Imagine the Viscount Blackmoor having finally decided upon marrying again. Though there could hardly be anything proper about it. No, if he were to do this, he would do it properly. They never moved in the same circles outside of Societal functions, and he was not one of those fops who could just call upon a young woman without any sort of preface. He could hardly call upon her without first showing some sort of inclination towards her person in a semi-public setting, not with his reputation and manner. Though the irony of so plebeian a beginning as the first ball of the Season was not lost on him and left him faintly nauseated. His doubts and his reservations made his task impossible to comprehend, but he was determined to do it. Ballrooms had made him chafe for years, but something about this one nearly gave him an apoplexy. He groaned and fought the urge to tug at his rather splendidly tied cravat, which suddenly seemed to be choking him. Particularly this evening, when he’d finally decided on a course of action that would change his life in a rather terrifying way. He’d learned to get over such things, having long since given up on ever being well favored in Society, but it hardly improved his mood or gave him encouragement. But as everyone who was anyone knew better than to directly approach a suspected murderer and question him on the said suspected murder, the discussions stayed firmly behind his back.
Lucas James Riverton Sinclair, Viscount Blackmoor, did not murder his wife.Īnd if anybody ever asked him directly, he would have said so. Chapter One London, 1823 Calligraphy Swirl
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