“Really?” Harry was incredulous—as incredulous as Ellie. “It’s been storming fit to freeze Hades for nearly an hour.”
“Exactly.” Ellie rushed to the heavy door, lifted the latch, and hauled the door open. Wind rushed in, gleefully swirling snowflakes across the threshold. Kemp and the footmen came to stand at her back; the flames in the lanterns they held aloft wavered, then steadied, casting a semicircle of light over the narrow porch and across the forecourt.
Three figures, all in heavy coats, heads ducked against the storm’s fury, weaved drunkenly into the light. All three clung together, as if supporting each other in their Herculean struggle to take another step.
One man held the reins of a pair of carriage horses, instantly recognizable as superior beasts even in the poor light. Ellie didn’t recognize that man or the heavier man in the middle of the trio, but her eyes widened as she scanned the third man—the one leading a saddled horse. “It’s Masterton.”
The sound of more running footsteps reached her, and she whirled. “Here—give me that.” She took the lantern from the nearest footman, Henry. “Harry, take Mike’s. You two”—she pointed at the footmen—“get those men inside.”
Mike and Henry turned up their collars and hurried out and down the steps, making for the weaving figures.
“Tommy and Hugh.” Ellie waved the grooms forward. “Take the horses to the stable and see them cared for. Billy and James—ah, here’s Johnson.” She grabbed the stableman by the sleeve and dragged him past Kemp and Harry to the threshold. She pointed into the night. “That carriage needs to be out of the snow.”
Johnson squinted, then nodded. “You’re right about that.” He glanced at the two stable lads, who had fallen in at his heels. “Come along, you two—Tommy and Hugh can lead the nags, but we’d best push the carriage, or they’ll all freeze before they reach the stable.”
The comment wasn’t that much of an exaggeration. With the onset of darkness, the temperature was plummeting. Ice already liberally coated all three visitors.
If left to themselves, the three would never have made it up the shallow steps to the porch, but Henry and Mike were burly sorts; the pair insinuated themselves between the three men and all but rushed them onto the porch and inside.
Ellie checked that Johnson and his helpers had the horses and carriage in hand, then nodded to Kemp, and he swung the heavy door closed; he had to throw his weight against the panel to overcome the still-howling wind.
Mrs. Kemp and two of the maids came running, bearing blankets. “Cook is preparing some hot possets,” Mrs. Kemp reported, then tutted at the sight of the three men drooping and dripping on the hall tiles.
Masterton staggered back a step and slumped against the front door. He coughed and managed to lift his head. Eyes closed, he grated, “We made it, thank God.”
“What were you doing out in that?” Ellie asked. Masterton was a local or, at least, local enough to have known better.
He waved weakly. “I had a meeting earlier at Kirkby Malzeard. I was riding back to Ripon when the storm swept in.” His gaze cut to the other two men, who were leaning against each other, barely managing to keep themselves upright. “I spotted them turning in to the drive. By their state, they’d been caught in the storm far longer than I. I assumed they’d come from Ripon, and I remembered Matthew was expecting that authenticator from London.” Masterton raised a frosty brow. “Given the carriage and horses, it seems likely the gentleman is he.”
The word “gentleman” appeared to register with the taller of the unknown pair. He drew in a shuddering breath, slowly raised his head, and bracing the other man—shorter and of heavier build—with one hand, endeavored to straighten to his full height.
Henry stepped in to help support the shorter man, who was wearing the sort of heavy coat favored by coachmen.
Relieved of that task, the gentleman—and despite the ice coating his dark hair and clinging to his chin, eyebrows, and lashes, the chiseled planes of his face and the way, even under such strain, he held himself left no doubt whatever of his station—glanced briefly about, then his gaze settled on Ellie.
Godfrey fought to straighten his limbs and attain an acceptable posture, but his wits weren’t cooperating, and his senses seemed not to be anchored to his body. While he was grateful to be out of the hellish cold, the sudden warmth had him reeling, oddly disconnected from himself. On top of that, every muscle seemed stiff and unresponsive, and his vision wasn’t all that clear. But he knew what good manners demanded. Focusing, however hazily, on the woman he assumed was the mistress of the house, he attempted a winning smile. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your rescue, ma’am.”
Long-ingrained habit had him sweeping her an elegant bow.
A mistake. He felt his senses tip, then slide away as oblivion opened her arms and embraced him.
Aghast, Ellie stared at the man she’d mentally viewed as her family’s knight on a white charger—the bringer of hope for their future—as he crumpled to the wet tiles in a greatcoated heap at her feet.
For a second, shock held her immobile, then she crouched and brushed back the fall of dark hair that obscured his eyes; he didn’t react. “He’s unconscious.” That can’t be good. She glanced at Mrs. Kemp. “Is the best guest bedroom ready?”
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Kemp turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll set the girls to filling hot-water bottles and preparing a bed-warmer.”
“Please.” Ellie looked at Kemp and Harry. “We need to get him upstairs and warm as quickly as we can.” She glanced at Henry, still supporting the second man—presumably Cavanaugh’s manservant—who, while still conscious, looked dazed and barely aware.
“I’ll take this one up and see to him, miss,” Henry volunteered.
She nodded, rose, and waved for Kemp and Harry to pick up the fallen man.
They heaved him up between them, then staggered toward the stairs. She started to follow, then remembered Masterton. She swung around, but with a faint smile, her father’s cousin waved her on. “I’ll manage. You should see to him.”
She didn’t always agree with Masterton, but with that, she had no argument. With a nod of acknowledgment, she turned and, lifting her skirts, hurried up the stairs.
Chapter 2
Godfrey opened his eyes and realized he was dreaming. A golden-haired angel—a glorious figment of his imagination—hovered over him, concern, curiosity, and interest lighting her woodland eyes as they slowly traced his features. Her heart-shaped face had been sculpted by a master, with a wide forehead, high cheekbones, straight nose, and tapered chin, and her coloring—porcelain complexion, blush-tinted lips, delicately arched brown brows, and long brown lashes—accentuated the divine vision.
He was reminded of a Botticelli angel; no doubt that was from where his ever-ready imagination had drawn its inspiration.
Her eyes rose and met his, and he smiled and allowed himself to fall into the green, hazel, and gold-flecked depths.
She blinked and tilted her head, as if uncertain whether to speak.
Did angels speak to mere mortals? Could they?