Come the Dawn Read online

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.

  Copyright © 1994 and 2013 by Roberta Helmer

  First Dell Edition: 1994

  First Steel Magnolia Press Publication: 2013

  In memoriam, Paul M. Helmer (1905-1994)

  CHAPTER 1

  “Come out, villain!”

  Sunlight lay in a pool of gold around the slender figure in the middle of the sloping green fields. A battered straw hat hung from a ribbon beneath her titian hair, and a silver-haired wolf perched tensely beside her booted right foot.

  India Delamere, daughter of the Duke of Devonham, one of the greatest landowners in England, leveled the sights of her perfectly weighted pistol as the shrubbery began to shake. Who would dare to invade her family’s estate? Even those fools plaguing her gamekeeper would not be so bold in broad daylight.

  “Come out this second. Otherwise, I will shoot!” India’s angry tone prompted the wolf to growl menacingly.

  When there was no answer, she took a steadying breath and pulled back the hammer. “Very well, you leave me no choice. You have three seconds until I lay a bullet between your eyes.”

  Only two minutes before, all had been peaceful. A herd of geese had skimmed the pond while the great silver wolf lay basking beside India in the sun. Then the geese had fled in panic, and the wolf caught the scent of an intruder.

  “One. Two…”

  The titian-haired heiress to one of England’s oldest fortunes tossed back her battered straw hat and focused her pistol carefully.

  And still there was no answer.

  “Three!”

  She fired.

  The greenery along the lake shook. A handful of leaves shot up into the air, and a groan emerged from the nearest shrub. A broad-shouldered figure dove through a gap in the greenery and landed prone between two rows of lavender. “Hold your fire, blast it!”

  “Ian?” India took a sharp breath. The pistol dropped to her side. “You ape, I might have shot you!”

  India’s brother rose, brushing dirt from his white shirt. A lazy grin creased his deeply tanned face. “I am most grateful that you purposely aimed for the edge of that shrub and not its heart — which would have been my heart.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because, my impudent sister, I was having far too much fun baiting you.” He brushed off his hands and eyed the tear in his sleeve. “You really are a complete and utter hoyden, India. I fear you are more reckless at age twenty than you were at twelve.”

  India secured the safety catch and returned the weapon to the fine doeskin pouch at her waist. “What were you doing up here in the woods?”

  “Following some tracks. Force of habit, you know.”

  India didn’t believe it for a second. Beneath those sleepy gray eyes, Ian was as relentless as a bloodhound, particularly when he felt someone was threatening his family. No doubt her older brother, Luc, had also been checking up on her, just as all her wonderful family had done without cease in the four months since her return from the Continent.

  The Continent.

  Even now the memory filled her with aching sorrow.

  For the man she loved was dead. Devlyn Carlisle would not be coming back ever again. India couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

  So why did he still come to her in the suffocating silences of night when her defenses were utterly gone? Why did she see him in the shadows of midnight and the mists of dawn, his face as real as it had been in the weeks before Waterloo?

  The phantoms never stayed long. Far too soon those keen gray eyes turned sad, watching the carts and horses stream past, all madness and noise on the eve of battle. As always, India had one last glimpse of his hard, beloved face, half in sun, half in shadow as he stood on the hill before turning to rejoin his regiment.

  She carried the memories with her long after Devlyn Carlisle had disappeared over the rise, marching east to face Napoleon in the fields of corn at Waterloo.

  There Devlyn Carlisle had died, his chest shattered by a French cavalry saber. But he had not left India. Whenever the wind whispered through the old beech trees at Swallow Hill, it seemed to carry the timbre of Devlyn’s husky laugh. When a gust tugged at India’s long hair, her breath caught in pain as she remembered how his fingers used to brush against her. Months had passed, but the memories still haunted her. And it was to confront those memories once and for all that India had returned to her family’s Norfolk estate, pacing the vast, empty lawns from dawn to dusk.

  But on this sunny September afternoon, her memories were replaced by irritation at her brother. Frowning, she brought her fist to the slim hips covered by a pair of Ian’s oldest breeches. “Tell the truth, Ian. You never could lie to me.”

  Her brother rubbed his jaw. “No? Well, perhaps I was coming to keep an eye on that ferocious pet of yours.”

  “Bosh. Luna and I are fine.”

  “How was I to be sure? “

  India sighed. Ian had been checking up on her, as the rest of her protective and entirely exasperating relatives had done ever since her return.

  And all that time India had been careful to hide the real cause of her pain. Their pitying glances would have been impossible to bear. Instead she haunted the lonely hills in silence, while her family pondered what had happened to her in Brussels to leave her in such a state.

  Looking down, she smoothed the fur of the magnificent wolf that she had raised with such fierce protectiveness. She had rescued Luna from an angry mob of peasants outside Brussels. Now the creature followed India everywhere. At India’s touch, the wolf gave a low, keening cry, almost as if aware of her dark thoughts.

  India shook her head. “I could have shot you, Ian. These fools creep around the hills and do nothing but plague the gamekeeper, throwing rocks at the poor man and destroying our fences. It’s all because of Luna.” Hearing her name, the beautiful wolf looked expectantly at India, who ran one cheek along the silver fur. “I don’t see why they’re so frightened. Luna is perfectly harmless.”

  “For now perhaps,” her brother said softly.

  “I’ve raised her since she was a cub. She wouldn’t harm me or anyone else unless they attacked one of the family.”

  “The world is different beyond these walls. People fear what they do not understand. They fear Luna because she is a wild creature and because of that fear, they hate her. You must remember that, my love. Luna is safe, but only as long as she stays within the bounds of Swallow Hill.”

  India scuffed at a tuft of grass with one dusty boot. “I hate it when they throw rocks at her. I see them watching from the hills and I know they are just hoping for a clear shot. How can they be so ignorant?”

  Ian rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. “It is the way of the world. We saw it in India with Father, and we saw it again in Egypt. There is little chance of changing the way people think.”

  India saw the faint frown that creased her brother’s forehead. “Are you going back, Ian?”

  Her brother’s clear eyes darkened. “I can’t say. Europe is still in chaos, even though Napoleon has been routed. There are still many who support the madman — even here in England.”

 
“Surely not!”

  “Princess Charlotte herself has expressed concern over what will happen to the man. There are many who whisper that the French emperor has been treated disgracefully and ought to be enshrined here in England rather than imprisoned on an island in the desolate reaches of the Atlantic.” Ian looked down at the great wolf, his face harsh. “Often people fear what they shouldn’t and admire what they ought to fear. You might be surprised at how many such men there are in England. But I think we had better talk of something more pleasant.”

  “I won’t plague you with questions, since you’re obviously sworn to secrecy.” India looked out over the green lawns running down to the lake. “I suppose I shall have to give in and go to London, as Grandmama has been badgering me to do.”

  For months the Duchess of Cranford had been pestering her stubborn granddaughter to rejoin the social life of London. India had firmly refused, but knew she could not remain in this limbo forever. It was not fair to herself or to her family.

  “It might be better than staying here and worrying yourself to death,” Ian said softly.

  “Oh, Ian, how can I? I can’t bear the chatter and the inanity. Not now.” She studied her brother, who had been in the thick of the slaughter at Waterloo. “You must know how I feel. I saw the wounded and dead in Brussels. So many of them.” She looked away, hoping to hide the misery in her eyes.

  She didn’t succeed. From her beloved brother, India Delamere could hide nothing. Though he took pains not to show it, Ian had seen the depths of her sadness.

  “You need to do this for Grandmama. She’s been hiding how she feels, India. Your trip would do more for her than any medicine. Fretting over gowns, gloves, and balls would take her mind off the stiffness that grows daily in her joints.”

  India’s eyes widened in dismay. “I didn’t know, Ian. She always seems so indomitable. She never complains.”

  “Yet she’s in pain, all the same. And I’m afraid it will only grow worse.”

  India twisted her hands in the long flaps of the shirt she had stolen years before from Ian’s wardrobe. “Then I shall have to let myself be poked and prodded like a pin cushion. How can I deny her, if it will distract her from the pain. But I won’t stand for being paraded about London like a lump of horseflesh at Tattersall’s. I certainly won’t stand for a passel of sharp-eyed knaves mauling me about.”

  “Mauling? “ Ian threw back his head and laughed. “Is that how you view dancing, my love? How positively lowering.”

  India gnawed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Tell me, Ian, how do you know when — well, when you’re in love? When you meet the one who is meant for you, do you feel it? Do you tremble? Does your heart sing, the way people say?”

  Her brother’s eyes hardened. “I’m not certain I know. There’s joy, of course, but I think it’s the pain that tells us most. You feel a terrible sense of loss whenever you’re not together — almost a kind of living death.”

  India’s breath caught. “You’ve found someone, Ian. What a terrible fool I am. I’ve been so locked in my own world that I haven’t seen anything going on around me.” Impulsively, she pressed a kiss to her brother’s cheek.

  Ian’s jaw locked, and then he laughed lightly. “You have a vast imagination, even for a Delamere.”

  But India wasn’t deceived. “She’s a fool, Ian. She isn’t entitled to a minute of your regard. No woman of any sense could turn you down,” India said fiercely.

  “Do you think so, hoyden?” Ian gently ruffled his sister’s hair. “Still so loyal, even after I threw you into the frog pond and broke your favorite painting set when you were six?”

  India’s lips twitched. “As I recall, I proceeded to break all your tin soldiers and then dumped you out of the hayloft in retaliation.”

  “So you did,” Ian admitted, chuckling. “I still have twinges in my shoulder.”

  “Then I propose we call ourselves even.” India turned at the sound of footsteps along the twisting path bordered by rose hedges.

  “Ian? India? Where are you two? Don’t think to go hiding from me!”

  India frowned at her brother. “Grandmama? Why is she here?”

  Ian looked faintly guilty. He knew that the duchess had already sent out invitations to a grand fete to be held at her London town house at the end of the following week. Although India did not know it yet, she was to be the guest of honor. “I suppose she is bent on some scheme or other.”

  “Not that dressmaker from London and crates of fabric, I hope.”

  Ian chuckled. “Most females would be panting for a gown from London’s most select modiste.”

  “Not I,” said India flatly. “The slippers pinch my toes and the stays are too tight for comfort.”

  But before India could continue cataloguing her complaints at the indignity of fashionable dress, the Duchess of Cranford was upon them, her eyes of robin’s egg blue gleaming with animation. Her frail frame was perfectly upright and she leaned only slightly upon the silver-handled cane caught in a gloved hand. “I’ve been looking everywhere for the pair of you.” The duchess shot an appalled glance at her granddaughter’s male attire. “I thought we agreed that those clothes were to be burned, India Delamere!”

  “No, we didn’t. You demanded,” the young woman said firmly. “I simply listened. Besides, these clothes are far too comfortable to burn.”

  “How do you hope to marry when you insist on running about dressed like a tattered village urchin? Sweet heaven, you’re covered with freckles and your hair is beyond taming!”

  India shrugged. “I’m not interested in marrying.”

  There was a hint of sadness in her voice that made Ian and the duchess exchange worried looks.

  “Not interested?” The duchess stamped her cane imperiously. “I’ve had three offers for your hand already this week, gel, and all of them were unexceptionable.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Aren’t you interested?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Don’t you want to know whom they were from?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Ian laughed and took each woman by the arm. “Come, let’s not quarrel. We should go back to the house and have some of the new souchong tea you had sent from China, Grandmama. I’m sure India won’t mind being fitted out for a few dresses after that.”

  “Humph. Don’t forget the pelisses. And slippers and gloves and shawls and—”

  Ian shot his sister a warning look.

  “Humph,” India repeated, but she did not pull away as Ian steered her past the rose hedges and up through the topiary garden to the beautiful stone house on the hill.

  The duchess refrained from commenting when India’s silver wolf trotted happily behind them right into the house.

  ~ ~ ~

  “It’s too tight, Grandmama. I can’t even breathe!”

  “Nonsense. The dress is perfectly cut and the fit is superb.”

  India glared at her cheval glass. Patterned silks and exquisite Honneton lace spilled from hampers and cases spread over every corner of the second-story salon that the duchess had commandeered for their fitting session. India scowled down at the yards of ecru satin that shimmered about her slender figure. “That’s easy for you to say, Grandmama. You don’t have to wear the thing.”

  “But the young mistress looks most enchanting,” protested the dressmaker, removing a pin from her mouth. She was skillfully adding a final row of velvet braid to the gown’s fashionably high waist. “The color is of the most fine to match my lady’s hair.”

  The duchess’s keen eyes ran over India’s gown. “Passable,” she said approvingly. “In fact, with that titian hair, I suspect you’ll take London by storm, my dear. A pity there’s nothing to be done about your freckles and those calluses all over your hands. Perhaps I’ll try a pair of my chicken-skin gloves and a special rosewater cream for you to wear to bed at night.”

  “I won’t, not even for you, Grandmama.” India’s face went mutinous. “Chicken-sk
in gloves, indeed! The idea is preposterous — this whole affair is preposterous, in fact. I don’t want to go to London, I don’t want to wear this gown, and I most certainly don’t want a husband!” Her voice broke as she spun about, her fingers clenched on the windowsill.

  “That will be all for now, Madame Grès,” the duchess said softly. “Froggett will show you to the servants’ quarters for tea.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  After the door had closed, the duchess moved to the window. As she suspected, tears glittered on India’s radiantly healthy cheeks. “He’s not worth it,” the old woman said fiercely. “No man is worth your tears, India. Now you will tell me what happened in Brussels and why you came back white-faced and looking as if your very heart had been torn from your chest.”

  India took a slow breath, her fingers twisting in the lace curtains. “I can’t.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I can’t speak of it, Grandmama.”

  The Duchess of Cranford’s brows rose ominously. “Invitations have been sent out, India. There are five hundred people in London who expect to meet you next week.”

  “I can’t go, Grandmama. I’m not ready.”

  “You’ve had well over a year to put the past behind you, India. All that time I’ve watched and worried and held my peace. But the mourning must end. Whoever he was, he isn’t going to come back.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” India said stiffly.

  The duchess snorted. “Only a man could have put that stricken look in your eyes and taken away your laughter. You’ve gone and lost your heart, gel, and don’t tell me you haven’t. But now it’s time to get on with your life. You owe it to your family and yourself, India. You’ve spent enough time lost in your grief.”

  India looked out the window. Down the hill lilies spilled in a pool of white against the green lawns of Swallow Hill. Here eight generations of Delameres had supported their sovereigns, pursued their wildly eccentric dreams, and left the world in some way richer than they had found it. Could she do the same?

  “I tell myself that every day, Grandmama. Then I hear a certain tone or I see a shadow — and suddenly I’m back at Lady Richmond’s last party in Brussels. The carriages are clattering past and the soldiers are marching off to rejoin their regiments. And I can’t seem to forget. Oh, I know he didn’t love me because I was special.” India put a hand on the window, oblivious to the priceless lace framing her slender body, indifferent as she always was to the vision she made with her vibrant hair and creamy skin. “I think he thought me — brave. But I’m not. Lately, I have no heart for anything. I can’t go to Lady Jersey’s and titter about the Prince Regent’s latest indiscretion as if nothing had happened. I’ve changed, Grandmama. Everything has changed.” Her eyes darkened with terrible memories. “After Waterloo, the wounded were crammed in carts and drays and wagons. There were no clean linens for bandages, no beds, and almost no food.” India shivered as she was swept back into the dark past. “We worked for hours at a time, losing most but saving some, fighting for whatever small piece of good we could do. And through it all I always thought — I always prayed — that I’d see one man walk out of the dust and smoke. His step would be quick and his smile as jaunty as ever.” Her voice broke. “But he didn’t come, Grandmama. Not then nor in the long weeks afterward. Now nothing will ever be the same again because I think … I died with him.” India brushed at the tears she had concealed too long.