CHAPTER1
AN IMPRESSION IN THE SNOW
December 1815, Dunfey Park, Westmorland
Andrew loved days like this. Snowy, cold, gray wintry days that required him to stay indoors. They were the best excuse to remain sequestered in his study seeing to ducal business or curled up in one of the chairs in the parlor reading a book whilst sipping tea or brandy.
Tea during the day and brandy at night.
Although there were times he could have easily imbibed all day long—drunkenness helped keep his phobia at bay—he had long ago learned he couldn’t spend his waking moments in a fog.
He had responsibilities. A dukedom to run.
Even if he hadn’t stepped foot on the property since he was six years old.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Would you like to dress now?”
The valet’s voice had Andrew’s attention turning from the master bedchamber’s window. He hadn’t been looking out of it, exactly. He rarely looked outside. “Oh, if I must,” he replied on a sigh. “I hardly know why we bother.”
Pruitt held out a pair of Nankeen breeches and a scarlet waistcoat. “Have you any appointments on this day?”
Andrew gave his servant a quelling glance. “Of course not. How would anyone even reach this place?” he asked, waving toward the window.
Besides the impending storm—gray clouds pregnant with snow were headed in their direction—the grounds appeared to be covered in a white blanket of powder that had been spread out the day before.
“I doubt a coach-and-four could get here,” he added as removed his banyan and allowed Pruitt to dress him.
“I asked only because it seems someone—or something—has made its way onto the grounds, Your Grace.”
Andrew stiffened as Pruitt wrapped a pleated cravat around his neck. “What are you saying?”
His valet angled his head towards the room’s only window. “There’s an impression in the snow. It appears...” He paused and furrowed a brow as he tied a knot into the ends of the silk. “You have to see it for yourself, Your Grace.”
Glancing toward the window, Andrew tugged on the ends of his sleeves. From the amount of light that filtered into the bedchamber, he knew it was still sunny out. The snow only enhanced the brightness. “All right.”
Although he generally stayed away from the windows—so much as stepping close to a pane of glass where he could make out the expanse beyond had his heart racing in his chest—he managed to make it to the drapes. Keeping his gaze directed down, he scanned the snow-covered grounds below and understood immediately what his valet meant by his comment.
“Is that... is that an angel?” he asked in awe. He took one more step, his attention so focussed on the snow below that he didn’t notice he was fully exposed by the window.
“My thought exactly. As if one fell from the sky. Except...” The valet cleared his throat. “If you look off to the east, you can see some tracks in the snow.”
The blinding white stuff had Andrew squinting as he turned his head and then his body in an attempt to follow the footsteps. They disappeared behind a snow-topped hedgerow that outlined the parterre garden on the east end of Dunfey Park. From his position three stories up, the garden’s symmetrical design was evident despite the layer of white that covered it, the shapes further enhanced by what appeared to be glitter sprinkled over everything.
He couldn’t remember having noticed the sparkles before, but then he usually didn’t stare out windows.
“Well, an animal certainly didn’t do it,” he reasoned, finally stepping away from the cold glass. A bank of storm clouds suddenly hid the sun, and the snow lost its blinding white brilliance.
“Should I send a footman to determine who might have trespassed?” Pruitt asked, holding the topcoat open.
Andrew slipped his arms into the sleeves and shook his head. “No need. There’s been no harm done.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Your breakfast should be ready.”
“I don’t suppose any mail has been delivered? Or a copy of theTimes?” he asked. He made his way out of the bedchamber and to the stairs, Pruitt following close behind.
“No, Your Grace. If it stays as cold as it’s been, the snow won’t melt. We may have to send Smithton into town to fetch the mail,” he replied, referring to one of the footmen.
“We’ll give it another day,” Andrew said, deciding news from London could wait. As for instructions he had wished to send to his dukedom’s foreman, he had another day in which to write them.
Not that he had plans to go anywhere.
Andrew, Duke of Suffolk, had never stepped foot out of Dunfey Park.
