His waistcoat and jacket were draped over the back of a polished wooden chair. The jacket was a deep blue wool, a fine weave, and he liked the way it set off his pale skin. If you looked carefully, the cuffs were a bit worn, but you had to look very carefully to see the broken threads. The jacket had been so carefully pressed and brushed, such minor imperfections were barely noticeable. He had worn a green brocade waistcoat under the coat tonight and it lay where he left it, folded on top of the jacket.
The chair was stained a deep mahogany and it had been lovingly polished over the years. It held a deep luster that, in the flickering candlelight, almost made it seem like it was lit from within. It was a thing of beauty. Clasquesous would have liked it, but it was too big for him to carry.
No, his haul was big enough for one night. The diamond necklace he had come for was folded inside a silk handkerchief, tucked deep in a pocket. Nestled against the necklace, there was a delicate gold chain with a pearl pendant as big as his thumbnail and a sunburst brooch that was made of several shades of beaten gold. In the other pocket, there was a ruby ring and heavy gold signet ring of some sort. This was a night to celebrate.
Standing next to the chair, he unrolled his shirt sleeves, settling the lace cuffs around his wrists. The shirt was worst for the wear and he did not like it at all. The silk had wrinkled and there were stains. Most were old spots faded to a discolored off-white that the washerwoman could not remove, but there was a new blotch up by his shoulder and a fine spray of tiny dots. The new stains were still red and had not yet faded to a rusty brown or washed out to a yellowy splotch. It did not matter. After tonight, he would throw this shirt away. He could have a new shirt made, and a new coat too, one for every day of the week. He smiled in delight at the thought of such finery.
Settling the waistcoat on his shoulders, he fastidiously smoothed the material before he did up the buttons, the fabric fitting close around his cinched waist. He picked up the coat and, holding it by its collar, shook it out so the wool hung without wrinkles. He slid into the coat, hunching his shoulders to get the layers to sit right. Stepping over to the standing mirror, he examined his appearance, reaching up to adjust his cravat. Yes. There.
He twisted his head to check his hair, but it was perfect, not a black strand out of place. This job had not been taxing at all. Just the way he liked it. Neat. Easy.
He bent down and picked up the knife from where he had dropped it. It was his favorite, with a wooden hilt worn smooth with years of handling and a blade that held an edge sharp enough to shave with. He took a moment to clean the blade, wiping it clean on a corner of the bedspread. He worked the edge of the sheet into the corner where the hilt joined the blade, rubbing until he was satisfied it was clean.
Tucking the knife in its sheath on his belt with one hand, he checked his appearance in the mirror one last time before blowing out the candle and heading out into the night.