Page 9 of The Chef and the Countess

Chapter 3

It was past seven when a knock sounded at Liam’s door. “Yes? What is it?” he shouted. He sat in his oversized chair, eating a bowl of stew, trying to unwind. His night manager, Fiona, ran the card games and supervised the pub in the evenings. Liam was done for the day and did not appreciate being disturbed.

Enya stuck her head in. “Sorry. I knocked at the new girl’s room. She didn’t answer. I have stew for her. I thought you had better come with me to check on her. I may need your help.”

He should have sent the stranger on her way, but he loathed the way her cousin had treated her. Also, she’d looked tired, weary to her fragile bones. Liam couldn’t toss her to the cobbles. This was all he needed—to have some woman pop off in one of his rooms. Having someone die on the premises was terrible for business.

Liam shot to his feet and stomped down the hall. He rattled the doorknob and swung open the door. It banged against the wall with great force, but the woman hardly stirred. The room was in semi-darkness as the gas lamp was nearly spent, so Liam headed toward the wall sconce and turned the knob. The gas hissed as a yellow flame cast a dull illumination over the area. All he could see was a pile of blankets on the bed. She must be under there somewhere.

He strolled to the bed, clasped her shoulder, and shook her none too gently. “Wake up!” he barked.

There was no reply.

He shook her harder. “I said wake up.”

Again, no response.

He placed his fingers against her neck. She was alive. Thank God for that. “Miss Gillingham!” he yelled.

The reply came as a soft moan. Then a sneeze.

Feck it all. Liam grasped the blankets and tossed them aside. Miss Gillingham was still wearing her clothes and shivered so intensely that Liam could hear her teeth chattering.

“You’re sick!” he boomed accusingly.

“Only a little,” Miss Gillingham sniffled. “I need rest—just a couple of days. Then I will be ready to work.”

Liam rolled his eyes. This outsider could pass on her illness to the rest of his staff, then where would he be? “Enya, fetch Tommy.”

Enya passed him the tray and hurried down the hall.

“Sit up. Can you?” Liam asked in a clipped tone, exasperated at this turn of events.

“I will try,” the woman replied weakly.

Liam placed the tray on the dresser, reached into the mound of blankets and quilts, grasped her under her arms, and hauled her upward until she sat straight. His arms brushed against the sides of her breasts, and a jolt of desire shot through him, causing his heart to thump faster. Where in the hell had that come from? He swiftly released her and grabbed the tray.

“Pull the blankets over you.” She did, and then he laid the tray on her lap. “Now, eat.”

His commands were brusque to his own ears, but Miss Gillingham upended his routines. Besides, he was worried about her. She wasn’t well, that much was obvious.

Tommy ran into the room. “Sir?”

“Get bundled up, lad. Go to 48 Gloucester Square and find Doctor Drew Hornsby. If he’s not home, wait for him. Bring him here.” Liam tossed the boy a coin, and he caught it. “Here’s a shilling. Bring back the change, mind. Get along now.”

Tommy departed, and Liam turned to face Miss Gillingham.

“I do not need a doctor, Mr. Hallahan—”

“My name is Liam. And you bloody well do, Celia. Besides, I can’t have the staff getting sick. Do you follow?”

Sighing, she nodded as she took a spoonful of the stew and ate it. Then she took another. This wasn’t some doxy or girl from the lower classes. Her mode of speech and refined manners showed that, as did the fact that she was related to a viscount, no matter how detestable. He noticed the plain gold band on her finger in the glint of light. “You’re married?”

“A widow.”

That readily explained her reduced circumstances. Now widowed, she was reliant on her family. Only they wanted nothing to do with her. The fact that Shinwell had dragged her here showed a decided lack of respect for Liam and his business, but more importantly, an absence of respect for his cousin. If there was one thing Liam could not abide, it was the mistreatment of women and children. He had witnessed enough of that while growing up on the streets.

He glowered at Celia. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she was having difficulty eating. His concern for the lady ratcheted up another notch. Liam grabbed the wooden chair and hauled it over to the bed. He took the spoon from her trembling hand, dipped it in the lamb stew, and held it aloft. “Open. And eat.”