The Ripper's Wife

Chapter Seven

          George Lusk sat back from his desk, the buttons of his waistcoat straining to hold the tweed fabric across his stomach, swollen from a hearty breakfast. He sighed, twirling the pen in his hand, debating on how to properly encourage the Marchioness of Aberaeron to tell him her secrets through a letter.

            “Blast it all,” he cursed, punctuating his words by slamming the pen’s end on the table. “Should I just go talk to the woman?”

            Hanson Harris let out a harsh bark of a laugh, and pulled his matchbox from his pocket. “Just show up at Brynbella Manor?” he asked incredously, striking one of the matches and raising the flame to light the cigar between his teeth. “You’ll have to go through her husband first. Have you ever actually met the Marquess of Aberaeron, Lusk?”

            Lusk shook his head. “Have you?”

            “Once.” Harris said darkly, taking a puff of the perfumed cigar smoke.

            “What happened?”

            “My hound ran out on a hunt in Hyde Park and spooked a deer that the marquess was aiming at. Ashdown grabbed me by my collar and warned me that if I ever ruined a hunt for him again, he’d skin me and my dog.”

            Lusk cracked a smile at the story. “Seems like Lucian Ashdown has a flair for the dramatic.”

            “Just glad I’m not the one married to him.”

            “You think he has any clue that his wife is investigating the Whitechapel murders?” Lusk asked.

            “The lad you brought in insisted she was keeping it a secret. What with writing anonymously and all.”

            Lusk nodded. “She’s trying. But I wonder if Ashdown has any suspicion?”

            Harris shrugged. “We can’t know for sure. But I can tell you that the marquess won’t let you anywhere near his wife.”

            “So we’re back to the note.” Lusk sighed, leaning forward again over the blank piece of paper, scrunching his brow in concentration. “What should I say?”

            “You could start with a greeting.” Harris said flatly.

            “How about, ‘The Most Honorable Marchioness of Aberaeron…’?” Lusk asked, looking up at his companion.

            Harris scrunched his nose in distaste. “Too formal. Just use ‘Lady’.”

            Lusk looked wary. “What if that insults her, as though she’s just a lowly baron’s wife?”

            “She had a lesser title than that before her marriage.” Lusk gave him a curious look and Harris shrugged in embarrassment. “I read the social pages when there’s nothing else good in the papers.”

            Lusk shook the matter off. “Maybe, “he said, returning his to the paper, “I could start it with, ‘My Dearest Lady’?”

            “Good God, man!” Harris exclaimed, shaking his head in exasperation. “Are you asking to be skinned by Lucian Ashdown? That’s not how you address another man’s wife!”

            Lusk collapsed on his desk. “I am not in the habit of writing to high-ranking women.” he groaned, rubbing his face desperately with one large hand. He reached across his desk and grabbed the glass decanter of cognac, tipping a healthy amount into his empty glass.