In his quest to find money and accommodation, Cheri was going “where the whores go” aka a beautiful Tudor building. Attracted by the white walls against the wood trim, he could not prevent himself from examining it with more care. Wondering what sort of function might said-building have, maybe hoping for an unlikely cheap accommodation, he placed himself on the other side of the street and observed it calmly, hoping to see some sort of activity that could reveal its nature.
He couldn’t ask around or guess by its location, still alien to the standard workings of English towns, but he could try to guess based on who would enter or exit said building.

Cheri looked at the very least unusual: of average height, his petite frame and long muscle made him look smaller and reminded any observer of his young age. His delicate features were something out of a Renaissance painting and his exquisite and flamboyant clothes firmly placed him in the oddity category, besides clashing with the relaxed pose and the self-assured demeanour he displayed. If there was something he had learnt was that distress had to be shown in limited capacity and only at the right time.

The young one wouldn't have to wait long to see just what kind of establishment it was, one of the doves flung open her window and leaned out with a laugh, scantily clothed in a bright red color and her dark curls loose and bouncing. A man soon followed behind her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, laughing warmly at her as she turned to kiss him. Then they disappeared back into the room and the mixture of their laughter and other sounds began to ensue.

A girl about 19 stood sweeping the stoop, dressed in the clothing of a servant. She looked up at the young Frenchman and nodded before pivoting and sending the dirt into the flowerbeds.

Whibty is not Paris, but certain things are the same. A woman in bright red who openly shows affection to a man in the middle of the day, in a public place, could be only oen thing. Chéri smiled and walked towards the girl.
Calm and considerate, he approached the apparent servant and, first in French, he politely asked if he could speak to the lady of the house. Maybe “Madame” would have enough for the girl to guess, even if she spoke no French.

The maid gave a nod and gestured for him to follow. He was led inside the edifice through the side door reserved for servants. She led him through a bustling kitchen, the scent of food was delicious, but it wasn't French cuisine being cooked. She led him through an elegant looking bar which was rather spacious. There were some who were enjoying each others' company. The Madame was a tall, redheaded woman who had certainly paid her dues enough to have taken over during the mutiny that happened after the death of Magnus Carrington. She found herself looking at a pretty face that would woo plenty.

"'Ello, mon petite," she said in her natural accent, not because she knew the young one spoke French or otherwise... And then she pushed it back for her more understandable one to the maid, "Looking for me is he?"

The maid nodded.

The Madame nodded back and flicked her fingers in dismissal of the girl, who nodded again and backed out to go do her thing.

The Madame then looked at him, "You have five minutes to impress upon me who you are and why you are here."

The maid invited him. Chéri was quite proud of his achievement and followed inside with a martial stride. He could feel his stomach starting to gurgle. He hadn’t eaten that long ago. Oh, how easy it is to get used to the good life. The scenes of the brothel did not shock or touch him, as in his mind, they were re-enactments of many, many others he had seen before, nor did the Madame intimidate him, inspiring instead a deep sense of awe in a youth that had learnt to recognise such women as his equals rather than rivals.

The Madame greeted him in French and this put him at ease, but the proceeded in English and the thing confused him. Trying to disguise said confusion, Cheri bowed deeply, the way theatre people bow, while sehe made a statement. Chéri could not easily guess what she meant so, in French, she said “Madam, I am looking for a situation,” smiling delightfully, looking splendidly joyful, candid and sly at the same time.

No attempt at making an impression was made yet.

"Ahh, you are French, monsieur." She replied in French, of course. "My mistake. Who are you and what situation are you looking for?" She looked him up and down and made as if to circle him. "You do have a face that would please anyone, Mon Petite." She reached out and took his chin in her hand if allowed, and said. "You are not oily, are you? You will bathe, yes?" The questions were from someone who hardly had time. "Smile for me?" She was impatient.

In hearing her speak French again, Cheri felt reassured. He was no wordmonger, but having the chance at clarity was of some consolation to him. At her inquiry, Cheri bowed his head slightly “I find myself in need of making some money, quite fast” and he conveniently omitted what he might do once in possession of that money. Probably feeling secure enough in his beauty and in his abilities, he didn’t feel the need to expand. Recognising, once again, a peer in her, he felt no fear nor did he believe he needed to hesitate to state what his plan was. But before he could expand, she complimented him. 

As the Madame took his chin, rather than avoiding the contact or back off all together, Chéri took half a step forward, as if he was taking delight in the exchange, putting on an angelic expression “I do, Madame, and not only that, I assure you.” He added, batting the long lashes. “Not at all, Madame. And I will be as clean as an altar boy.” He assured her, mainly confused due to his lack of knowledge of the stereotype of dirty French people. And upon request, Chéri did not hesitate to offer a warm smile, those normally reserved for the hot summer days on the beach and the long, lazy sunsets after a serene day. Then he made it brighter, promising, the smile of someone who had encountered a whole new joy, he never knew he could feel. Maybe he was now trying to impress her “Will Madame take care of me?” He asked, making his voice deeper and sweeter, but also docile.

"Oui... You pay me half of what you make and you'll fit in just fine, mon petite." She smiled. "Welcome to the Diamond Pony." And she then said, "Let me show you to your room and somebody will be along to explain to you how we do things here and where you are allowed to be. I think you will do well, you have a pretty face." And just then, a stunning woman walked into the room looking grim faced and tired. "Ahh, there is the new owner now?" she said with some sympathy, "She is the widow of the old owner. The world needed to be rid of that man and so did she. I am glad she is alright and managed to survive him." Sonia approached. "I was just about to ask for an introduction. I am Jenette Pierre, and she is Sonia Carrington. Mrs. Carrington, does this face meet with your approval?"

Sonia spoke in accented French, her Venetian Italian not far off from the other romance language but different, nevertheless, "Oui." She sihifted just so and the angle made her pregnancy a little more apparent. She carried the true heir to the Carrington Legacy and few people knew it.

Chéri wrinkled the nose slightly. The deal wasn’t what he would have picked for himself, but beggars can’t be choosers and he was in a less than choosy position right now. Maybe in the future. He accepted in his mind putting a “for now” at the ed of the sentence. “Thank you, Madame” he said in a grateful tone. “So do I, Madame.” He wasn’t going to start by pretending to be humble. The beautiful woman walked in. Chéri turned and saw the young Mrs Carrington, who was asked to offer her opinion on his looks.

Chéri didn’t seem to mind, probably used to me exposed. He rather focused on the woman who had just entered the house, hiding a pregnancy. Chéri chose to bow once again “I’m glad madame finds me equally pretty.” Chéri made an effort to sound as elegant as he could -something that didn’t come natural to him, even in French- and examined the beautiful lady in font of him. “Are you feeling alright today, madame Carrington?” He asked, potentially confused by a very young, very pregnant widow who had needed to become such.

"I will talk from here, Jenette, you may go. I know you are busy." The redhead nodded and took herself off to tend to business. Sonia turned to look at the young Frenchman and tilted her head. "I promise you that your time here will be better than my time was," she led him up the stairs and turned to the left, then entered the fourth door, the one at the end. She opened it to the best lit room, the Southeastern corner, where the windows were plentiful. "I am... well." she lied as they entered.

The room was decorated plainly, but it was spacious, it was furnished with a large, four poster bed, a chest of drawers, and a couch. "I will tell you the same thing I was told when I first came here. Half of your money must sound like a lot to you, but in turn, you get a room like this that is yours to decorate as you please." She gestured, "You also get the use of our maids, cooks, laundresses, and more. Half of what you pay us goes to the staff and the rest is split between the madame and now, myself. You are going to be surprised at how much money is to be had here. This is The Diamond Pony. You will be rewarded richly for things you do well. You are now a courtesan, you cater to... refined tastes more than not."

She paused then and led him around to the hearth which was bare as it was languid summer still. "You may even enjoy the company of the other courtesans if you'd like, but the only rule in regards to that is you must never fall in love. Not with them and not with anyone who buys your services."

She paused again, then leaned against the mantle. Her eyes drifted downward, she was... so soft spoken, so matter of fact. Her eyes told a story, she had seen things, been through things, she'd survived a monster. He didn't know that part of course, but he would know it soon enough, for everyone knew about Magnus, the Whitby Ripper, her esteemed husband, may he rot in hell. "It's nice not to be stared at for once for something everyone else knows..." she murmured. "What's your name?"