Come the Dawn Page 3

  At the sight of Lady India Delamere’s flawless face and smoky blue eyes, four score male hearts shattered in their brawny owners’ chests.

  The night was young. The brash Corsican was defeated and the world was free of his tyranny at last. Tonight all of the guests were determined to celebrate.

  And India Delamere, dying quietly inside, feigned smile after gay smile as she became the toast of glittering London society.

  ~ ~ ~

  Somehow the evening passed.

  Viscount Monkton was charming and vapid as usual, while his friend Pendleworth worked very hard at making India laugh. But they could not know that their mere presence was a wound to her heart, for she knew both had been friends of Thorne.

  India had managed a steady flow of laughter, hoping that she had fooled her friends. In their wake had come Lord Longborough, resplendent in crimson and green damask, pressing her to retire outside to the gallery where he would bring her a glass of iced punch.

  And a proposal, too, India suspected.

  She had prudently declined, unable to face a matrimonial offer from Longborough or anyone else. In quick order she had danced a waltz with each of her handsome brothers, then a third with Luc’s exotic friend Connor MacKinnon. After that she had refused all other offers.

  Beside her two officers argued over who would have the honor of fetching punch and crab cakes for her. India tried not to smile at their foolishness and impudence. She was feeling strangely reckless after three glasses of champagne. There was too much laughter, too many jewels. The ballroom was hot, and at every turn she was crushed by eager guests.

  Suddenly a wave of dizziness swept over her. She caught herself with a hand on the dashing lieutenant’s arm. He gave her a delighted smile, while his brother officer looked on with an expression of furious jealousy.

  India could only stare at the pair of them as if they were schoolboys. She felt painfully old standing next to them, while laughter and gossip and perfume drifted past her in waves.

  So very old…

  And yet she was barely twenty.

  She had seen too much in the days of anguish following Waterloo. Perhaps the lingering memory of the sickness and suffering after the great battle had changed her forever.

  Sighing, India hid her unsteadiness and released her adoring lieutenant’s arm. She looked about for her brothers, desperate to make good her escape. Nearby the newly widowed Lady Marchmont tittered sharply, regaling a group of admirers with a blithe account of how she had lost five hundred pounds in a single hour of play the week before. One man suggested a way she could recover her losses — in his arms.

  India turned away, her head throbbing. The air was too close, the laughter too loud. She had to escape.

  As if in answer to her prayer, the crowd parted. Light from the gleaming chandelier slanted down on a crimson regimental coat looped with gold braid. Dancing candles played over a pair of broad shoulders and eyes of iron-gray.

  Thorne.

  India felt her knees sway.

  It was impossible! The Earl of Thornwood was dead, cut down in the first fierce charge at Waterloo. Three of his fellow officers had seen his horse fall in a field overlooking the crossroads. Then had come the savage death blow from a French cavalry saber.

  Dead.

  She had read the reports herself.

  Yet here he stood, light wreathing him in gold, softening the harsh planes of his brooding face. He looked older, harder. Sadness clung to him.

  “—far too pale, my lady—”

  “—must let me find you something to drink—”

  Dimly, so dimly India heard the anxious queries. But her heart, her very soul, stayed locked upon the light-wreathed figure staring at her in taut silence across the crowded dance floor.

  Abruptly, she felt her grandmother’s fingers circle her arm. “India, what’s wrong? You’re sheet white.”

  India trembled. “He’s come back, Grandmama,” she said softly.

  “Who’s come back?”

  “The man I told you about. He’s here.” India spun back to the crowded floor, feeling reckless and giddy, joy burning in her unusual, uptilted eyes.

  But the figure in the regimental coat was gone. Two matrons now stood chatting amiably beneath the dancing candles.

  India caught back a cry, feeling her heart shatter.

  She was reaching out to empty air when the polished floor rushed up to meet her.

  And one pair of eyes darkened, watching from the shadows as she slid into her grandmother’s arms.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thanks to her brother’s swift response, India’s lapse was noticed by only a few. When Ian carried her into the study, her name had barely begun to be whispered. By then a new item of gossip had swept throughout the room.

  The name of a soldier thought long dead.

  “Is it really him?” two matrons whispered avidly, head to head.

  “It can’t be.”

  “But it is. There is no mistaking that cool smile. And it is very like Thornwood to come striding in, all arrogant charm, not a seam out of place. A perfect Carlisle, every wretched inch of him. As coldhearted as that gamester father of his. The worse sort of rakehell, so I hear.”

  Fans waved, brows furrowed. One name ran from mouth to mouth as the tall, broad-shouldered officer in scarlet regimentals moved silently through the ballroom. Devlyn Carlisle seemed to have emerged from the grave into the height of the London season, none the worse for wear beyond a small silver scar at his jaw.

  He showed no interest at all in the stir he was causing.

  Only Monkton and Pendleworth, crowding close to offer their shocked welcome, noted Thornwood’s stiffness and a grimness they had never before seen in his face.

  “Dash it, Thorne, is it really you?” Monkton was the first to reach the slate-eyed officer. “But how — when — that is, stap me, man, we heard you were dead!”

  The gray eyes narrowed. “Obviously not. But forgive me, have we met?”

  “Of course we’ve met! It’s me, Monkton. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten who I am. It’s the outside of enough, by Jove!”

  There was a faint tightening in the full lips. “As it happens, that is exactly what I am saying. I have forgotten — Monkton, is it?”

  “Forgotten? By Gad—”

  Pendleworth’s fingers cut off his friend’s angry protest. “This is not the time or place for such a discussion, Monk.” He studied the officer’s hard, bronzed face. “At White’s, shall we say?”

  Devlyn Carlisle’s brow rose. “Unfortunately, I must excuse myself. I have pressing duties tonight.”

  “Tonight? But—”

  Again Pendleworth interrupted his friend. “Quite understandable. Sometime soon, then.”

  But Monkton continued to stare after those broad, retreating shoulders, pale as if he’d seen a ghost. “He didn’t even know me, Penn. And he’s changed. The same, yet somehow not the same at all.”

  “I think that is part of what he was trying to tell us, Monk.”

  “But what are we to do? Can’t let the man act a total stranger. It’s — it’s infamous!”

  Pendleworth’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we have no choice.”

  Hundreds of others also noted Devlyn’s progress through the crowded room. Men shook their heads in grudging admiration, and bejeweled women preened and tittered, hoping to summon a look of heated memory from that hard, tanned face.

  But there was no recognition for any of them.

  The Earl of Thornwood moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of minnows. One by one, the others began to notice the changes in him. He was harder now and leaner. His eyes looked twenty years older, full of shadows and regret. The few smiles he gave never seemed to reach those shadows in his slate-gray eyes.

  Helena Marchmont, in particular, watched in silent fascination as Carlisle strode past. Her fan waved and her lips curved in a slight pout, both of which went unnoticed.

  Nearby, the Duke of
Wellington blinked once before picking up the threads of his conversation.

  And the Duchess of Cranford, just emerged from the study, frowned as Wellington turned and made his way toward her.

  “A lovely party, Amelia. I am delighted I could fit it in, since I will be staying in England for only a few days before returning to the Continent. But I trust that your granddaughter is not ill.”

  The duchess summoned up a false smile. “India? The girl’s healthy as a horse. I expect it’s just the heat and crush. She’s unaccustomed to balls or to town life.”

  “She was in Brussels, I think? I seem to remember her from Lady Richmond’s ball.”

  The duchess was amazed that the duke could recall such a detail in a night that must have been sheer chaos on the eve of Waterloo. “So she was. She stayed on afterward. I’m afraid the war left its mark on her.”

  “As it did on all of us,” Wellington said grimly. “Our victory was hard won. Still, she’ll forget. If gossip runs true, Lord Longborough as well as a score of junior officers would be only too happy to teach her how.”

  The duchess frowned at the door of the study where India now lay resting. Longborough was a spineless fool and the junior officers were not much better. What India needed was a man of courage and honor, a man with an adventurous spirit to match hers. The duchess remembered how the girl’s joy had slid into shattering pain when she had looked across the crowded room that evening.

  Who had she seen?

  “You are certain there is nothing I can do to help?”

  “Nothing. You are more than kind, but my granddaughter will be fine. Just enjoy yourself. Of course, if you should happen to hear Lady Jersey spreading cattish tales about my granddaughter falling into a decline, I would be most grateful if you would cut them off promptly, Your Grace.”

  “I would be delighted. Ah, there’s an old friend up from Sussex. I really should—” The duke stopped suddenly, his body rigid.

  “Your Grace, is something wrong? You look disturbed.”

  Wellington straightened his sleeve, eyes on the thronged ballroom. “It is … nothing. For a moment I thought I saw the face of someone I knew. Forgive me.”

  The duchess frowned, turning back to the study. She had sent a servant to fetch the family physician from Montagu Street. He was old, but thorough. He had tended India since her birth, though the girl had been sick only twice that the duchess could recall.

  The duchess heard the ring of Lady Jersey’s high-pitched laughter followed by Helena Marchmont’s irritating titter. Shrews, both of them, the duchess thought. She only prayed that Wellington would do his part to scotch any gossip about India’s condition.

  But let a single soul try to say a word to her, the duchess vowed. Every inch of her tiny frame went stiff at the thought. Family had always come first in her life, and anyone attacking India would soon be cut into tiny ribbons.

  The duchess swore to begin with Lady Jersey and that fox-faced Helena Marchmont.

  ~ ~ ~

  But India’s illness did not become the byword of the evening that it had promised to become. A new source of curiosity had gripped the ton in the arresting sight of its greatest rake turned valiant soldier, newly returned from the dead.

  Wellington, too, had noticed Thornwood. He nodded coolly to his former aide and for a moment their eyes met, turquoise to slate. Without another word the duke left the room.

  Only Ian Delamere, standing just outside the study, noticed the faint nod that the duke had made before he left.

  And it was Ian, his face hard with resolve, who ran Thornwood down in the broad alcove of the duchess’s town house as the earl prepared to make his departure from the ball he obviously found of little interest.

  “A word, if you please.”

  Thornwood turned slowly. His brow rose. “Yes?”

  “Have you nothing to say, man?” Ian stared in amazement at the officer with whom he had marched through Portugal and the snows of half of Spain. “I thought you were dead. We all did.”

  “An obvious error, as you can see.”

  “Where have you been all these months?” Ian’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s something secret, of course, then tell me to go to the devil.”

  “Not at all.” Devlyn’s face was expressionless. “I am merely … tired.”

  Ian gripped his arm. “Damn it, I saw you cut down by a saber, Thornwood! Talk to me.”

  “The cut was less than accurate. I was left … quite uncomfortably at the bottom of a pile of dead bodies. It was three days before I was discovered, so I am told.”

  “Told?”

  Thornwood toyed with the edge of one cuff. “You seem determined to draw me into tedious explanations. Do I know you?”

  Ian snorted. “I should bloody well think so. We fought together at Badajoz and again at Vimeiro. You saved my life twice, and I certainly won’t forget that.”

  The Earl of Thornwood’s mouth hardened. “I see. That makes this all rather complicated, I fear.”

  “Damn it, Thornwood, stop speaking in riddles.”

  “I am merely being straightforward. I do not know who you are, nor do I know anyone else here. I came only because this seemed the quickest way to…”

  “To do what?”

  “To make the truth known.”

  “What truth?”

  Thornwood sighed. “Must we discuss this now?”

  “Right now. Right here.” Ian’s arms crossed at his chest. “I want to know where in the devil you’ve been.”

  “Very well. The truth you seek is simple. The man called Thornwood that you see is not the Thornwood you knew. The man you knew — the man all those other people in that ballroom knew — is gone forever. His memories and his mind are buried in a muddy cornfield in Belgium.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Thornwood’s eyes went wintry. “Am I?”

  “Lord, man, you can’t expect me to believe—”

  “Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. That is the truth. You may take it how you will.”

  “So that’s why you never came back.”

  Thornwood shrugged. “It was some months before I was even able to walk unassisted. As time passed, my wounds healed — all except the ones in my head.” He smiled grimly. “I meant you no rudeness. It is simply that for me, there is no past. All I am, all I know began when I emerged to consciousness swathed in dirty bandages in a smelly farmhouse near the border of France. Now I trust you will excuse me. It has been a long evening and I find I am tired.” The earl took his gloves and hat from the impassive footman at the door. “I would appreciate it if you saw to it that your friends understood the situation. I would not choose to give willful offense, but neither would I care to offer false hope. The old Earl of Thornwood is dead,” he finished flatly.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You must believe it.” For a moment desperation swirled through Thornwood’s eyes, but it quickly vanished. “My past is gone. The sooner you accept that, the better it will be for all of us. I simply want to be left in peace. Do not try to find me or talk to me, do you understand?”

  After long moments, Ian nodded stiffly.

  “Thank you for that, at least. And now good night.”

  As Ian watched Thornwood stride down the steps to a waiting carriage, he felt every nerve screaming. It was wrong, all of it. Thornwood, the man he had known through long months of war, would never have been so cold and aloof.

  Unless he had told the truth. Unless his wounds had destroyed the old Thornwood forever.

  Ian wasn’t sure he believed it. Then he frowned, thinking of India, pale and trembling as he had carried her into the study.

  If Thornwood had something to do with that, by heaven he’d pay dearly, Ian swore. But he knew he’d have no luck prying anything more out of his stubborn sister, who insisted her lapse had been caused by a case of nerves exacerbated by the heat of the ballroom.

  Nerves?

  India Delamere had never been over
come by nerves in her life, Ian knew.

  Which meant she was keeping secrets from him.

  “Why, damn it?” Ian studied the silent hall and the open door. “Why, Thornwood? Why here and why now, of all times?”

  But the steps were empty and the lean-faced officer had disappeared into his carriage.

  Ian was still staring out into the darkness long after the last hoofbeats faded away into silence.

  CHAPTER 3

  “India? India, do you hear me?” The Duchess of Cranford looked down, frowning. “What’s happened to her, Ian? She was fine when I left.”

  “She was fine when I left, too,” India’s brother said worriedly.

  At that moment India blinked and opened her eyes.

  Two tense faces stared back at her — the duchess, frail and imperious, and Ian looking angry.

  “Fetch Luc and his wife,” the duchess ordered.

  “No, I don’t want to worry them. Please, I’ll be fine.” India struggled to sit up. “After all, this was to be their grand return to London. I couldn’t bear spoiling their evening.” She caught her grandmother’s fragile hand. “Please, Grandmama.”

  “Very well,” the old woman said at last. “But you must tell me what’s amiss.”

  “I’ve disgraced myself again, I suppose.” India sighed. She had occasioned comment too often to count, beginning when she was fourteen and had gone shooting at Manton’s with Ian, much to her father’s delight — and her grandmother’s consternation.

  At that moment her older brother strode in, frowning. “India? I heard something was wrong.”

  “I’m fine, Luc. Truly, you shouldn’t have—”

  “India? My dear, what happened?” Luc’s auburn-haired wife entered the room close on the heels of her husband.

  India took a shaky breath. “Everyone saw, I suppose. Tomorrow I will be the gossip of London. I can see it clearly. ‘Youngest Delamere falls into a decline before the eyes of six hundred fascinated guests.’“

  “Nonsense. “ The duchess patted her hand. “Few people noticed, I assure you. What’s important is how you feel now.”

  “I’m fine, truly. It was simply the heat and the crush of all those bodies.”