talking with Alastair again help? She’d felt calmer after returning from their last rendezvous. She told herself it was not missing him that further complicated her tangle of thoughts.
He certainly had been effective at stirring up her feelings. Which meant it would be better to avoid him, once he ended their bargain. Since she’d started seeing him, dribs and drabs of emotion had been leaching out, each leak further weakening the dykes she’d erected to contain them.
Perhaps one day she would be able to ease those restraints, release the anguish and the memories in slow, manageable bits and at length, be free of them.
But now was not that time.
She’d thought if she relaxed just enough to permit Alastair to reach her physically, she’d be able to distract him with passion and escape more intense scrutiny.
Instead, after only two meetings, he’d managed to unearth her most shameful secret and her deepest worry.
In her defence, only the imperative to do whatever she could to protect James had pushed her to reveal the situation. In the wake of that confession, she’d careened from horror that she’d divulged the dilemma to him, shame over admitting her failings with her son, and relief that she would not have to contest the Duke alone. Embracing Alastair without reservation before she left him, she’d felt...safe. That concerned her.
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
