“Welcome to our hotel, my Lord.”
Lord Peregrine Apalachian-Racket climbed from his vintage sports car, nodded and handed the keys to the waiting attendant.
Walter, eighteen if but a day, climbed in, closed the door and inhaled the aroma of polished leather and cigar smoke. He ran his fingers over the ridges and valleys of the polished wood-rimmed steering wheel, that glowed amber in the wintry sun.
Walter watched as the peer disappeared into the lobby with the know-towing concierge. He gently released the handbrake, rolling the car serenely across the gravel.
It was with some puzzlement that he found himself passing the parking garages.