Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1)

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

To Elaine Davie, a w
o
nderful agent and a fine friend, with deep thanks.

WITH WARMEST THANKS:

to Karen Plunkett-Powell, for a host of fine suggestions (all of which entitle her to her well-earned sobriquet);

to Helen Woolverton, as ever, for ferrets and rare fragrances and all manner of fascinating facts in between;

to Bonnie Kern and Diane Morrison, for unswerving patience and true professionalism;

to Diane Kirk and Deborah Britt of Rose Petals and Pearls Romance Sorority, for the most precious gift in all the world — laughter;

and to Ellen Fuscellaro, for enthusiasm, for honesty, and for loving Silver and Luc
almost
as much as I do.

PROLOGUE

Norfolk, England

August 1809

William St. Clair studied the bottle on his writing desk. As he held the pale gold liquid up to a flickering candle, his gray-green eyes expertly scanned for purity and strength.

Yes, the lavender harvest was truly superb this year. The income from his perfume oils would be double what he’d expected. Now he could seed two more hills and try out a magnificent new variety of white lavender with silver foliage.

If he
lived
that long.

Sighing, St. Clair ran a hand across his aching neck.

Fine beads of water coasted down the glass walls of the conservatory, distorting his view of the garden.

But he could smell the wind rolling in from the coast, heavy with the scent of lavender and roses.

Barely a month had passed since the first warning letter had come. Since then he felt as if he’d aged a decade. And matters would only grow worse as his faceless enemy crept closer.

His gaze fell to the framed miniature at the corner of his desk. Worry darkened his handsome, craggy features as he stared at his daughter’s vibrant face, so wide-eyed and intent.

Her lips were full and determined, her riotous auburn curls showing the same vitality that marked her stubborn little chin. Though barely sixteen, she already had the look of her mother about her; innocence mixed with courage.

William touched the oil painting gently, thinking about the wife he’d lost too young and the daughter who already seemed far too old.

Somewhere behind him a twig snapped. The tall Norfolk planter spun toward the window, his heart pounding.

He damned well wouldn’t go out without a good fight, that was for certain. Whoever was hiding in the shadows would learn that soon enough. Thank God he’d sent Susannah and young Brandon south to his elder brother in Kent. Old Archibald was half deaf and batty as a loon, but he was a dead shot and despised strangers. He would keep the two children safe, William thought. His elder daughter, Jessica, was dead these twelve months and maybe it was just as well. Her husband, Sir Charles Millbank, was showing every sign of turning into a callous ne’er-do-well. St. Clair had had his doubts about the man from the start, but Jessica’s mind had been made up. She had wanted Millbank and no other.

He should have been firmer, the gray-haired man thought grimly. It was too late for Jessica, but not for Susannah and Brandon, he vowed, replacing the miniature on his desk.

Then he pulled a pistol from his pocket, silently daring his enemy to reveal himself.

But no further sound came from the darkness. Nothing moved except a mouse scurrying across the warm red tiles, nose atwitch and tail held high.

Slowly William slid the pistol back into his pocket. For the children’s sake, he had to stay calm.

He dropped back into the worn wicker chair and straightened a pile of seed reports, then shoved them into a drawer. Enough with distilling temperatures and seed reviews. Now he had to concentrate on Susannah and Brandon. He had to leave them something to counteract the lies they were bound to hear. Unless they planned carefully, they would lose everything. His enemies would see to that.

But just maybe, if they were very clever, his children might be able to discover who—

His jaw tightened. No, he had to stay practical and cold blooded. There was no time to waste in vain hopes.

From a hidden drawer at the back of the desk the handsome, gray-haired botanist took out an ebony box inlaid with coral and mother-of-pearl. For long moments he stared down at the polished wood, a gift from his beloved wife, who had died four years before. Then St. Clair took up his pen and began to write.

The lantern flickered behind him. Shadows danced over the page as his sharpened nib hissed across the fine paper.

15 August, 1809

My dearest Susannah,

It may be many weeks before you find this notebook, perhaps even years. But there are things you must know, secrets I must relay without my enemies discovering them. That is why I have taken such trouble to conceal this record. Do not be angry about this.

It was utterly essential.

By the time you read this, my Susannah, you will have heard many ugly stories about me. People will no doubt say that I took my life in desperation. This will be a lie, of course, but sometimes lies hurt the most. Try to preserve young Brandon from the worst of it, won’t you?

Set down in this book is the truth, my daughter. Guard it well, for there are men who will kill to possess it. Study what I have told you, and think well about how to use it. If you are clever, these things will protect you and Bram.

Meanwhile, take heart. I have lived a full life, a life of adventure and risk. I am proud that I have made enemies in my travels. I would change nothing of that. My work has been my joy, while you and Bram have been my life.

Believe me when I say it is always better to follow your heart, my dear daughter. Take risks. Dare all. If you remember nothing else, remember this.

But I digress and I must not. I haven’t much time left.

Only recently did I realize the danger that threatens. It is because of you and your brother that I have taken the course I have.

Know that I do not write these words lightly or without deep love for you both. But when you read this, it will be too late for me to explain to you in person. Because when you find this notebook, my dearest Susannah, I will almost certainly be dead …

The Heath

Norfolk, England

May 1814

It was a perfect night for revenge.

He sat his horse easily, reins clasped loose in gloved fingers as he watched the distant ribbon of silver where the road curved toward the Norfolk coast.

Midnight. Light amid shadows.

And fear. He could feel that too.

The black-clad rider knew every rock and shrub of this moonlit heath, every twist of the road that offered concealment. He had walked it, studied it, dreamed over it. And now he was ready to ply his dark trade across it.

Grim faced, he slid a half-mask of black silk down over his chiseled features, just above the single scar that gleamed cold at his full lower lip.

He had no more time for dreams and regrets. Not tonight. The moon was full. The wind was high.

Tonight the darkness called. The church bells had chimed twelve times and the heath lay trapped in shadow.

It was time for Norfolk’s most sinister highwayman to ride again.

~ ~ ~

The small inn room was crowded, thick with drifting smoke and the tang of cheap spirits.

“What price do I hear for the wench?”

Half-drunken mumbling met this challenge.

“Come, my friends. Are you men or beardless boys to refuse such a chance to sample female beauty? Look you there. The wench is flawless, her skin as smooth as satin.”

The five men clustered around the rickety table sat forward. Their bloodshot eyes narrowed as they tried to make out the woman revealed by the hole in the far wall. The concealing curtain was sheer, but they could see little more than a luscious silhouette.

“Who’s to say she’s all you claim, Millbank? You fleeced us grand last time, so you did. I paid you three hundred pounds for an untouched virgin. Instead I got a poxed doxy fresh up from Falmouth!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” The man at the head of the table waved an airy hand. His florid features eased into a practiced smile. “A slight miscalculation. My
supplier
did not understand the exactness of our club’s requirements. As we agreed, we are to have only a female of flawless form. Only a virgin untouched and unblemished. That
is
our motto, after all.” With a flourish Sir Charles Millbank slid the shielding silk from the viewing hole. “And
that
is exactly what you find before you.”

The woman went on combing her long dark hair, her shoulders covered by only the sheerest of peignoirs.

“She will be submissive?” A balding squire with whisky stains on his waistcoat studied Sir Charles Millbank uneasily. “Won’t do to have her screaming down the house when she finds out what’s to happen to her.”

“She will be well prepared, never fear.”

“Not too well prepared, I hope,” said a drunken exquisite with hard features and cold eyes. “A wench without fight is never good sport.”

The squire snorted. “As if
you’d
have any chance of winning the bid, Renwick. You’ve been losing heavily at the tables this past month and more, from all I hear.”

“I’ve enough to top any stingy bid of
yours!”

Millbank intervened as the pair seemed ready to trade blows. “Gentlemen, a little decorum, please! The rules of our confederation demand strict order at our meetings. Now tell me, what price do I hear for the delectable piece of womanhood in the neighboring room? Three hundred pounds? Four hundred?”

“What about Silver St. Clair?” The squire sat forward, lust gleaming in his muddy eyes. “It’s her as
I
want.”

The others began to mutter. The word
Silver
ran from one man to the next.

“Aye, what about Silver?” The squire slammed his tankard down. “To taste
her
I’d pay twice four hundred pounds and more!”

Millbank scowled at this mention of his beautiful sister-in-law. Again and again he had tried to break her spirit, but each time she defied him. Damn her for her insolence. And for her beauty, which was a continual torment to him.

But there was too much money to be made for him to risk an outburst. Besides, his stubborn sister-in-law would soon learn who her master was. And when she became desperate enough, she would
have
to agree to his demands, he thought smugly.

“When the time is opportune, Silver St. Clair will be offered for bidding, just as promised.” He snapped the peephole shut and turned to glare at the assembled men. “Until that time the bidding proceeds. Of course, if you do not care to bid
now,
you will not be informed when my sweet little sister-in-law goes up for auction. And I assure you that is something you will miss dearly, gentlemen.”

A harsh silence gripped the room. Each man’s breath caught as he envisioned the silken beauty of Silver St. Clair’s skin, the husky timbre of her voice, and the rich glory of her brandy-colored hair lightened by a single streak of silver at one temple.

“By God, I’ll stand for two hundred.” The squire leapt to his feet and tossed down a handful of bills.

“Three hundred.” Lord Renwick followed, not about to be outdone.

As the bidding leapt to a furious pitch, Sir Charles Millbank sat back in his chair, smiling thinly.

Tonight the lure of his beautiful, insolent sister-in-law would bring him a great deal of money. Soon he would see her hopes broken and her beloved lavender farm wrested from her. Then she would bring him even
more
than money…

~ ~ ~

Across the heath, where the yews coiled thick and the rooks cried shrilly in the rising wind, a rider plunged through the night. Patches of fog rose and hovered in strange, swirling spirals. Pale and cold, they lapped at horse and rider, but the lonely traveler spurred desperately forward.

Silver St. Clair was abroad late this night, far too late for safety or peace of mind. She knew she had to make up for lost time by taking the shortcut through Worrington’s Wood.

Or the Devil’s Wood, as it was known in this part of Norfolk.

Her fingers were not quite steady as she touched the ivory cameo pinned to the lace at her throat.

Never mind that the forest was said to be haunted.

Never mind that a carriage was said to have disappeared in its shadowed depths just a week before.

Her heart pounded, but the treasure she carried demanded bold measures.

And what if you meet the Lord of Blackwood? This is his domain, after all.

The mocking question echoed through her head. In answer Silver slid her etched gold pistol into her cuff. “Blackwood? I’ll simply dispatch the notorious highwayman with a bullet, as someone should have done long ago!”

But the wind caught her words and tossed them back in her face, shrill and cold.

Silver shivered, hugging her cape closer about her shoulders. It was chill for May, chill for a Norfolk summer. She was already wondering if she should bank her newly sprouted lavender beds with sheets of fine muslin. She had spent too many days of backbreaking work to lose her precious lavender crop to the vagaries of a cold Channel wind now…

She was just calculating how best to drape the fabric when hooves hammered out of the darkness behind her. She had no time to prepare, no moment to turn aside.

And there was no hope of escape.

For only one man dared to ride this unhallowed stretch of heath by night, only one man whose eyes gleamed like the brimstone of hell itself.

The Black Lord. A lace-clad highwayman who spoke with the elegance of a gentleman — and killed with the cold accuracy of a hardened assassin.

And it was the Black Lord who bore down upon Silver now.

Wildly, she spurred her mare, aiming for the dense forest to her left. At the same time she wrenched her pistol from the pocket inside her cuff.

Behind her, hooves rang out like metal upon metal. Black horse, black rider, thundered closer in the black night.

Biting back a cry, Silver hunched forward, urging her mare on.

But no horse was a match for the black steed that raced in pursuit, a horse said to be sired of the legions of hell itself.

Ten yards to the tree line. If only she could—

Her hope was crushed in the next instant. The great horse pulled alongside, eyes straining, sparks cast like hellfire from his great hooves.

And then Silver was flying upward, caught in iron fingers while her terrified mount fled into the forest. A second later she collided with a velvet-clad chest. Clawing wildly, she fought the hands that slung her up before the saddle. “Let me go, you swine!”

“Ho, Diablo.” A man’s voice cut through her protests. Harsh and low, it carried just a hint of foreignness. “We’ve company now, so mind your manners.”

Somehow Silver found her legs trapped beneath a male thigh and her wrists secured in one large and powerful male palm. Her nanny’s oft-repeated warnings filled her head.

Don’t look at his eyes! One look into those demon eyes of glowing amber and ye’ll be lost, my girl. Aye, for he’s as fair as he is foul, that devil’s spawn!

But that was superstitious claptrap. It was a figure of flesh and blood that held her now.

And flesh and blood could be tamed — or at least made to bleed.

She leveled her pistol dead center on her captor's masked face. “Put me down, fiend, or you’ll taste my powder between your t-teeth!”

The highwayman’s lips eased back in a slow smile. “So I’ve caught myself a spitfire, have I?” The low voice caressed Silver like the smoking peat fires that burned here on cold autumn nights.

Rough-soft, it was.

Dark, like finest whisky.

She couldn’t help shivering.

“Who dares to breach my domain by midnight?”

Silver scowled. “I’ll not talk. Not to
you!”

“No? Not even to say what name graces such beauty?”

“No name that
you
may claim the right to, felon! “

The rider threw back his head and laughed. “So the Black Lord’s reputation outpaces him, does it!” His dark laughter seemed to work through the very fabric of Silver’s cloak and caress her trembling skin.

“Enough! Your reputation is known all too well, fiend. Now unhand me or I’ll send a ball through your grinning face!”

The highwayman reined his mount to a trot. Smiling still, he eased back in his saddle until Silver was pulled atop him in a wanton sprawl. “Unhand me! I vow I shall s-shoot you otherwise!”

“And where do you plan to aim first, my beauty? Atop my nose? Between my brows? Or is it to be through the eye itself? I’m told that way is most effective, although you might find it a trifle hard on all that elegant lace. Bloodstains prove so very tedious to remove, after all.”

The villain was laughing at her!

They had
all
laughed at her when she’d insisted on taking charge of her father’s lavender farm at his death two years before. At first her greedy brother-in-law, Sir Charles Millbank, had tried to wrest the land from her control, but the terms of William St. Clair’s will had been clear: Silver would hold Lavender Close until her brother, Brandon, reached his majority.

And Silver had proved them all wrong, producing a fine harvest every year since her father’s death.

She had shown them. And she would show
this
man too!

Her blood burned as his gaze moved over her heaving chest. Tightening her fingers, she leveled the pistol at his neck.
“Here
will do nicely, I expect.”

“Go ahead and pull the trigger, my sweet. Since I’ve already tasted all the delights of a life misspent, I might as well see what novelties death has to offer.”

The coldness and sheer indifference in his voice made Silver shiver. “But surely — that is, you cannot
wish
to die.”