His friends thought he was a pretentious oaf. Live in a castle? Why not he’d earned it! Harry Vernon was undoubtedly no King Arthur but the name Camelot had been too hard to resist. Maybe he was pretentious after all? He didn’t care.
Harry woke to the hushed voices of servants tip-toeing past his bedroom door. The gentle sound of splashing water from the en-suite told him the second Mrs, or as he called her, Lady Vernon had already risen. Donning his velvet dressing gown and hand sewn leather slippers Harry strolled across to the window. Throwing wide the shutters the view was as stunning as ever.
Across the street the Elizabethan mansion of plastic surgeon Doctor Rodriguez glistened in the bright morning sunlight. Next door peacocks strutted in the grounds of Deputy Commissioner Mandale’s tribute to the Palace of Versailles. Thankfully money knew no bounds of taste in the millionaire’s row of San Portenza. Harry couldn’t have been happier.