Page 27 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord

Not the vein he’d been hunting for, but a decent-sized pocket. Every day he drew a little closer, each new pocket uncovered further evidence to prove his theory correct. It was only a matter of time, now.

He ought to have been elated. Even this much graphite was a boon, another toehold in the slippery slope he had been attempting to summit for so long. Instead, the small victory felt pale and flat.

Itwasonly a matter of time. And then there would be no reason for Diana to stay.

∞∞∞

“It’s only potatoes,” Diana muttered to herself as she considered them there upon the countertop, like a foe to be vanquished. “How difficult can it be? Truly.”

Ben managed a decent—if simple—dinner every single night. Surelyshecould wrangle something edible out of a pile of potatoes. She had, after all, managed to light the stove. She’d observed him performing that particular action each and every night, and she’d been reasonably confident that she could handle that much in his absence.

And she had, after a few false starts.

Night had fallen some time ago now, and as it had become clear that Ben was going to be a trifle late returning this evening, it had seemed to Diana to be the perfect opportunity to try her hand at cooking. She had approached the task with determination, assembling various ingredients upon the countertop as if they were troops beneath her command.

If only she could instruct them to prepare themselves. The heavy kitchen knife felt awkward in the clutch of her hand, and her fingers tightened round the solid wood handle. It was one thing to observe while someone else cooked, and quite another to attempt it herself. How was she meant to achieve those firm, fluid motions? The quick, decisive chops, the smooth slices—probably they were well beyond her meager abilities.

Hannah thumped her foot against the leg of the table as she worked her sums. “You have to heat the pan,” she said absently, tucking her cheek into her palm.

The pan. Of course. It went on the stove, and she flicked a chunk of butter into it. Soon it would begin to sizzle, and she’d have to have thepotatoes diced into cubes to toss into it.

How did one cube potatoes? Probably one began with slicing them down the middle. She selected one and centered the blade of the knife over it. It didn’t slide quite as smoothly or as easily as Ben had made it look, but with a bit more pressure, at last the blade cut cleanly through the vegetable, and the two halves fell away from the blade.

At this rate, she’d have prepared her first meal by February next. Probably.

Another slice, and another, and another, and—there. That was one medium-sized potato done, at least. She hadn’t managed the roughly-even sized bits that Ben had, but at least she’d given it a decent effort.

Hannah asked, “Haven’t you ever even chopped vegetables before?”

“No,” Diana said, reaching for the next potato and positioning her knife. “But just like you with your sums, I am practicing.”

The kitchen door slammed open, and Diana jerked at the shock of the sound, whirling around. The handle of the knife slipped from her fingers. On reflex alone, she grabbed for the falling blade.

Ben snapped, “Don’t,” a fraction of a second too late. She caught it—straight against her palm.

The knife was sharp. The slice didn’t hurt, at first, but as bright red blood welled across her palm, she knew it would eventually.

“Christ.” Ben stomped across the floor and grabbed for her hand, peeling her fingers away from the knife, which he cast aside atop the counter. “Hannah, go get the bandages and ointment.”

There was the scrape of chair legs across the floor, and the thump of little feet pounding toward the stairs. Diana hissed as the gentle manipulation of her hand provoked the sting at last.

“It’s not deep,” Ben said. “You’re lucky there. Did no one ever teach you that a falling knife has no handle?”

“No; I’m afraid that part of my education was sorely lacking.” But experience was the best teacher. She could safely say that she would not make that particular mistake again.

Before the blood could pool in the cup of her palm, Ben yanked the hem of his shirt out from his trousers and gathered a handful of the fabric, pressing it to her palm.

“You’ll stain your shirt.”

“It’s already stained, and nobody’s going to see it, anyway. A little blood is the least of our worries.” She winced as he pressed harder, his lips turneddown in a scowl. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

“I thought I’d try my hand at cooking,” she said. “You were late. Hannah was hungry.” And besides only that… “These last few nights you’ve been just exhausted,” she added. “I wanted to help.”

“Here, Papa!” Hannah darted back into the kitchen, placing a tiny jar upon the table alongside a length of bandage.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Ben bent to press a kiss to the top of Hannah’s head, and gently peeled back the fabric he’d wadded against Diana’s skin. The bleeding had slowed, at least, the shallow cut visible beneath.

“Diana’s not very good at chopping potatoes,” Hannah confided as Ben removed the lid from the jar and scooped out a bit of the ointment, swiping it carefully across the torn skin of her palm. It stung, just a little, and the faint medicinal scent tickled Diana’s nose.