Sir Rupert St. Clair does not so much arrive in a room as materialize from some parallel century where wax seals, well-bred horses, and mirrored disco balls are of equal importance.

The silver came first from the travels — candlesticks from a shop in Bath, a serving tray from a Paris flea market, a particularly smug teapot that may or may not have poured for a Prime Minister. Each piece chosen together, carried home, polished until it gleamed. He tends them still, whistling to the beat of Nile Rodgers as though it were the most natural accompaniment to Georgian craftsmanship. It is, he maintains, exactly that.

When not traveling — he insists Patagonia is best explored in bespoke tweed — Rupert can be found in the stables extolling the virtues of Hanoverians, or in the library, peering over auction catalogs with a monocle no one is entirely sure he needs.

Every September, Sir Rupert hosts the Silver & Sequins Ball: part society gala, part Studio 54 revival. Chandeliers shiver from bass lines. Silk gowns catch the light like mirrored tiles. At least one duchess has been spotted performing the Hustle. Guests depart with silver coasters pressed into their palms — party favors, Rupert insists, though no one has ever quite confirmed the coasters were his to give.

At the Retreat, Sir Rupert is both historian and hedonist, proof that pedigree is most charming when paired with a willingness to dance until dawn.

Want to head to The Butler's Pantry to see his latest Parisian find?

Or do you need to head back to the Main Entry?