Page 27 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"'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 thetonhave 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 to o 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 offered 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 andbon 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 and 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.
