Page 6 of The Chef and the Countess

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“I owe a gambling debt to a certain person in Spitalfields.”

William slammed his fist on the table. “I told you to halt that blasted gaming. It shows a decided lack of character and control. I cannot afford to keep bailing you out of debt!”

“Easy, Father. You will pop a vein in your head if you keep exploding. And I only owe a few hundred pounds instead of a few thousand. And I have cut down. I hardly ever partake in games of chance any longer. They’re starting to bore me. Anyway, this debt concerns cards at The Crowing Cock.”

William’s brows furrowed. “Isn’t that a brothel?”

“Not for several months. The owner has turned it into a respectable restaurant by day and a card-playing pub by night. I say we drop my cousin off there and have her work off the debt.”

William laughed heartily, then sobered. “It is a fascinating notion. But that practice went out with men’s high-heeled buckled shoes and powdered wigs. Indentured servitude is illegal.”

“Since when do you care what is lawful? Besides, the owner will never agree to it. But from what I know of him, he won’t turn Celia into the streets. He feeds the poor, if you can imagine. Bloody do-gooder. Let him feed her.”

All William’s concerns regarding his wife’s anger dissipated. Why should he care after the way Etta has treated him these past years, especially leaving him alone for the winter? Revenge took hold. Retaliation on a girl, now a woman, who had been a thorn in his side for years. And now the ingrate had returned with a begging cup in her hand?

“She must have money of her own,” William ventured.

Troy reached into his side pocket and placed a sheet of paper on the table. With the tip of one finger, he pushed the paper toward William, who took it and read its contents.

“Forty pounds a year, and the payment does not start until next year? What is she living on?”

Troy reached into his pocket and dropped a small silk bag on the table. “There are four pounds and ten shillings in there. It is all that she had.”

“How did you get this?”

Troy shrugged as he took another swig of wine. “I searched her room as she slept.”

William’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You rifled through her room—while she was sleeping?” Then his look changed to one of admiration. Perhaps his son was not a total loss after all. “Clever boy,” he purred. “Well done. We must devise a plan to get her out of the house and to the East End. But what will stop her from returning here? I don’t want her begging at my door.”

Troy shoved the silk bag in his pocket. “I’ll keep her money. She can’t find her way here without coin. Also, I have another idea. A drop or two of chloral hydrate in her morning tea will make her drowsy and pliable enough for transport.”

William’s eyebrows shot skyward. “I don’t want to know how you became aware of such a drug. Who is this pub owner in Spitalfields, anyway?”

“His name is Liam Hallahan.”