Lord of Mischief

by Sasha Cottman

  “Go on,” replied Osmont.

  “Well, my father has decided he needs to teach me a lesson for a few weeks and so has restricted my line of credit. I was thinking since this is a temporary situation, you would consider lending me the money for my membership, along with a few extra pounds to tide me over.”

  This is not a good idea.

  “Hmm,” replied Osmont. He opened a small cupboard and took out a glass, and a half empty bottle of wine. After pouring some wine into the glass, he set it down in front of Freddie.

  To Freddie’s growing discomfort, he took a seat on the couch next to him. He reached out and patted Freddie on the shoulder where his hand lingered. “You are in a spot of bother, young man. I am glad you trusted me to help you.”

  Osmont’s hand slowly worked its way down Freddie’s arm and settled on his leg. Freddie’s heart began to thump loudly in his chest.

  “While I cannot help you in your hour of need due to my own financial obligations, I do know of other members of the Bachelor Board who would be willing. They wouldn’t charge you interest on the loan.”

  Freddie’s mood lifted at the unexpected good news. There were obviously decent chaps on the board who understood the situations young men sometimes found themselves facing.

  “Excellent,” he replied.

  Osmont patted Freddie’s leg. “A fine young man such as yourself could do many favors for fellow members of the board. It all depends on how much you want them to help you.” He picked up the glass of wine and handed it to Freddie. “Drink. It’s a good burgundy. I have a whole new shipment in my wine cellar if it takes your fancy.”

  Freddie took the glass and held it for a moment. He was caught somewhere between not wanting to take the wine and also not wanting to cause offence. Osmont hadn’t done anything, nor had he actually said anything untoward.

  Freddie had taken a mouthful of the wine before the notion that it might be drugged crossed his mind. He set the glass down and closed his eyes. You fool.

  The face of the young man who had left Osmont’s office shortly before reappeared in his memory. A cold, hard reality began to slowly settle on Freddie’s shoulders as Osmont moved his hand up Freddie’s leg and rested it within a matter of inches of Freddie’s manhood.

  “Tell me, Frederick. Did you ever have to suck the cock of a professor at Oxford to get him to give you a good mark on a final exam? If you did, you wouldn’t be the first or the last lad to do so. There is nothing to be ashamed of in the mutual exchange of favors.”

  “No. I … I …” stammered Freddie. His brain was screaming for him to get up and leave the room, all the while his lips were speaking words that made no sense. He froze as Osmont placed his hand on his cock and squeezed hard.

  “There is a lot of money which could be gifted to you from the members. It just depends on how much of a good boy you are willing to be. There are some members with very deep pockets. You could offer yourself and that nice tight arse of yours to them and make yourself a very pretty penny,” purred Osmont.

  I am ashamed to be your father.

  The words of rebuke from his father broke through Freddie’s tainted wine haze. He pushed Osmont’s hand away and struggled to his feet. “No.”

  He staggered to the door and fumbled with the handle. By sheer force of willpower, he made it outside and into the street. As soon as he got out of sight of the building, he ran to a small tree in a nearby garden and slumped down under it. He prayed Osmont would not follow him or dare to risk a scene in public.

  With his head and back against the tree, he tried in vain to focus. Finally, he gave up the struggle and closed his eyes. The powerful narcotic Osmont must have put in the wine overcame him.

  When Freddie woke, it was late afternoon. How many hours he had lain unconscious under the tree, he couldn’t tell. A light rain was falling. A throbbing headache sat in the front of his brain and his mouth was as parched as a desert.

  “Ooh. What was in that bloody wine?” He struggled to his feet, using the tree to help him balance. Eventually, he was able to walk out into the main street.

  He was about to hail a hack to take him home when he remembered why he was at Barton Street in the first place. The handful of coins in his pocket would not cover the cost of the short trip home. “This is officially the worst day of my life,” he growled.

  He ambled home, stopping several times in St James’s Park to throw up. When a group of well-dressed people passed him by, he heard them slyly remark about his inability to hold his alcohol. He ignored them, his sole interest being in putting one foot in front of the other and making it safely back to Grosvenor Place.

  When it began to rain more heavily, he looked up. The dark grey skies overhead matched his miserable mood. He had gone from thinking he was king of the world to discovering just how insignificant he truly was.

  The best-laid schemes of mice and men, go often askew.

  By the time he finally staggered home, he was wet through. He banged on the front door several times before remembering his father had ordered the household servants away. Rummaging around in his pocket, he found his front door key, and slipped it into the lock.

  As the door closed behind him, the echo of the thud rang out in the empty foyer. His clothes were soaked through, and his hair was stuck flat to his head. He looked and felt like something the cat had dragged in.

  “Can this day get any worse?”

  He went upstairs to his cold bedroom and stripped off his wet clothes before putting on dry ones. He needed to light a fire somewhere in the house to get his clothes dry, but heating his bedroom was a luxury he would not be able to afford for the foreseeable future. The kitchen had a large fireplace and stove, it would be much easier to keep himself warm if he kept to the downstairs kitchen.

  Fortunately, the household cook had stored new firewood inside the kitchen earlier that morning, and there was a basket of kindling ready to set a fire.

  “Right. This should be simple enough,” he said. Taking the tinderbox down from a nearby shelf, he emptied its contents and set them out on the table. Tinder, flint, and steel. Placing the tinder into the box, he held the steel in his right hand and the flint in his left. He struck it against the steel.

  Sparks flew, but the tinder failed to ignite. He tried a second time. And a third. He was well into a litany of foul language when a stray spark finally ignited.

  He blew gently on it, relieved when a flame appeared. Hurrying to the fireplace, he grabbed a handful of kindling and stood it on end. He finally got a small pile in place, just as the tinder flame went out. “Bloody hell.”

  He searched the cupboards, looking for more tinder, but found none. With a grim mood taking hold, he marched back upstairs and spent the next hour going from room to room in search of another tinderbox. Saintspreserveus shadowed his every step.

  It was dark by the time he finally managed to get a fire lit. It had taken him nearly two miserable hours. As the flames took hold of the small logs, he slumped onto the cold hard floor.

  “All this to get a cup of tea,” he muttered.

  The dog wandered over from where he had been sitting observing Freddie’s efforts, and nuzzled up against his master. Freddie gave him a good rub behind the ears. “Well at least someone is not angry with me, are you, boy?”

  The dog nudged him and gave a small whimper. Freddie was clearly not getting the message.

  “You want food, don’t you? That makes two of us.”

  He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A quick check of the kitchen pantry shelves yielded the small wheel of cheese, the remainder of the loaf of bread from the morning, and some apples which he had missed earlier. As he regularly dined out there was little need for the house cook to keep a stock of supplies in the kitchen.

  He cut the cheese and some of the apples up into dog-sized pieces and placed them on the floor. Saintspreserveus sniffed at the odd food combination but chewed it down in quick time. He came back for more, leaving Freddie with n
o option but to feed him the food he had intended to eat himself.

  As he sat and watched the dog finish off the rest of his supper, Freddie cut a large chunk off the loaf of bread and chewed it.

  From king to pauper in one day was a long, hard fall.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Freddie woke in the early hours of the morning with a start. He had slumped down over the kitchen table and woke to Saintspreserveus licking his face. As he lifted his head, his back muscles immediately protested at having been held in such an uncomfortable position.

  “Oh,” he groaned.

  He climbed up from the table and stretched his arms above his head. His neck was stiff and tight, and it barely yielded at his attempts to loosen his muscles.

  The first sign of morning light shone through the kitchen window. There was no point in him going to bed now. His stomach rumbled. The bread was mostly gone, and there was nothing to feed the dog.

  “Come on then, lad. Let’s go and see if we can find a pork pie. My coins should extend to a couple of those for us.”

  By the third day of living on cold pork pies and over-salted roast beef from a nearby tavern, Freddie knew something had to change. He sat at the table in the downstairs kitchen and counted out his rapidly depleting coins. His money wouldn’t last forever, and Saintspreserveus ate enough food for two people.

  He had to find another solution to the problem of staying alive and not ending up being found half eaten by a giant Irish wolfhound. Why couldn’t Eve have chosen a small dog for their game, something that did not threaten to eat him out of house and home?

  The sudden thought of her pulled him up short. He had been so caught up in his own predicament that he had quite forgotten about Eve.

  Perhaps Osmont had read him right. He was a cold-hearted brute capable of breaking a young woman’s heart without mercy.

  From out of his jacket he pulled the final challenge letter Osmont had given him. It had become habit to carry it with him. He read it once more, knowing if he were asked he could cite it word for bitter word.

  Wherever she was, he knew Eve hated him. When she eventually found out about his reduced circumstances he hoped she would gain some satisfaction in knowing he too was in pain.

  Yes, but you brought this on your yourself. She didn’t deserve what you did.

  He folded the letter back up and put it in his pocket.

  With Saintspreserveus on a tight lead, Freddie headed out to the market just after six o’clock in the morning. He was back to keeping country hours again.

  The area around Covent Garden was home to many of London’s ladies of the night. Brothels operated in elegant houses in nearby Fleet Lane and Long Acre. He chuckled as an elegantly dressed gentleman, who was leaving one of the houses, quickly turned on his heel and went back inside as soon as Freddie caught his gaze. Who am I to judge?

  In the market, Freddie was pleased to find good quality, sensibly priced apples and pears. He bought some, placing them in the basket he had found in the kitchen at Rosemount House. A well-dressed young man like himself carrying a basket naturally attracted a few enquiring stares. He ignored them, too concerned with filling his empty stomach to worry about the opinions of others.

  At another stall he purchased some eggs and cheese, and a small loaf of bread. With the fire now being kept burning in the downstairs kitchen at home, he could cook up some fried eggs and serve them with bread and butter. A hot breakfast was especially appealing.

  He was leaning over the counter of a market stall, about to enquire of the price of a pat of butter, when he caught sight of a familiar face passing through the early morning crowd.

  Harriet Saunders, Eve’s sister-in-law, was headed his way. She had two strapping footmen trailing behind her, each carrying a heavily laden sack.

  He tried to hurry and complete his purchases, intending to make good his escape, but Hattie had already seen him.

  “Freddie. Hello, fancy meeting you at the market.”

  He swallowed a lump of shame and turned to her. “Mrs. Saunders. A pleasure to see you,” he replied. He managed a half-bow with the basket in one hand, and the lead of his dog in the other.

  She turned from him, before stopping and smiling. “I forget that is who I am now. When I hear that name, I keep expecting to see Adelaide standing behind me. Please call me Hattie. So, what brings you out into the market at this hour of the morning?”

  He gritted his teeth. Word would eventually come out about the second son of Viscount Rosemount being cut off by his family. Hattie no doubt would also know that he and Eve had broken off their friendship.

  He looked at the two footmen standing behind her and winced. If he was to reveal his current circumstances, he would much prefer it not be in front of servants and market stall holders.

  Hattie handed one of the footmen a few coins. “Could you please go to the stall nearest to the bookshop and ask if they have any fresh carrots this morning? Tell them I don’t want the soggy old ones they tried to sell me on Tuesday. Not unless they are very cheap.”

  Once the footmen had gone, Hattie pointed in the direction of a nearby set of tables and chairs. “They serve a decent cheese bun and weak coffee. Let’s you and I talk there.”

  Once seated, Hattie ordered. The proprietor of the makeshift café knew her by name and greeted her warmly.

  “I find it odd someone of your station would have friends in the market,” Freddie remarked.

  Hattie picked at her freshly baked bun. “Well I have been coming to the market for the past few years. I’m not sure if Eve ever told you, but I run a soup kitchen out of St John’s Parish near the rookery of St Giles.”

  Freddie nodded, reliving the embarrassing memory of how horrid he had been to Hattie at Vauxhall when he’d refused to take her hand. He hadn’t expected Will Saunders would permit his new bride to continue her work with the poor once they were married.

  She looked at him and he sensed she was quietly reading his mind. “The two footmen are part of the agreement I have with Will so I can continue my ministry with the poor. I made some enemies in the gangs of the rookery a little while back. Things have quietened down since then, but he insists I have them with me at all times. But enough about me.”

  The storekeeper placed two large cups of muddy coffee on the table, then bent down and proceeded to give Saintspreserveus a friendly pat. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Saintspreserveus. It’s a joke,” replied Freddie, feeling foolish.

  Saintspreserveus growled. The man screwed up his face and went back to serving other customers, the joke clearly lost on both man and hound.

  “You do know that is a ridiculous name for a dog. Even he doesn’t like it, from the way he growled. Poor thing. Fancy being saddled with that for all your days,” said Hattie.

  “I think perhaps I should consider changing it. He is my one true friend at the moment, so he does deserve better.”

  “You have no disagreement from me on that count. But tell me, why are you here at the market at this hour?” Hattie’s gaze locked on Freddie’s basket of goods.

  He gritted his teeth. There was no point lying to her. “My father has cut me off. I am in disgrace over the way I treated Eve. I have a few coins to live by, but other than that, I am on my own. No servants; no credit. And I thoroughly deserve it. I am nothing more than a blackguard of the lowest ilk.”

  Hattie frowned. “Don’t say that,” she replied.

  Freddie picked up his coffee and took a hesitant sip. It looked the same color as the murky waters of the River Thames. He took a second sip. He had been served coffee in some of the finest restaurants and clubs in London, but nothing tasted as good as the coffee made by the market stall holder in Covent Garden.

  Hattie smiled at him. “Will discovered our coffee man. He was like an excited child when he finally found someone in London who could grind and brew the beans just the way he likes them. He comes here quite regularly.”

  The smile disapp
eared from Freddie’s lips. Kind, religious Hattie was one thing, but Eve’s older brother was not someone he was in any particular hurry to encounter. He looked over her shoulder, ready to beat a hasty retreat if Will suddenly appeared from out of the throng.

  “He is still abed. My husband is not an early riser,” she said.

  Freddie relaxed. “I came here this morning, because I cannot live forever on pork pies. There are several cookbooks in the kitchen at Rosemount House; I thought I could attempt some recipes. I’m going to try cooking eggs today as a start and then see where that takes me.”

  Hattie nodded, after which they sat in silence and finished their coffees. As Freddie drained the last of his cup, he silently hoped for a second one.

  Hattie pulled out a small notebook and pencil from her coat pocket. She didn’t carry a reticule or bag like other women. She began to cross a few things off a long shopping list. Then, turning to another page, she wrote down an address before pulling the page out of her notebook and handing it to Freddie.

  “That’s the address of St John’s Parish. If you feel the need for a warm bowl of soup you are most welcome. We usually serve soup from around late afternoon to the end of evensong.”

  A lump formed in his throat. He was being offered charity.

  His earlier encounters with Hattie had been shameful. He had mocked her work with the poor, even made note of her dowdy clothes. What had seemed a fun part of the Rude Rules now revealed itself to be the cruel and heartless jest it truly was. Yet here she was, showing him compassion.

  “Thank you. I don’t deserve your kindness. Not after all the horrid things I have said and done to your family,” he replied.

  “I am sure we will all survive. I put your unkind remarks to me down to the folly of youth. Besides, at the time, I had much bigger issues to deal with in my life. To tell you the truth, you were an odd and amusing distraction during a difficult time for me. Will and I did not have an easy start to our relationship; the trip to Vauxhall was a peace offering on his part. As for Eve, she is a strong girl. In time, she will give her heart over to someone else and find love again.”