"I ain't here to run around after you," Gem grumbled.
"Oh, I know that."
"And I don't owe you no favours."
In fact, he owed Rob several, but Rob nodded in agreement.
"But, look," Gem sighed, "You been good to me what with all that trouble with the magistrate, and then the accusations of smuggling, and the time Four Finger Fred disappeared and Bow Street thought it was me. So yeah, go on, I'll help you catch your Jade."
"She is not a Jade," Rob closed his eyes, "She is a rum mort, I can assure you."
"Oh?" Gem raised an eyebrow.
"A prime article," Rob continued wistfully, "A diamond of the first water, a--"
"Enough," Gem interrupted, "I said I'd help you, not that I'd listen to you spouting nonsense. If I wanted to listen to poetry, I'd head down Pontack's and have Byron read me a verse for the price of a pint of ale. Now, you leave all the spying to me. I've a scullery-maid in every grand house in town, I'll soon have your information for you, Lord Lovelorn."
It was something of an improvement on Lord Snootyboots, Rob had to admit, as he thanked old Gem profusely. The two men parted ways shortly after, with a promise from Gem that he would send word once he had any news.
Robert was cheerful as he returned to where he had tethered his horse, under the watchful eye of a young street-Arab, whom he had promised a pretty penny for his service.
"My thanks," Rob called, handing the boy his payment.
The young lad snatched the coin eagerly from him, stuffing it into the pocket of his breeches. Alas, the garments he wore were so worn, that Rob rather questioned the wisdom of his actions.
"Keep a better hold of that," he warned, "Lest it falls out of a hole in your pocket."
"I've a second pocket, sir, if you would like to give me coin for that," the boy responded, quickly, "That way, if my coin falls out of the first, I'll still have the coin in the second, and you won't have to fret over me going without."
"How generous you are to consider my nerves," Rob was dry, but he duly rewarded the lad another coin for his efforts.
"The heavens will smile upon your holy act, sir," the boy said in thanks, as he pocketed the second coin.
"What's this?" Rob raised an eyebrow, "Are you quoting Shakespeare at me, boy?"
The lad grinned, dirty-faced but delighted with himself.
"Aye, sir," he nodded, "The Reverend Laurence read some to us last week. I'm not so taken by all the flowery bits, but I do like it when they kill each other with their swords."
"That's usually my favourite bit too," Rob replied, as his mind mulled over the familiar name. "Tell me, is this Reverend Laurence a tall fellow, with spectacles, and a shock of red-hair?"
"That's him," the boy nodded, and Rob grinned.
"Take me to him," Rob requested.
"I have a third pocket that sits empty, sir," the lad replied, with baleful eyes.
"And you'll have a red ear to go with it, if you don't stop your rattling."
Though his words were cold, Rob's tone was warm as he spoke, and the lad dutifully began to lead the way to the Reverend Laurence, confident that another coin would soon be forthcoming.
He brought Rob, who in turn led his steed, down back-alleys, across fetid courtyards, and along lane-ways which looked near collapse, until they reached a small, stone house.
The building was unremarkable, save for that it was the only one on the road which did not look as though it were leaning on its neighbour for support, and Rob frowned as he pondered why Laurence--the second son of a Viscount--lived amongst such poverty.
The young boy gave a rat-a-tat knock upon the door, which was shortly answered by William Laurence, who stared at Robert in surprise.
"Why," he said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose to peer out at Rob, "Is that you, Montague?"
"I was the last time I checked," Montague grinned, and with that his friend ushered him inside.
"I see you have met Tim," Laurence said, as he pottered about the house's small kitchen to prepare tea, "He has tongue enough for two sets of teeth, but a good lad none the less."
"I am hardly in a position to judge anyone gifted with the gab," Montague grinned, as he gratefully accepted the cup of tea which Laurence offered him.
"I had heard that you had taken the cloth from your father," Montague said, as the Reverend took a seat opposite him, "But not that you had set up a school in The Rookery. What on earth are you doing in the Dials, man? I could have set you up with a living, had you the need for it."
Laurence inclined his head graciously, but an amused smile played around his lips.
"Thank you for your kind offer," he said, as he sipped on his tea, "But my father has already offered me a living, which I humbly refused."
Refused? Robert raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
At Oxford, all the students of theology had been on the hunt for a comfortable living. Those young men--tuft-hunters, as they were oft referred--spent nearly as much time courting the favour of the titled students, as they did studying. Many a tuft-hunter had graciously offered to transcribe Robert's dictated essays, in the hope that he might one day bestow them with a generous Parish living. A living that might offer great reward for little work.
Laurence was amongst the many who had offered their assistance to Robert, though Rob was now beginning to suspect that this offer had been wholly guided by altruism.
"You look surprised," Laurence laughed, pushing a plate of biscuits across the table to him.
"Well," Rob scratched his head, "I can't say I understand why you would encamp yourself in The Rookery, when you might be fattening yourself off the tithes of your father's tenants."
"The obligations paid here are few and far between," Laurence agreed, "But then, I rather think that a servant of the cloth should serve his parish, rather than profit from them."
"You could have served your father's parish admirably," Rob countered, still bewildered by his old chum's choice to take a vow of poverty. His goodness was so obscene, it was almost Papist in its nature. Did Laurence not know how unfashionable Catholicism was at the moment?
"The flock in Digby-on-Burton care more that their bottoms are perched upon the finest pew, than to listen to the words from the pulpit," Laurence shrugged, "They do not need my help, but here in St Giles, I am needed everywhere, especially amongst the orphaned children."
"So, you have set up a school?" Rob asked wondrously; he could not imagine being so good-hearted that he would give up a life of luxury to teach a gaggle of street-Arabs.
"What better way to spread the word of the Lord, than to teach the children how to read?" Laurence asked, with a smile. "Though they are more interested in stories and plays, than the good book, if I am honest. They adore watching me play out Shakespeare. My acting skills are rather lacking, but it is easier for them to follow the story that way, than to read it."
Montague, who was a connoisseur of the theatre for that very reason, was struck by a pang of something he could not quite identify.
"So, you're teaching them their letters?" Montague clarified, and as he recalled how patient Laurence had been with him, during their days at Oxford, he could think of no better man for the task.
"'Tis a hard world we live in, made harder again when one cannot decipher one letter from the other," Laurence said, rather gently, "The sons and daughters of the ton have endless teachers and tutors to guide them, to assist them when they struggle. These children have no one, but me. Perhaps, you have some empathy for those who are locked out of the world of literature, dear Montague?"
Robert flushed; so Laurence was aware of his own difficulties with reading. In Oxford, he had worn the mask of a saunterer, a fellow too lazy to do his own work, but Laurence had evidently seen beneath his disguise.
Was he seeking to lord it over him now? Did he wish to bribe sponsorship from Robert, on threat that he would reveal his secret to the world?
"There's no shame in it," Laurence off
ered softly, but Robert ignored him, too irritated to listen.
"Well," he said, rising to a stand, "I must be on my way. I will be certain to spread the words of your good deeds to all who will listen. And I shall have my man of business draw up a draft to assist you with your kind deeds. Good-day, Laurence--I thank you for your hospitality."
"Thank you for your visit," the reverend inclined his head, somewhat bemused, before standing too, and showing Robert to the door.
Once outside, Robert exhaled irritably, startling poor Tim.
"Here," Rob fished into his pocket and fished out a half crown, a fortune to the young boy.
He thrust the coin at the lad--prepayment for his rudeness--and snatched Dobbins' reins from his grubby hands. Without so much as a word of thanks, Rob mounted his steed, and cantered away from St Giles' and the reminder of his greatest shame.
Home would offer no refuge, for the duke was certain to be in residence, and could be relied upon only to further stoke the fire of Robert's ire. He did not wish to be reminded twice in an afternoon that he was a dunce.
Thankfully, White's was there to offer refuge to any man of means who might need it, and after a short ride, Rob was safely ensconced within the club's drawing room, sipping on a brandy.
The footman had, at first, shown him to the famed Bow window, the usual retreat of the three Upstarts, but Robert had declined, preferring instead a seat by the fireplace near the slumbering Major Charles.
As Major Charles was an irritable old codger and was liable to throw his cane at anyone who woke him, Robert knew that he would not be disturbed.
He requested a brandy of the footman, though when it came, he did not drink it. He sat back in his chair, happy to stew in his own juices.
His trouble with words was a constant burden, the fear of being discovered an everlasting worry. He had employed every trick in the book so that his secret might not be discovered, yet the good Reverend Laurence had guessed it.
Since Oxford, Robert had continued to claw his way most determinedly into the world of words, which a quirk of nature had sought to deny him entry to. He had Balthazar for his papers, the theatre for amusing plays, the coffee houses of Russell St ., where he might listen to egalitarian votaries discuss literature, philosophy, or politics, or simply enjoy their cultured jokes and bon mots. He even had time at his disposal, should he wish to attempt to wade his way through a book, a thing which many men were sorely lacking.
He had used his money and means to his advantage, he thought fiercely, so that no man might again accuse him of being a dunce.
His money and means...
Guilt needled Robert, so sharply that he felt the need to sip on the brandy he had heretofore ignored. His inclusion in the world of literature was afforded to him because, well, he could afford it.
The children whom Laurence taught had no such advantages. Their lack of letters, like Robert, was due to a quirk of nature, but that quirk was that they had been born into poverty rather than wealth.
"Lord Montague and a glass of brandy, name me a more iconic duo?" a voice called, interrupting Robert's musings.
"Benedick and Beatrice, Orlando and Rosalind, Romeo and Juliet," Rob listed, with a grin to Penrith.
"It was a rhetorical question," the duke replied dryly, "Though I commend you on your knowledge of the Bard's greatest lovers."
"And how is London's greatest lover? I am humbled to be in Sir Lovealot's great presence," Robert joked, referencing Penrith's pursuit of Miss Charlotte Drew.
The duke winced, as though his new moniker pained his soul--which, no doubt, it did--and he would have offered Rob a dry retort, had Major Charles not stirred from his sleep.
"Gah!" the old man roared, picking up the nearest object to him--thankfully just a pamphlet--and flinging it at Penrith, "The Nawab have us cornered."
Penrith, who had ably sidestepped the flying pamphlet, rolled his eyes.
"The Nawab are defeated, Major," he called, as he beckoned Robert to retreat with him, "The Carnatic Wars are at an end, and England thanks you for your service."
Major Charles blinked once or twice, glowered darkly at Penrith, and promptly fell back into a deep slumber.
Robert bent down to pick up the pamphlet upon the floor, and followed Penrith across the room to safer climes, namely their usual seat by the bow -window.
"A Proposal For Preventing The Children of Poor People From Being a Burden to King and Country Through Educational Attainment," Penrith read aloud, his eyes on the pamphlet that Robert had carelessly thrown on the table, "Sounds a rather radical read for dear Major Charles."
"What's radical about wanting a literate populace?" Rob answered, surprised to feel a jolt of passion, "Education should not be for just the wealthy."
"I concur," Penrith agreed, "In fact, I am of a mind to join forces with those in Parliament who are seeking to implement some sort of nationwide system which might afford children at least one year of learning, before they are sent out to work."
"Are there many in Parliament of such a persuasion?" Rob questioned, earning himself a frown from Penrith.
"Yes," the duke groused, "As you would know if you bothered to turn up more than once monthly. Lord Purdew, Lord Scarborough, Lord Pariseau--"
"I'll do it," Rob said, interrupting Penrith before he had a chance to finish his list.
Penrith raised an eyebrow, a subtle gesture, but one which Rob understood well enough.
He would not respond, he thought determinedly, let Penrith assume what he liked. No, Robert William Montague could not be brow beaten by the brows of a perfidious, pompous duke. Not at all. Not one jot.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Rob growled, having held his resolve for all of three seconds.
"Like what?" Penrith was all innocence.
"As though you think you know what I am about."
"There is not a man in the world who would dare claim to know what motivates the Marquess of Thornbrook," Penrith was dry, "Though, if I were to hazard a guess, I would assume there is a female involved in your sudden interest in political reform."
Rob frowned and Penrith raised his eyebrow as he waited for Penrith to break.
"And if there was?" Rob finally countered, having decided that if he was going to fall, he was taking his old friend with him, "What harm? I hardly think your sudden interest in championing the poor lies only in the desire to have something to show St Peter when you arrive at his pearly gates."
"I couldn't possibly know what you are referring to," Penrith murmured, though a blush--an actual blush!--began to creep across his cheeks.
"Miss Charlotte Drew," Rob replied, delighted as he was afforded the opportunity to raise his own suspicious brow, "Your bas-bleu is something of a bleeding heart, is she not? Methinks that your new venture into reform is more to impress her, than anything else."
"I couldn't possibly dignify your wild accusations with an answer," Penrith said, his posture rigid and irritated.
"Ah, but you just have," Rob grinned, further irritating his friend.
"I'll have you know that I am on the board of several charities which cater to the needs of London's orphans," Penrith growled, "I am the largest donor to the Foundling Hospital, and I am--"
"--Head over heels for Miss Drew?" Rob finished for him, his eyes dancing with merriment.
It was clear as the nose on Penrith's face--which was decidedly Roman and large--that the duke was smitten by Miss Drew. No man would go to such lengths to deny an untruth. His friend had been hoist with his own petard; he had agreed to woo Miss Drew on false pretences and now he had fallen for the chit.
No wonder Penrith was so irritable; he never did anything without plan.
"Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make the females mad," Rob quoted brightly, "Or rather, males, as this case would have it."
"I merely came for a quiet drink," Penrith said aloud to himself, with the air of one who was suffering outrageously, "And see what I have to put up with."
"I was enjoying my own quiet drink, before you interrupted," Rob protested, but Penrith was not listening.
He had stood to his feet and was donning his gloves--only just removed--still muttering to himself about the outrageous slings and arrows fate chose to shoot at him.
Robert, who himself was not averse to using the same tactics as Penrith when under attack--namely retreat and claim innocence--gave a grin at his friend's carry-on.
"A sincere question," Robert called, before the duke disappeared in a cloud of martyrdom.
Penrith raised an eyebrow but did not deign to speak. Though Robert did not begrudge him his silence, for he had delivered a teasing without mercy--and worse, to deflect from his own love trials.
"Does it work?" Rob allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, "The charity lark? Does it impress the ladies?"
"I do not know," Penrith gave a shrug, decidedly more decorous than Robert deserved, "But if it does not, at least someone has gained from it, no?"
Rob nodded, humbled by his friend's graciousness.
"And it is a darn sight better than dunking oneself in the Serpentine, is it not?" Penrith continued with a sniff, "And you still owe me a vowel for losing that race, Montague. The water between your ears has surely dried out enough by now for you to recall what you owe me."
On that less than magnanimous note, and with a wicked grin, Penrith took his leave.
Robert remained seated for a spell longer, nursing his brandy with an absence of enthusiasm.
Would Julia be more inclined to believe in his good character if he actually exhibited that he had one? She had been inclined to believe him a liar and a rake, and who could blame her? Though Robert was not the former, the latter was most certainly true, and there were some who thought that both went hand in hand regardless.
If Robert were to make the papers for some good deed, rather than for some silly escapade, perhaps then Lady Julia might find some faith in him.
Robert set down his brandy--though it was more than half-full--and set out for home. He mounted Dobbins, who had been watched over by one of White's fastidious footmen and made the short journey home at a trot.
Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3 Page 42
