A momentary swirl of liver-coloured trenchcoat cuts the antique landscape with a quiet impatience, ushering in cool, moist night air with its quickly-righted folds. The man stands just inside of the doorway, one arched eyebrow raised over a dark, heavily-lidded eye just enough to convey an incredulous sort of annoyance, one side fo his shapely upper lip barely curled in a sneer that looks so right on his hard-featured face that it's difficult to imagine him without it. The dull brass tip of his furled umbrella taps once against the wooden floor as he allows his overcoat to be sloughed off of his broad shoulders and taken in the crook of an impeccably jacketed arm. A long, taper-fingered hand perches easily on the narrow hip beneath a pair of beautifully-tailored pair of trousers that screams "Bond Street!" He looks as if he could do with a stiff drink, but is too contrary to admit it.