A/N- Omg, thank you so, so much to those who have reviewed this story so far! It means a lot! I'm glad that you agree that Estelle makes sense as the madam of the brothel. When planning this story, I just knew it had to be her haha!

This chapter is a lot longer than the first, and most likely creates even more questions for you guys, but there was just no way I could shorten it. There is still lots of information to be revealed yet, but for now I hope you enjoy this chapter!

It had, once again, been a very long and boring day. To anyone else, it would be satisfactory or perhaps even enjoyable, but not for him. Never for him. Spending long hours in the back room with his father, desperately trying to understand the finer details of the family business and how the finances worked, wasn't his idea of fun. Ultimately, he was being reared as a businessman, a respectable member of the family, who would, one day, continue his parent's legacy after they were gone. Or even retired, which, unfortunately, for him, could be soon.

There was something missing from his life, though. Sure, he would much rather be in the warmth, running a business that kept his finances above affluent levels and living in a place that provided him with security. And of course he didn't envy the impoverished men that worked long, gruelling hours down in the mines, carefully extracting coal in darkness whilst the threat of danger constantly hung over their heads. Nor did he envy those that risked their lives in dangerous factories where the slightest mistake with heavy machinery could lead to the loss of limbs. In all honesty, he should want for nothing and yet it still wasn't enough. He knew these men would trade their lives with him in a heartbeat, and that left nothing but the weight of guilt sitting heavy on his heart.

So, why did he feel like this? There was a small part of his mind that told him what it was, reminding him constantly: he was lonely. No amount of money, work, or friends (not that he had many) could fill this constant void of loneliness he felt. His empty life was nothing short of suffocating. The feeling of isolation constantly pressed down on his chest, cutting off his supply of oxygen.

The fact that he also ran on levels of low self-esteem was detrimental to his situation too. To counteract this void, he needed to actually engage with people. Talk to them. But his diminished self-worth held him back, its grasp a stronghold on him.

"You know what you need, son," his father would often tell him, "You need a nice lady. Your mother and I aren't getting any younger, you know. Where are our grandchildren? It'd be nice to add some new leaves to the family tree before we go."

His father would grin at him half-heartedly, letting Chandler know he was only teasing, but his words still pierced him. It felt like there was an invisible, bony finger repeatedly poking into his back, chipping away at his bone as well as his conscience, whispering in his ear, "Hurry! Or all the good ones will be taken. Unless you would rather die alone? Is that what you want?"

Sighing, Chandler downed the remainder of his tankard, cringing at the bitter taste it left in his mouth. The ale he was drinking wasn't the typical beverage his palate was accustomed to, but tonight he wanted something different. Something that would remove him from the merry-go-round his life had seemingly become. Something to help him forget, if only for a moment.

"Another one for you, sir?"

Chandler looked up to see the barmaid who had served him earlier, a gentle smile on her face. Her mousy curls were pinned up, resting on top of her head, revealing her rather slim face which had a fine sheen of sweat on it thanks to the heat of the tavern. She looked no older than twenty-three, perhaps twenty-four. Betty, he was pretty sure her name was. He had only come in here once before. He didn't often venture out this far and it was a far cry from the atmosphere of his local area. Less uncivilised. But if his memory served him correctly, it was Betty.

"If you would be so kind," he smiled back at her.

She nodded, taking his tankard with her so she could fill it with another round of bitter ale.

His eyes scanned the room, absorbing its welcoming atmosphere, which was somewhat surprising, considering its location. It was swarming with people for a late afternoon: locals were quenching their thirst on frothy beers and stuffing their faces with ham hock and leek pies, flakes of pastry falling onto the table and into their laps.

Chandler noticed Betty returning to him, pushing through the sea of tables, his tankard in her hand. He pushed his chair back, the wood scrapping noisily against the stone floor, and leant over the small table he managed to acquire in the corner. He felt something slightly sharp dig into his thigh as he took the tankard from her.

"Thank you…" he trailed off, not wanting to embarrass himself in case he did get her name wrong.

"Betty," she supplied.

"Betty!" Just as he thought.

She nodded her head and gave a quick smile before disappearing back into the crowds of customers, towards the bar.

He took a gulp of his drink and this time it didn't seem to taste so bad. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. But then again, was it the drink he enjoyed, or was it this change of atmosphere compared to his daily life? Either way, he would drink it this time without scrunching up his nose after every swallow.

He felt a sharp nudge in his side again and suddenly remembered what was in his pocket. Taking a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, he pulled out the article that seemed determined to remind him was there. It was the pocket guide he had picked up in Covent Garden a few months back for three shillings and sixpence but had kept hidden under his mattress ever since. He was not sure what possessed him earlier to retrieve it and bring it with him on his travels, but he did, and now here it was, sitting in the palm of his hands.

Chandler gave another quick scan of the room to ensure no one was watching him. It wasn't very 'gentlemanly' to be reading what he had, out in the open. When he was sure no one was, he looked down and read the front cover: Pleasure Map: Pretty Pursuits for Men.

This was wildly out of his comfort zone and something he had never really considered. But he could hear his father's voice in his head again, "You need a nice lady."

He was damned sure this was not the type of lady his father was referring to, but with his lack of confidence, it seemed the perfect solution. It's not like he would ever see her again, and it would, hopefully, somehow, build his confidence. Not just the sex part, but just being in the presence of another woman. Whether she had fallen from virtue or not, it made no difference to him.

Yes. He had decided, and with that, he flipped over the front cover to be greeted with the contents. Darting his eyes down the list, he went straight to the section that would be suitable for his costs. Nothing too cheap, nothing too expensive. Page 54. He flicked straight to it and read the first brothel at the top of the page: Mrs Leonard's Lotties and Totties. A very short description of the establishment was provided:

Found on Fleet Street, this Fine Woman's Institution boasts an appeal of darlings, namely Miss White, Miss Lewis, and Miss Geller. Each will either be found at home in the afternoon or will be available late evening from nine O'clock onwards. Perfect for your late-night indulgences.

Chandler read the descriptions of the first two women but felt absolutely no intrigue, apart from the fact they were young, and matched his age range. But the third description immediately drew his attention…

Miss Geller, a lovely young girl who exudes a sweet disposition. She gifts us with a face well worth the interest of a naturalist; her porcelain skin hides no blemishes, and her luscious black tresses fall down into soft curls around her face. She has natural ruby red lips and a dainty nose, whilst the gentle hue of her cobalt blue eyes radiate the tender language of love. Her height is of medium stature, her frame elegant with a pair of tempting breasts that twenty blossoming springs have brought to full maturity. A fairly calm approach which adds a certain grace to her and makes her more appealing. Mostly, she prides herself on her talent for words and her ability to hold a conversation. Any sincere gentlemen would undoubtedly deduce her as the perfect companion. She expects two guineas for a whole night or five shillings per hour.

By the end of the description, he almost forgot that he was reading about a prostitute. She was described so beautifully she didn't appear believable. Chandler couldn't believe how perfect of a candidate she sounded. She was only a year younger than him and most importantly was happy to converse as well as give pleasure. Just what he needed. A woman who could help him escape the confinements of his self-loathing.

Pulling his sleeve up to read the time, he concluded he would have enough time to travel across town in time for nine O'clock when she would be there. It gave him exactly an hour, which was all he needed. Perfect.

Dragging his ale towards him, he took three massive gulps, leaving just the dregs in the bottom. He tucked the pocket guide back into his trousers and pulled on his overcoat, fastening it securely to protect him from the cold conditions he was about to encounter outside. He gave a short call to Betty, waving her a brief goodbye, before slamming the door behind him and heading out into the night.

He walked up the remainder of the street from the tavern, just in time to see an omnibus in the distance which he quickly jogged towards. He paid the conductor the required fee and sat in the corner of the carriage. It was quiet, only one other person was in there with him, and they were curled up in the opposite corner, their hat having fallen down over their eyes and their chin resting against their chest. The usual straw found on the floor to keep passengers' feet warm and dry was wet and dirty, no doubt due to the mass number of passengers it had commuted today. The air was stuffy and smelt damp, but tonight Chandler welcomed its warmth against the bitter cold outside.

Following the other person's lead, Chandler also settled down in the carriage, lulling into a light sleep for the remainder of the journey.

"LUDGATE CIRCUS!"

Chandler was immediately jostled awake at both the abrupt stop of the two horses pulling the carriage and by the call of the conductor. He looked over and noticed the other person had gone. It was just him now. He quickly scrambled up and hopped out of the carriage, uttering a quick thanks and hurrying onwards down the street.

There was now a steady fall of sleet from above, and from the thin layer coating the ground, it seemed like it had been falling for a while. Chandler, once more, pulled back his sleeve, this time to reveal that he had just thirty minutes to get to the brothel. He just hoped she wasn't already occupied or booked up.

He winced at the amount of beggars and homeless children curled up alongside gutters, clutching what looked to be old and tattered bedsheets around themselves in a desperate attempt to battle the cold. He swore he heard a soft whimper from the darkness beside him, and sure enough, he heard it again.

"Spare a shilling, please sir."

It was a child who looked to be no older than seven, and Chandler's heart split. What on earth was he whinging about earlier? There he was moaning about not feeling fulfilled in life when there was people out there who didn't even have a number to call their home. There was no 'I live at number thirty-four' or 'I live at number seventy-three'. Just a cardboard sheet and a tatty, old blanket.

That feeling of guilt returned, causing Chandler to hastily dig into his overcoat pocket and fling a shilling into the young child's hands before rising a finger to his lips, beckoning them to stay quiet. If the others heard, they would all start begging, and no amount of money could counteract the amount of people on the streets. He would never escape.

The child nodded and mouthed a thank you before curling back up against the wall, ready for another blistering cold night.

Eventually, after walking up more cobbled streets and surpassing many more poor souls, Chandler finally arrived at his destination. He hesitated momentarily but quickly pushed aside any doubts he had and entered the brothel.

The first thing he noticed was that it reeked of cigarettes, but this didn't bother him in the slightest as he smoked himself. To him, it was a weirdly comforting smell. He took no notice of his surroundings in particular and instead just focused on the madam who was sitting contentedly in the reception area.

She was an oldish-looking woman, her skin leathery and streaked with many wrinkles. Her blonde locks were wrapped up like a birds nest and her makeup was grotesquely applied, smeared across her eyelids and cheeks, making her look as far from an honourable lady as possible. Unsurprisingly, she had a cigarette hanging from her mouth and her yellowing teeth were faintly visible.

"Hello, handsome," she grinned, and it took Chandler every ounce he had not to visibly blanch in disgust.

"What can I do for you?"

"I would like to pay for an hour with Miss Geller," Chandler replied as he pulled out five shillings.

The woman smirked knowingly, and he couldn't help but wonder what that meant.

Failing to elaborate, she told him Miss Geller hadn't arrived back yet but would be back shortly so he could go and wait in her room using the key she provided.

He didn't feel entirely comfortable with this, the idea of invading someone's personal space without invitation, no matter who they were. But he wasn't about to argue with this woman. Instead, he grabbed the key and headed to the room the madam told him to go in.

"Have fun, and don't forget to pull out. I don't want any of my darling's in trouble," she called after him, cackling as he headed up the stairs.

What an obscene woman.

Chandler entered Miss Geller's quarters and noted it wasn't anything special, not that he expected it to be. This was an average brothel, not a high-end one like you would find in the classier parts of London.

Respecting her privacy and not wanting to inspect every aspect of her room, he went over by the window, leaning against it, watching the moonlight gleam through.

Before he knew it, he heard the creak of the door and the footsteps of a person. He turned his head to what awaited him and almost felt his jaw drop. He clenched it shut to prevent making a fool of himself, but God, all he could think was that the pocket guide did not do this woman an ounce of justice.

Not wanting to make her self-conscious, he decided to introduce himself. Was that how this worked? He had absolutely no idea, but it seemed the best thing to do, so he gave her a nervous smile and extended his hand out towards her.

"Hi, I'm Chandler."