viscount tewkesbury, future marquess of basilwether, bumped straight into a criminal. the year was 1885, so fair enough, in the more poverty-ridden areas of london there was a mutual understanding that there was a chance you'd run into someone unsavoury. filth, strays, and pickpockets were just another normalized feature sported by those who did not have the luxuries embossed by the lords and ladies of the court.

but then again when he bumped into you, he simply muttered an apology as darlingly polite as ever; before he paused to double take, brow furrowing lightly.

"you seem to be in quite the rush." he inquired, backtracking on the crowded street; he could have sworn he had seen your face in the paper, for what however, eluded him like the summer breeze that was shanked by the incoming winter.