“Ah, yes, thank you, Charles. I’ll see the young lady directly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lachley climbed the stairs while planning where to send his traitorous little missive. The editor of the Daily News, perhaps, a respectable newspaper with a large circulation and a keen appetite to solve the mystery of the Whitechapel Murderer. Or maybe the Central News Agency. He wished he might see the face of the editor when that letter landed on the gentleman’s desk. Chuckling at his own joke, Lachley entered the room of his comely young captive.
“Good afternoon, dear lady!”
The girl was awake, listless from the effects of the drugs he fed her daily. A spark of terror flared in her eyes as he sat beside the bed. He took her hand, felt the chill of her fingers. “Now, then. Let us chat, Miss Ianira.”
A shudder, very faint, ran through her.
He patted her hand. “I have seen what you are capable of, my dear. I intend to make excellent use of your skill.” He brushed hair back from her brow, stroked her ashen skin. “How pale you are, today. Come now, you must surely see the advantages of a connection with me? I can give you all of London, all of Britain’s power and wealth.” He stroked her hand again. “I’ve obtained the license, you know. Special dispensation.” He chuckled. “Knowing Eddy really is such a tremendous help. It isn’t easy, getting a special license from the dear old C of E. Clergy are such ruddy sticklers for details. However,” he smiled brightly, “you will soon be Mrs. John Lachley and I will strew pearls of gratitude at your feet.”