It's the eyes that tend to get people, blazing blue, like there's a light within. They don't normally understand why, of course, and Lestat's focus immediately sharpens, a pause following as he tips his head. A flicking glance up and down, a short inhale (blood, and unwashed clothing, and mud, and the wilderness) and a broader smile that shows human-seeming blunt teeth.

"A man who knows what he is looking at," and the accent does not ring of someone who just knows a handful of French, English words tumbling together the way he would speak his native language. "Is that why our selection of fine art has caught your interest?"

The scent of smoke is stronger than anything else he was picking up, which just makes him envious. Lestat fishes into a pocket for the little metal case he keeps there.