It was so hot in the city house that Charles was regretting his decision of moving here from the main house in the country. That being said, he had also had just about all he could handle of his father’s extended dying and was thus relishing the peace he had afforded to him in the city.
He’d spent the last evening in his club on Piccadilly, one of the few good things his father had done for him. He wasn’t officially meant to be able to join, as he hadn’t been in the services, but connection was everything in this city. Whilst there, he had dined with a chap whose valet used to work for Charles’ father and had been quite louche with telling his new employer, about his old employers transgressions and irritations.
Charles had been particularly interested to hear of a story from before he was born. Apparently, a friend of his mother, Lord Clarence, had bought a guest to the house, who had subsequently disappeared. His father had supposedly found the guest most irritating and the rumour amongst the staff at the time, was that he had facilitated the disappearance. Crucially the guest still hadn’t been found.