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It had been wise to elicit the aid of anyone willing to help her in her battle with the Duke—that much she owed to James. But to assume that Alastair Ransleigh or anyone else would stand by her was foolish. Not only foolish, it put James’s safety at risk to depend upon support that could disappear as unexpectedly as the whim to offer it.
Alastair hadn’t denied it when she’d stated that he’d only be around a short time. He’d pledged to have a solicitor spell out the legal parameters of the threat she faced. She could not expect him, nor had he offered, to involve himself beyond that point. She must prepare herself to enter the struggle and deal with its consequences alone.
She began to consider what she would do if the solicitor returned an unfavourable assessment of her ability to retain custody of James.
Allowing him to go to Graveston was out of the question. She would flee England before she’d permit that. With the war finally over, they might be able to settle in some small rural village in France. Her French was impeccable—Papa had seen to that; she could give lessons in English, piano, watercolours.
Except how was she to obtain a position without references? The amounts she could obtain from selling her few remaining jewels would support them for a time, but even in the depressed economy of a war-ravaged area, they wouldn’t be able to live on them for ever.
She had no other assets besides that small store of jewellery, inherited from her father’s mother. Not grand enough that the Duke had permitted her to wear any of it, nor valuable enough for him to bother selling the pieces, she’d been able to secrete them away. She’d left all of the ornate and valuable jewels presented to her by the Duke at Graveston Court, wanting nothing that reminded her of her life as Graveston’s Duchess.
What would she do if they exhausted her small store of assets?
Coming up with no answers, exasperated with pacing, she decided to go visit James. She felt a slight smile curving her lips. As Alastair had predicted, her son was always glad to see her.
‘Let him love you,’ Alastair had advised. She’d been trying that, not forcing her emotions, simply chatting with him, asking about his interests and responding to his answers.
He particularly loved getting outdoors, but that wasn’t wise today. Suddenly, she remembered something else she might try. The morning after Alastair had given her back the pearls, a package arrived containing the box of watercolours and the sketchbook she’d told him to return. Not knowing from which establishment he’d obtained them, she had kept them.
On impulse, she gathered the supplies from her wardrobe and continued to the nursery.
As she entered, James was listlessly pushing a soldier around on the floor before the hearth, a picture of boredom. When he turned to see her, his small face lit up and he jumped to his feet. At that expression of gladness, Diana felt herself warm.
‘Mama! Can we go to the park? It’s not raining any more.’
‘That’s true, but I fear it is still very wet.’ Giving the nursemaid a nod, she walked over to seat herself at the table before the fire, setting down the package. James hurried over to perch on the bench beside her. ‘Just think how cross Minnie would be if she had to soak out of your breeches all the dirt you would surely get on them, jumping in and out of puddles.’
His face fell. ‘I promise I won’t go in puddles.’
He looked so earnest, she had to laugh. ‘I know you would try to be good, but heavens, how could anyone resist discovering how deep the puddles are, or seeing how high the water splashes when one jumps in them? I know I cannot, and Annie would be even crosser than Minnie if she had to press the mud out of my skirts. No, I’ve brought something else for us.’
His crestfallen look dissolved in curiosity. ‘In that package? May I open it?’
‘You may.’
He made quick work of the wrappings, unlatched the box and drew out a brush. ‘How soft it is!’ he exclaimed, drawing the bristles across his hand. ‘It’s awfully little for scrubbing, though.’
‘It’s not for scrubbing. It’s for painting. Those little dishes contain watercolours. Minnie, would you pour some water in that bowl and get James something he can use as a smock? A nightshirt will do.’
Though it had been years since she’d prepared paints, she fell back into the familiar pattern immediately, blending into the dishes some of the paint with water from the bowl brought by the nursery maid. By the time the girl had James’s nightshirt over his head to protect his clothing, Diana had half-a-dozen colours prepared for his inspection.
‘Which colours do you like the best?’
‘Red and blue,’ he pointed out promptly. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We decide what we want to paint.’
James looked around quickly. ‘My soldier!’
‘Good choice. Let’s sit him on the table so we can see him better. First, we’ll make an outline of his body, then fill in with the colours.’
She showed James how to dip his brush in the paint, then stroke the brush across the sketchpad. She expected that after a few minutes of meticulous work he would get bored with the process, but he did not, continuing with rapt attention under her direction and suggestions until he’d completed a creditable soldier in a bright-red coat and blue trousers.
‘That’s very good!’ she said approvingly, surprised that it was true. Even more surprised that, with his head bent and a rapt expression on his face, James reminded her of her father, recording in deft brushstrokes the details of one of the plants he’d discovered.
Another wash of heat warmed her within. Perhaps Alastair was right. Perhaps there was more of her—and her father—in the boy than she’d thought.
Vastly pleased with his work, James was delighted when she set it above the mantel. ‘There, you’ll be able to see it from your bed and admire it as you eat your supper.’
‘Look at my painting, Minnie!’ he cried to the nurse, who, to Diana’s mild amusement, hovered nearby whenever Diana visited her son. Though the girl seemed to have somewhat relaxed her vigilance, Diana sensed Minnie still didn’t entirely trust her mistress’s sudden, unprecedented interest in her charge.
‘That’s wonderful fine, young master,’ the maid answered, a deep affection in her tone. ‘A right handsome soldier you’ve drawn.’
‘Mama, will you make one, too?’
‘If it would please you.’
‘Oh, yes! I’d love having something from you, something to keep.’
The artless words pricked her again, reminding her how little she’d offered her son since she’d forced herself to turn away from him as a toddler. True, she’d had a compelling reason for withdrawing from him—but no more. Silently she renewed her vow to do better.
‘What kind of picture do you want?’
‘Another soldier.’
‘Very well.’ Taking the brush from him, she deftly created a replica of the toy soldier. James looked over her shoulder as she painted, seeming entirely absorbed.
When she finished, he gave a little sigh of awe. ‘Oh, Mama, that’s wonderful! He looks just like my soldier. Will you put him on the mantel next to mine, so they can keep each other company?’
‘Of course.’
After she’d arranged the two pictures side by side and stepped back, James clapped his hands with delight. ‘It’s like having more soldiers for my army! Only maybe better, ’cause you and me made them together. Thank you, Mama!’
Jumping up, he ran over and wrapped his arms around her.
Still not accustomed to hugs, she started—then slowly wrapped her arms around him as well. From deep within, an impulse welled up to pull him nearer, hold him tighter.
Immediately she resisted it...until she realised that she didn’t have to restrain herself any longer.
Let him love you. You’ll find yourself responding.
Hearing Alastair’s words echo in her ears, she hugged James tighter, pressing her face against his soft dark hair. An aching warmth curled around her heart.
As much as she owed Alastair Ransleigh for his efforts to keep her son safe, she owed him even more for this.
* * *
Meanwhile, in the London office of his solicitor, Mr Reynolds, Alastair explained his need for some information regarding settlements.
A smile creased the older man’s face. ‘Dare I hope that means you expect a momentous occasion in the near future? Let me offer my congratulations!’
Startled at first, Alastair had to laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. A close family friend was recently widowed. Her father is now deceased, and she is not aware if settlements were ever drawn up.’
‘Are the circumstances not specified in her late husband’s will?’
‘The circumstances are rather...complicated. What would normally be set up?’
‘Normally, the dowry or portion brought into the marriage by the bride is guaranteed to her as an annuity in the event of the husband’s death. If a specific sum is not mentioned, usually she is deeded some property as her jointure, the income and rents from which are intended to support her after the husband’s death, when his estate passes to his heir.’
‘In the absence of settlements, she would be entitled to a dower?’
‘Yes, to one-third of the property and assets of the estate. Which, for a wealthy man, could be quite considerable, hence the desire for settlements to simplify the process and limit the annuity to a specific sum.’
‘If dower rights were invoked, how would the widow obtain the assets?’
‘The local sheriff’s court would have the handling of it.’
That was what Alastair had feared. ‘And if there were...ill feelings between the heir and the widow?’
Mr Reynolds sent him a questioning look. ‘Would this heir be a man of high rank?’
‘The highest.’
The solicitor gave him a thin smile. ‘Then obtaining her due could be difficult. The local sheriff would, understandably, be reluctant to antagonise a man of wealth and influence in the community. Your widow would require a strong solicitor and a prominent advocate to ensure the heir was compelled to recognise her rights.’
Alastair nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Reynolds. I appreciate your expertise.’
‘If I can assist you further, please let me know. The poor widow is entitled to her due.’
‘She is indeed,’ Alastair agreed. ‘I will certainly call upon you again if circumstances require it.’
‘Always a pleasure to serve you,’ Mr Reynolds said with another smile as he ushered Alastair to the door.
As he paced the street to summon a hackney, Alastair mulled over what he should do next.
Would the new Duke really make problems for Diana? How much of her suspicion and foreboding were the results of her miserable existence as his father’s wife? Would the mature Blankford have outgrown his youthful resentment?
There was only one sure way to find out.
He’d just have to make a trip to Graveston Court.
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