Reginald was strangely blasé about the whole thing.
Occupational hazard of being part of the landed gentry, I guess!
He’d had a good run of it, taxing the hell out of his serfs and romping in the haystacks with an array of morally elastic wenches. So what if his coiffured head was shortly to be separated from his velvet covered body?
He was led to a field awash with spent chopping blocks and the discarded cadavers of his extended family.
‘Looks like you won’t be getting those 30 guineas I owe you uncle Francis!’ Reginald gave the executioner a wink. ‘Man, I’m tired of winning!’
Written for: Friday Fictioneers