The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts by David Wake

Plymouth or Penzance, and then turn back to London and Kensington. She reached out with her gloved hand to the shining brass handle, but she was made of sterner stuff and resisted.
    Finally, the train hissed like an angry serpent and jerked away into the night.
    Georgina stood by her trunk, alone.
    Miss Charlotte
    Charlotte went along some filthy streets and across an area of rough ground. Men leered at her and women cackled from the doorway of a public house. There was a fight going on at one corner, three men attacking a fourth. It was rough and messy, and utterly unlike the heroic deeds of soldiers. The sooner she joined the French Foreign Legion and got out of this hell hole, the better, she thought.
    It was dark when she reached the East India Docks. She thought it was probably better to go tomorrow and she thought of returning home, but no! She had run away and that was simply that. She simply had to stay the night somewhere.
    As she passed a dark doorway, a sailor spat downwards and then spoke: “Evenin’ darlin’”
    “Evening, Sir.”
    “You give me a good time.”
    “Good time… yes… sorry, but I don’t have a watch. I mean, I beg your pardon?”
    The sailor made a coarse gesture, holding the front of his trousers.
    “I think not, thank you, good day.”
    Charlotte scuttled away and the sailor attempted to follow, but he was far too worse for wear, and stumbled over in that way that Uncle Edgar used to do when his face had turned all red.
    She reached a house called ‘El Dorado’ which advertised proper beds. This would have to do.
    She pulled the doorbell cord.
    An elderly woman opened the door.
    “Welcome, welcome,” she said over Charlotte’s head and then she lowered her sights: “What have we here?”
    “Please Ma’am, I’m after a room.”
    “We’re not that sort of establishment.”
    “But it’s late and…”
    “What about yer own pander?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Gentleman… Man anyway. Did he hit you? You don’t look hurt.”
    Charlotte suddenly had a brainwave and showed the woman her right hand. The vivid red lines were still visible even in the weak gaslight.
    “Fair enough. You obey the rules of the house?”
    Rules – honestly – they were everywhere: “Of course, Ma’am.”
    “I’m Madam Waggstaff: this is my gaff, my rules. It’s a crown to you a night, if you entertain, enough for gin, and you’ll like it. We charge the men three crowns. How old are you?”
    Charlotte had money, so she thought she could afford a crown at least and she was glad for once that she wasn’t a man, although she didn’t understand why they were charged more.
    “Fifteen,” she said.
    “Fifteen!”
    “No, I mean sixteen. Or eighteen?”
    “That’s old.”
    “Twelve.”
    “Is that your final offer? Then twelve it is. At least you’ve got the right attitude,” she said, and she opened the door wide. “In you come.”
    Charlotte bobbed under her outstretched arm and went inside.
    “We’ll take your bag here,” Madam Waggstaff said, and she slipped it off Charlotte’s shoulder.
    “Oh, but–”
    “No buts. The others are in the drawing room.”
    The drawing room was decorated in dark, red colours, dimly lit, and furnished with a chaise longue against each wall. There were four other girls present, who sat around looking sullen and dejected. They glanced up at the new arrival with some loathing.
    “Hello, I’m Charlotte.”
    “Charlie girl, sit here.”
    “Charlotte,” Charlotte insisted as she sat on the edge of a chaise. It was precarious and uncomfortable.
    Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, she saw that the others were all quite brazenly attired. They were clearly of a lower class. Even so, this was something she’d have to get used to in her new life as a soldier.
    “I say,” Charlotte said in the way of an opener, “quite a queer sort of a place.”
    One girl tried to focus on Charlotte: “Here,” she said. “Have some gin.”
    “Jolly