“Shall we bathe before our naps or afterward?” Mina asked as they entered their sitting room.
“Bathe?” After washing in a basin, Eleanor was all for a bath. “Let’s do that first.”
“Good idea. There might be a rush on hot water later,” Deirdre said as she rang for Twilla to ready the bathing chamber.
“Rochambeau for who goes first?” Mina asked.
Deirdre agreed, so Eleanor nodded without knowing what she was agreeing to do. Deirdre gathered them into a circle of sorts and held out her fist toward the center. Mina followed suit, so Eleanor did too.
“On three,” Deirdre said.
She raised and lowered her hand on each slow count, so Eleanor copied her. On the count of three her hand was still fisted like Deirdre’s, but Mina had made the two-fingered sign for scissors. Eleanor immediately understood the game played by a different name.
“I hate bathing in used water. Why do I always have to lose?” Mina stuck out her lip and marched off to the bedroom.
“Because she always does scissors,” Deirdre whispered.
“Now what?” Eleanor asked.
“Loser goes second in the tub?” Deirdre asked as she sized up her new opponent.
Eleanor reasoned out her next move. Since Mina always took scissors that meant Deirdre always took rock. But since Deirdre had just told her that, then she wouldn’t take rock next. But if she took scissors, then she would be mimicking her sister, something Eleanor didn’t think she would do. But Deirdre wouldn’t expect her to use rock twice, so …
Omigod. She was turning into Vizzini from The Princess Bride with his convoluted logic. Eleanor decided to wing it.
“Ready?” Deirdre asked, staring at Eleanor as if her choice would be flashed on her forehead a second before her hand dropped.
“Go for it.”
After the count, Eleanor ended with a fist. And her rock beat scissors.
“Congratulations,” Deirdre said in a tight little voice, unaccustomed to losing, but keeping the traditional stiff upper lip. She spun on her heel and went into the bedroom, head held high, passing her sister without a word.
In the process of donning her robe, Mina came into the room wearing her chemise and slippers. She stared after her sister as she tied her belt. Turning to Eleanor, she asked, “What’s wrong with Deirdre?” A slow smile of comprehension lit her face. “You won!” She clapped her hands. “I love it. Well, what are you waiting for? Go on. Get ready. I’m going to enjoy this.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Go on.” Mina shooed her into her bedroom.
Eleanor still didn’t know what to expect, but she did what she’d been doing since she arrived and mimicked one of the girls. She disrobed down to her chemise, took off her shoes and stockings, and donned her robe and slippers. She was ready to go to the bathing chamber, an unfortunate name. The only other ones she could think of were a judge’s chamber, a decompression chamber, and a torture chamber, none of which sounded like a pleasant experience.
Shermont propped his feet up and accepted the drink his valet handed him. “I can’t be one hundred percent certain without a letter by letter comparison, but I’d bet my new Hessians the handwriting on Digby’s note was the same as the one from the tree.”
Carl shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would a peer risk everything? Could someone else have written the note for him? His steward? His valet? I’ve written notes for you.”
“To complete a mundane task such as ordering stationery or to decline an invitation from a stranger, but not a personal note. And never a missive to a lady.”
“I agree. He probably wrote the note himself, but that still leaves the question of why,” Carl said.
Shermont shrugged. “I don’t really care why. If he’s guilty, we arrest him.”
“If we know why, it may help us identify the other foreign agent or agents.”
Shermont was fairly certain he knew who the other was, but he held his tongue. Since omission was a form of lying, his silence counted as the first time he’d lied to his partner. He took a swig of his tea. “Probably one of the big three motivators—money, love, or revenge.”
“My research on Digby didn’t turn up any incidents that could even remotely incite a need for revenge. Just a normal, aristocratic childhood.”
“His mother was French,” Shermont reminded his friend.
“And she brought him to England in order to escape Dr. Guillotine’s diabolical invention. Well, not exactly his mother. She died on the journey, but his aunt brought him.”
“So that leaves money. We know Napoleon pays well for information.”
“You must be joking. The estate, the house, the servants—”
“All of which cost beaucoup sous to keep functioning. Digby is a strange mixture of extravagance and economies.”
Carl gestured around the luxurious room. “Economies?”
“I’ve told you. It’s all in the details. For instance, the bed linens the girls used for costumes had been mended multiple times by different seamstresses, some more skilled than others.”
“Extras. With so many guests …”
“Possible. But lots of little details add up. The house and grounds, though grand and well-maintained, have not been updated for many years—nothing in the newer styles of furniture and no modern conveniences. I noticed the drapes used on the stage were sun-faded on the back and had not been replaced or even relined. Several pieces of furniture need to be reupholstered. At dinner last night my chair wobbled so badly I feared I might land on my backside if I crossed my legs.”
“Perhaps Digby has no interest in furnishings. Many men leave that to a wife, which he doesn’t have.”
“Does he also take no interest in the gardens? New plants are the rage every year. He has none. The paths remain quite wide, a style popular twenty years ago, so that a man could escort a lady wearing the voluminous skirts of the time without stepping into the grass or flowerbeds.”
“Gardening may not—”
“I’ll give you only one more example, even though I could go on for hours.”
“Please, no.”
Shermont smiled. “The wine cellar.”
“Surely you have no complaints regarding the wine and potables served. Digby has an excellent nose. The stock is first-rate, maybe even exceptional.”
“You are a better judge than I am in such matters, but I agree. However, on the tour Digby gave me when I first arrived, I noticed something peculiar. No new vintages have been laid away for future use.”
“Hmmm.”
“I see you’re still not convinced. Start looking, and I’m sure you’ll find examples of your own. Especially in behind-the-scenes areas.”
“What about the third motivator? Who does Digby love?”
“Other than himself?”
“But it is a possibility?”
“Love?” Shermont leaned back and closed his eyes so Carl wouldn’t see the truth reflected there. “You never know what a man will do for love.”
Chapter Thirteen
Eleanor had no idea what to expect. Even though the thought of a bath was appealing after washing from a basin, she walked to the bathing chamber with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner shuffling to the firing squad.
What was so difficult about a shower that it took so many years to invent? Shermont had done it with a gargoyle and a coal scuttle. More important, why had she complained about her tiny little bathroom with the ugly Pepto-Bismol pink tiles and the showerhead that whined and sputtered? She sighed at the heavenly memory.
Mina walked beside Eleanor and asked, “Is something the matter?”
“My mind is hundreds of miles away, that’s all.”
“Thinking about your home in America?”
“Yes.” At least that part was true.
Approximately halfway toward the end of the hall a screen had been set up to block the view. On the other side, they ducked past a curtained entrance into a wide alcove. A brass tub at least eight feet long and three feet high dominated the area. Warmth radiated from the fireplace that covered the entire wall to the left. Several big iron pots hung over the flames, and steam filled the air. Five maids bustled around the room, busy with various tasks. Deirdre and Mina sat on the bench that ran around the other two walls.