Come the Dawn (4 page)

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 overcome 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.

“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.”

The duchess frowned. She decided not to tell India about the evening’s other surprise, the only thing that had kept her from being on everyone’s lips right now. Not that it mattered. The girl probably didn’t even know Devlyn Carlisle, who was at least eight years older than she was.

Luc Delamere sat down beside his sister, trying to keep the worry from his face. “You must come stay with us in Norfolk. Silver is blending a new fragrance at Lavender Close and I know she would love your company.” He shot his wife a lazy grin. “The truth is, she gets decidedly irritable in this stage of her work and wants nothing to do with me.”

India squeezed her brother’s hand, noticing how happy he looked. She felt a trace of envy, then forced it away. Luc had endured years of pain and India could not begrudge him one minute of his happiness. “That is very kind, Luc, but I don’t care to intrude. You have those two lovely rascals to keep you occupied. And don’t
you
plan invitations either, Grandmama. I shall do quite nicely back at Swallow Hill. All I need is exercise and fresh air. I shall pack a portmanteau and leave tonight, taking Froggett with me.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” the Duchess of Cranford said indignantly. “Travel alone at night? I won’t hear of it!”

“I’m afraid Grandmama is right, India. The roads are far too dangerous.” Luc laughed grimly. “Given my years spent riding those roads, I know the dangers too well. Wait till morning and I’ll ride with you part way. I’d love to go farther, but buying supplies for Silver’s new fragrance will keep us in town for another week at least.”

“What about you, Ian?” the duchess demanded.

The broad-shouldered soldier with the deceptively sleepy gray eyes shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot leave London just now. I’ve — affairs of my own that will keep me here for a fortnight.”

“Another mission for Wellington?” Luc looked thoughtful. “Don’t shoot me that cross look, Ian. I promise I won’t try to worm it out of you.”

“I wish you would all stop being so wretchedly
helpful,”
India muttered, shoving away a velvet cushion. “I’ll be
fine.
All I need is some time away.”

But it was a lie. India was afraid she’d never be fine again. Her family was kind and concerned, but she could never tell them the truth about what had happened during her months in Belgium. So, as she had always done before, India locked her pain deep and summoned up an entirely false smile.

The same smile she kept for a world that ceased to hold any interest for her.

“As for leaving, tomorrow will do fine,” she lied calmly.

Her loving relatives nodded, and some of the concern left their faces.

As India accepted a glass of ratafia from Ian, she was already planning the contents of the single portmanteau she would carry when she rode out of London that same night.

~ ~ ~

The moon sailed over the tile roofs and twisting chimneys as India made her way silently downstairs. Clutching a cloak and battered hat beneath one arm, she crept past six generations of haughty Delameres, who stared down from their portraits in patent disapproval of her reckless plan.

Around her the house was quiet. The guests had all departed, well pleased with the evening’s rich gossip. Once more the Delameres had lived up to their reputation, providing London with delicious scandal.

It was that knowledge that made India determined to leave London. She was too upset to bear the curious looks that were certain to come. She had stuffed her bag, then tugged on a voluminous and outdated gown, chosen precisely because of its ability to conceal the riding boots and old breeches that she wore beneath.

She was nearly to the front door when the study door was thrown open. She shrank into the shadows behind a robust statue of Diana that her father had brought back from one of his forays to Greece. She shoved her portmanteau out of sight just as Ian and Luc emerged from the study and walked slowly toward the front staircase.

“I wish it were so simple,” Ian said. “But there has already been talk. It seems that the man is entirely aloof since his return.”

“Odd business. He was anything
but
aloof before Waterloo.” Luc’s face was hard.

India frowned, wishing her brothers would hurry off so that she could be away.

“What does Wellington think?”

Ian smiled faintly. “Who in heaven knows what the Great Man is thinking? He’s utterly unreadable when he wishes to be.”

“Do you think his story is true?”

What story?
India thought irritably.

Ian shrugged, red wool stretching across the hard muscles earned in skirmishes throughout Portugal and Spain. “I wish I knew. It’s been chaos over there, Luc. Even now plots are boiling. Spies are everywhere. Lately, I’ve come to believe that where the French are concerned, no news is bad news.”

“Surely with Napoleon’s defeat all that has changed.”

Ian laughed grimly. “Has it? Tell that to the people who believe the Corsican has been treated shamefully since his surrender. Tell that to Princess Charlotte, who has herself taken a great interest in Napoleon’s welfare.”

Luc frowned. “I had no idea. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ian clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Even if there were, I wouldn’t ask it of you. You’ve had too much trouble of your own to be embroiled in any more. If there’s a way of finding the truth, Wellington will manage it. The grim memories of Waterloo still eat at him, I assure you. I’m afraid they also eat at India.”

Behind the statue, India stiffened, straining to hear her brother.

Ian looked down at the fine Persian carpet. “She misses him far more than she’ll ever admit. She loved him, Luc. As I told you, I saw the two of them together once in Brussels. I was carrying dispatches and in a terrible hurry, or I would have stopped. But it made no difference. She and Thornwood might have been a million miles away, for all they noticed me or anyone else.”

India’s fingers locked at her waist.
Ian
knew. He had seen them together.

She fought a wave of dizziness.

“I don’t want her to hear this as gossip, Luc. That would be too cruel. See that she gets out of London and back to Swallow Hill. Meanwhile, I’ll go over to Belgrave Square and find out what in hell Thorne’s doing.”

Thorne? Back in London?

India bit back a gasp. He was
here?
The man she loved had not died amid the chaos of Waterloo? Could it be that he was even now less than ten blocks away, ensconced in his elegant town house in Belgrave Square?

A roaring filled India’s ears, nearly drowning out the rest of her brothers’ words.

“When do you mean to tell her?”

Ian frowned. “Not yet. I want to find out what Thorne’s up to first. I won’t stand for India being hurt anymore. If it’s over for Thorne, we’ll have to find a way to break it to her gently. But if there’s something more involved and Thorne is in some kind of trouble, I want India well out of it, or she could become a target, too. Not that the little hellion would care about that. She always seems to thrive on danger and trouble.”

At that moment India slipped. Her foot struck Diana’s marble knee.

The two men turned. Frowning, Ian strode toward the shadowed alcove where India lay crouched, her heart hammering. Suddenly the duchess’s voice rang out over the stairwell. “Ian? Luc?”

Luc caught his brother’s arm. “You don’t mean to tell the duchess, do you? There will be hell to pay if you do, for Gran will want to know every detail. In fact, I’m astounded she hasn’t already ferreted the truth out of India. Had it happened here in London, she would know everything by now. But if India doesn’t care to speak of it, I think we should keep her secret as long as we can.”

Ian nodded. “Agreed. Although if India continues to go about so gloomy and pale, I don’t guarantee to keep the promise for long. Do you think we should write to Father and ask him to bring Mother home?”

“Not just yet,” Luc said thoughtfully. “Let’s give it a little more time. But I understand exactly how you feel, Ian. It rips at my heart to see her so little like her old self. I’ve half a mind to go strangle some answers out of Thornwood myself.”

“Leave it to me.” Ian’s voice fell as they moved off, for the Duchess of Cranford had come out into the hall and was glaring at them.

Hidden in the shadows, India watched them go. Her fingers were locked on the cold marble of the statue.

Thorne was alive? If so, why had he not contacted her? Was he ill? Or had all his vows been forgotten so soon?

India knew she would have no rest until she heard the answers from his own lips.

~ ~ ~

The streets were quiet. Fog drifted past darkened windows as India pulled up the hood of her velvet cloak and hurried through the darkness. Only a few bored coachmen dozed in their hackneys, while a pair of drunken exquisites stumbled over the cobblestones.

India barely noticed, struggling with a storm of emotions.

What had happened to Dev? Was he ill or suffering from deep wounds? Even if so, why hadn’t he sent her a message? But she had no answers to explain it. She strode over the cobblestones, oblivious to the admiring looks and murmured comments directed at her by an occasional link boy or footman.

Dev had described his town house to her, and India knew its location perfectly. She marched up the steps under the watchful eyes of a pair of stone lions, her heart pounding.

Just as she lifted the brass knocker, a frowning butler with silver-gray hair threw open the door. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for Lord Thornwood.”

“He is, er, occupied.” Steady brown eyes took in India’s dusty skirts. “You would do best to send a note around to his lordship tomorrow. Now I bid you good—”