“And she could not have known that young Percy, who seemed to be top notch, would prove to be a scalawag,” Charles said.
It hurt Charlotte’s heart to believe the worst of Edward. She stood.
“If he is a scalawag, as you say, then what is the point of seeking out him or his uncle?”
“Satisfaction,” Charles said.
“Too right,” her father agreed. “Why don’t you go with his lordship and see if you can hunt down the boy and even his uncle. That is, if the barrister here thinks we can get any restitution. And your mother and I will pay a visit to this builder.”
She turned to her parents. “I am so sorry I forced us into this predicament.”
“But she may have regained The Langham account,” Charles pointed out on her behalf.Bless him!
“Gather your maid as chaperone, Miss Rare-Foure, and we shall venture eastward in search of the Percys.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Afew minutes later, Charlotte found herself in the viscount’s plush carriage, with Delia at her side passing The Worshipful Company of Carpenters on the London Wall Road. With regret, she peered down Throgmorton Avenue to its entrance before it disappeared from view. That was where she should have gone first to find a reputable builder. All she knew, though, was that Edward was within “spitting distance” of the Aldgate water pump, as she’d told Charles.
“There is a police station that handles that end of town,” he said. “We can start there and ask for his family name and that of his uncle’s.”
Which is what they did. Inside a cramped two rooms, bobbies milled about. Two cells were in plain sight, one holding women in various stages of undress who’d been picked up during the previous few hours, and the other holding men for various infractions.
“You can wait in the carriage if you like,” Charles said to her for the second time in under a minute. In fact, they’d convinced Delia to stay inside doing her knitting, as Charlotte couldn’t possibly come to any harm in a police station.
“I’m sure I can handle whatever I may encounter here,” Charlotte said. “I am not one of your noblewomen who swoon at stray dogs and hold their scented handkerchiefs over their faces at the first sign of a poor person.”
She wished she hadn’t sounded sharp, but she was galled that the viscount’s name alone would gain her family a good builder and in short order. She ought to have been able to accomplish that herself.
“Have you come to pay me fine, luv?” a woman called out, startling Charlotte, even though she knew it was Charles who was being addressed. “I’ll make it worth yer while.”
Most of the women laughed, but some just looked hopeless, and Charlotte wished this part of London — Edward’s world — didn’t exist. Or if it had to, then she wished she understood why the wealthiest Londoners didn’t take better care of the most unfortunate. It seemed as if the poor laws were all designed to punish people for the sin of being poor, and the punishment meant workhouses or worse, jail.
“I know it’s hard to witness,” Charles said as if reading her thoughts, “but my peers in Parliament, good men like the Duke of Pelham, are working to better their lives.”
Nodding, she stayed close beside him as they approached one of the policemen working at a desk.
“I am Lord Jeffcoat,” Charles began, getting the man’s attention as well as that of those around them within hearing distance.
Charlotte had seen it occur with Amity’s husband. There was something magical about the reaction to a nobleman, especially in a place where he didn’t belong, such as a police station or a confectionery. She was sure her father had experienced the same just by handing a builder the viscount’s card.
“Yes, my lord. How can I help you?”
“I am looking for a family who live near the Aldgate pump by the name of Percy or Tufts.”
The bobby frowned. “I don’t know any Percys, but we regularly keep an eye on Archie Tufts. A bad one there, always seems to have someone else’s stuff or caught selling it. He’s been brought in more times than I can count, but he’s never had the same address twice.”
Charlotte shuddered at the notion she’d been alone in the shop with a “bad one.”
“And you’ve never heard of a family in the area by the name of Percy?” Charles persisted.
“No, my lord. Maybe you can find an address for them at the Census Office.”
Charles had already told her he thought it far more likely a family member had ended up encountering the police than having answered a census. Most people in the poorer districts of London were wary of the goal of head-counting, fearing it meant further taxation.
“Since the last census was in April of 1871, officer, I doubt that will help us much. As you know, the poorer among us do not keep the same dwellings for long. Would you mind taking a look in your records first, my good man? Just in case you’ve forgotten the name.”
“’Course, my lord.” He wrote downPercyon a piece of paper and called over another man with a shock of red hair. “Head to the basement, Nigel, and see if you can come up with an address. Also for Tufts.”
