Felicity was sound asleep in bed. Unfortunately, it was his bed. It hadn’t taken a very great deal of ingenuity for Felicity to gain entrance into the fastness of Blakely House on Bruton Street. Both Redfern misses were only too aware that his residence was visible from the third story of Redfern House, and a week’s perusal had armed Felicity with the information that the windows of what appeared to be Marlowe’s study were usually left open to the damp night air. She was a strong, agile girl, and climbing over the railings and onto the small wrought-iron balcony had proved no more than a mild challenge. It had taken her longer to find Marlowe’s bedroom in the dark, deserted stretches of hallway, none of the apartments suiting her notion of what a hardened sybarite would inhabit. But finally she chose the large front suite, not because of its simple, almost Spartan furnishings that hardly brought to mind the rakish Lord Marlowe, but because she recognized his extensive wardrobe in the adjoining dressing room.
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