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But she couldn’t imagine any other reason a solicitor would be asking for her, here in Bath, barely a week after her arrival.
Whoever it was, she must meet him now. With no more time to prepare, she didn’t have the luxury of panic. Pummelling down the fear, she told the maid to announce her.
The man who rose to greet her as she entered the parlour was the image of what one would expect of a peer’s solicitor: old, sober of demeanour, garbed in expensive, well-tailored but not ostentatious garments.
‘Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’m Feral, solicitor to Lord Blankford—the new Duke of Graveston, that is,’ he said, confirming her fears. ‘I’ve brought a letter from his Grace, vouching for my identity and authorising me to collect the boy.’
Though she knew exactly what he meant, she repeated blankly, ‘Collect the boy?’
‘Lord James Mannington, the late Duke’s son by his second marriage to you. The new Duke wishes the boy brought back to Graveston Court—where he can be reared as befits his station,’ he added, with a disparaging glance around the modest room.
Anger overlay the fear, sharpening every sense. Delay, expostulate, distract. She widened her eyes, gave him an incredulous look. ‘You’ve come to take away my son?’
The solicitor had the grace to look discomfited. ‘He’ll be well cared for, I assure—’
‘My husband dead barely a fortnight, and you want to strip me of my son?!’ she interrupted, letting her voice rise to a distraught crescendo. ‘No, I cannot bear it!’
Closing her eyes, Diana fell in a dramatic faint to the floor.
‘Your Grace!’ Feral exclaimed, looking down at her.
From her position on the carpet, Diana remained unresponsive. At length the solicitor grew more concerned and rang the bell to summon assistance.
The maid looked in, gasped and ran back off, then returned with the entire household staff. Several minutes passed as they bustled about, Annie chafing her hands while Cook waved a vinaigrette under her nose and Smithers, the manservant, helped the two females lift Diana off the floor.
During those minutes, she schemed furiously, examining and discarding several courses of action until she hit upon one with the greatest likelihood of success.
‘Some tea to restore you, my lady?’ Cook asked after she had been propped on the sofa.
‘Yes. And I suppose I must offer some to Mr Feral, even though he has come to take away my child.’
Diana doubted she’d earned much sympathy from the staff during her brief stay, but all of them were charmed by James, and the idea of stripping a boy from his mama did not sit well. Though none of the servants were ill trained enough to display overt hostility, the gazes they turned towards the solicitor were distinctly chilly.
‘As you wish, my lady,’ Cook said, returning to her domain.
‘Shall I remain until you have fully recovered?’ Annie asked, stationing herself protectively between Diana and her guest.
Her point made, and her visitor now looking distinctly uncomfortable—and as rattled as Diana had hoped—she said, ‘No, Annie, you may go. Nothing else Mr Feral says or does could wound me more than he already has.’
As soon as the servants exited, Feral turned to her with an exasperated look. ‘Indeed, Your Grace, that was hardly necessary! You’d think I was attempting to send the boy to a workhouse, rather than return him to a life of ease in the home of his birth!’
Pushing away from the pillows, she dropped the guise of distraught mother and switched to imperious aristocrat, a role which, after watching her husband, she could play to perfection.
‘How dare you, a solicitor, son of a tradesman no doubt, presume to tell me what to do?’ she cried. ‘My son remains with me.’
As she’d hoped, the change in demeanour took the solicitor by surprise. Years of serving an employer who would have tolerated nothing less than complete deference and absolute obedience had him stuttering an apology.
‘I meant no disrespect, Your Grace. But—’
‘But you thought you could simply march into this house, my retreat from grief, and order me about?’
That might have been a bit much, for the solicitor, his expression wary, said, ‘Though I have every appreciation for a widow’s grief, Your Grace, I must point out it was common knowledge that you and the late Duke...did not live harmoniously together.’
‘We did live together, however, which is more than can be said for my late husband and his heir, who, long before his father’s death, had broken off all relations between them. Yet now you have the effrontery to assure me that this man, who hasn’t set foot inside Graveston Court for years, who refused ever to speak to me, will take good care of my son?’
‘Surely you don’t mean to suggest the Duke would not treat the boy kindly!’ the solicitor objected.
She merely raised her eyebrows. ‘I believe he will treat Mannington—and everyone else—in whatever way he chooses. I have no intention of abandoning my son to the vagaries of his half-brother’s humours. Besides, there is no need for Mannington to be reared at Graveston; he’s not the new heir, or even the heir presumptive. Blankford married two years ago, I’m told, and already has a son and heir.’
‘The existence of an heir has no bearing on the Duke’s wish that his half-brother be raised in a ducal establishment.’
‘Even if Mannington were the heir,’ she continued, ignoring him, ‘until he’s old enough to be sent to school, a child should remain with his mother.’
‘If a case for custody were brought forward, the Court of Chancery would likely decide in favour of the Duke,’ the solicitor shot back, obviously already prepared for that argument.
Before she could put forth any more objections, he said in a softer tone, ‘Your Grace, though I sympathise with a mother’s eagerness to hold on to her child, you might as well resign yourself. As you should know from association with your late husband, when a Duke of Graveston desires something, he gets it.’
Nothing he could have said would have enraged her more. Welcoming a fury that helped her submerge a desperation too close to the surface, she snapped, ‘He will not get my son. I fear you’ve made a long journey to no purpose. Good day to you, Mr Feral.’
Before he could respond, Diana rose and swept from the room.
* * *
Her heart thudding in her chest, Diana instructed Smithers—who’d been loitering outside the door—to escort the visitor out, then paused in the doorway to the kitchens, concealed by the overhanging stairs.
As theatre, it had been an adequate performance, but would it be enough? Would Feral leave, or charge up to the nursery and attempt to remove Mannington by force?
If it came to that, she hoped the staff would assist her, though she wasn’t sure she could count on them.
To her relief, a few moments later, Mr Feral, his manner distinctly aggrieved, exited the parlour and paced to the front door, trailed closely by Smithers.
Light-headed with a relief that made her dizzy, she sagged back against the door frame. The first skirmish went to her, but she knew that small victory had won her only a brief respite. At worst, after pondering the matter, Mr Feral might well return and try to carry out Blankford’s order by force. Even in the best case—Feral electing to leave her alone and return to the Duke for further instructions—within a week or so she’d face a renewed assault.
Surely Fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to strip James from her now, as she was just beginning to know him again! No, she simply must find some way to prevent it.
Blankford would be furious that she hadn’t capitulated to his demand, and was sure to summon every tool of law and influence to exact his will in the next round.
If it did come to that, would a Court of Chancery uphold her right to keep James until he went to university? She had no idea what provisions her husband had made for his second son in the event of his death. Although Blankford had received the title, all the entailed land and the bulk of the assets of the estate, there had probably been something left for James, with trustees named to oversee the assets until he came of age. Her legal position would be weaker still if Blankford had been named one of those trustees—though given the bitterness of the break between her husband and his heir, she doubted the Duke would have appointed him as one.
If Blankford were not a trustee, would that make retaining custody of James easier? She scanned her mind, trying to dredge up what little she knew about how the affairs of wealthy minors were settled under law. But she quickly abandoned the effort. A mere woman, she’d never be allowed to argue the case anyway. She’d chosen Bath over London as her refuge not only because she could live here more cheaply, but also because, as a town still frequented by the fashionable, she might find a solicitor skilled and clever enough to outwit a duke.
The unexpected appearance of Alastair Ransleigh had deflected her from setting out to find such a person as soon as they had settled in. She’d have to begin the search at once, and to hire the best, she’d need additional funds.
