***
Theodore Brandenburg paused in the hallway outside the room he shared with Alice, drawing in a long, deep breath as he forced down his anger at her behaviour, her foolishness, her... wilfulness. These near fifteen years of marriage had been nothing but a carousel of lunacy and hysteria, vapours and starvation, of a wife who dangled her money over him like the sword of Damocles, the implicit threat that she might withdraw it unspoken but ever-present. Something must be done, and done soon, he decided, as he stalked along the hallway; a placed must be found for her.
"Brandenburg!" A voice accosted him then, snapping him out of his thoughts, "I know its snowing, but you're looking like someone has died!"
"What's that?" He turned in place to greet Charles Derville, the heir to the Buckingham dukedom’s thin face showing a cool smile.
“You look like," the man repeated, cheerful and, Ted thought, looking far too pleased with himself, “Someone just died."
"My wife..." Ted shook his head. "You know how they can be."
"No," came the laughed response, "No I don't. And I won't either, because my wife won't be like that, will she?"
“Sophia will make you a fine duchess,” This time there was no doubt in Ted’s words and he gestured to the staircase, “Let us share a drink and discuss business, your Grace; and daughters.”
The Dead London Chronicles: Vol I, June 2016 Page 8