It was still dark outside, with only the first thin tendrils of light reaching over the horizon, grabbing at the trees and houses, trying to get a foot-hold in the night. The last guest had left the Embassy, drunkenly stumbling and climbing into their carriage, a handful of hours ago, and in the meantime, Harry Fisher had gathered as much information as he possibly could.
Madam Marguerite York has recently replaced her household staff. Which gave him an opportunity he would otherwise not have had. He hadn't wanted to break anything, the window, or make the woman feel particularly exposed or endangered, by carefully taking out the window pane whole, so instead, but making discreet enquires as to the location of the servants quarters in reguard to the master and mistress's private rooms.
New staff did not know the house as well as the old, and men without a job were likely to talk when offered a pint or so. And so he had, perhaps five minutes after finding Grosvenor Square, carefully unpicked the front door of the house, locked it behind him, and followed the instructions he had been given. Up the stairs, along the corridor, to the left. Here was the lady of the house's private dressing room.
Selecting another fine pick from the black roll, he opened that door too, and glanced about. It was empty enough, and so he went in, and once again fastened the door behind him. The window showed dawn was a little closer now, but there was still hardly enough light to see by. But the shadows told him there was a candle on the little dressing table, a stool tucked under that. Tucking the lock picks away into an inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a small box, and lit the candle. And then he settled down to wait, sitting down on the window ledge, his feet set on the stool, drawing a slim volume from yet another inner pocket, Machiavelli's Prince.
And now to wait for the mistress of the house to wake up.