the old Duke of Chellenham’s son and another possible half-brother, could he? Most of Chellenham’s offspring had those same features. Liam shook his head, dismissing the disturbing thought, for he didn’t care to discover the truth. Apparently, he would suspect every man and woman with those general golden physical attributes for the foreseeable future. At least the ‘soulless bastard with no morals’ fit the late duke. Back to the matter at hand.

“Keep the pot. I’ve come for Teddy Chisholm, the lad who delivered the stew. Where is he?” Liam asked, looking around the dim tavern. There was no sense beating about the bush. The sooner they were out of here, the better.

Sharpe’s fingers drummed on the table. Next to him was a plate of half-eaten, gristle-filled steak, and boiled potatoes attracting flies. “The boyo is staying with me,” he declared, his tone challenging.

Liam’s heart sank. Then, a fury rose within him. “I told you to leave him alone. He works for me.”

“Not anymore.” Sharpe’s astute gaze landed on Drew. “Why did you bring a sawbones here? Will you need a doctor? Planning to start a fight, yeah?”

Sharpe’s men chuckled. The man sitting beside Sharpe turned sideways, hauling his trousers down partway. “Hey, Doc. I’ve got this carbuncle on me arse, oozing pus and the like. Can you look at it?”

Sharpe’s men laughed boisterously, and Sharpe even smiled slightly.

Drew nodded, showing he understood the joke, as he had no doubt heard it before—many times. “I can lance the boil. All I need is a sharp knife, although I must place the blade into the fire to get it nice and hot first.” Drew pointed to the knife on the table. “That one will do nicely.”

The man grumbled as he hoisted his trousers, and the laughter continued. Sharpe banged the table with his fist, and the men were silenced immediately.

“I want to talk to Teddy. Now,” Liam demanded.

“He’s mine,” Sharpe hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ve staked a claim, and no one will gainsay me.”

Liam ignored the threat. “Any number of boyos living on the streets would gladly work for you. You don’t need this one. Teddy is doing well in school and has recovered his health after his recent stint of living on the streets. He was in a bad way.”

“You’ve looked after him; I’ll give you that. He speaks highly of you. It’s the only reason you’re still standing here.” Sharpe gave a high-pitched whistle.

Teddy came out of the kitchen wearing an apron, giving Liam a sheepish look.

“Teddy, you don’t have to stay here with him. You have a place with me. Timmy and Tommy want you to come home. So do I,” Liam said firmly. “I mean it. You’re a part of the restaurant family.”

“Sharpe’s my father,” Teddy said softly, “Tommy told me you’re his da. I decided I wanted one, too. Time to stop running and denying my past—and my family.”

Liam was utterly shocked. That revelation added a new layer of complexity to the situation.

“It’s true,” Sharpe interjected. “I said he’s mine, and he is. His mother, Meggie Chisholm, told me so years ago. The boyo scarpered off. I’ve been trying to find him these last months.”

“Aye, I’ll bet you were,” Liam snapped. He turned his attention back to Teddy. “He’s lying to you, Teddy. Sharpe will tell you anything you want to hear to keep you here and turn you into one of his pickpockets or worse.” Liam said, effectively ignoring Sharpe.