A Very Bridgerton Luncheon

My dear Lady Beresford,

I write to you in a state of concern regarding the King. The ‘Glossy Posse’ - those considered the very ton of modern Gloucestershire society - gathered this past Friday at Charlie’s country pad, Highgrove, near the market town of Tetbury, for a Chanel purse summit masquerading as a luncheon for HRH’s ‘collab’ with the French couture house. (He’s always been ahead of the curve, though, so I wasn’t at all surprised that he’s got in on the Métiers D’Art thing). Yours Truly found herself on the guest list, and RSVP’d yes within seconds of receiving the gilded, water-coloured stiffie. (The thick card was something of a treat for the mantelpiece in the Green Boudoir - no one sends engraved invitations anymore, alas.)

That morning, I chugged Highgrove-wards from Sykes Towers in mummie’s old 1984 Volvo Estate. Security is so tight chez Charles that guests are given a postcode that is at least five miles North of the main gate to protect his Highnesses' safety. The dropped pin takes one to the T.H. White farm supplier, that famed Cotswolds purveyor of sheep feed and Honda quad bikes, wherein Yours Truly located a plain clothes policeman dressed in blue overalls posing as the store manager. This intelligence agent recognised me immediately of course, as a guest of Le King, and, in a whisper, imparted to me the real directions to the Highgrove estate.