The sound of dogs filled the air, whimpering, barking, and whining, and the source of it was a tall, slender man dressed far more casually than the rest of the house staff, in faded, stained denim jeans and flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and akubra hat tilted at a jaunty angle to keep the sun out of his eyes.

It was quite clear even from a distance that his right arm was a wood and metal prosthetic, as he lead a couple of hounds from the kennel and towards the manor, before plopping himself on the steps, pulling out a cigar with his left hand, biting the end off before lighting it. He glances up when he heard the door open, and grins crookedly around the cigar.

"G'Mornin', don't tell the Lady I'm takin' a little smoke break." He puffs, his voice - which should have the Londoner's cant, was strongly tinged with the warm, lazy tones of an Australian.