Before the Dawn

by Candace Camp

  Before the Dawn

  Candace Camp

  Copyright © 1987 by Lisa Gregory

  All rights reserved.

  Clutch Books LLC Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places, are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, or events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Cover Design: Anastasia Hopcus

  Cover Photograph: Tasos Lekkas, via Pixabay

  Foreword

  I’m so excited to be sharing the first Candace Camp Classic with my mom’s readers. Candace Camp Classics will cover different time periods and places, but they were written with the same heart, lovable characters, and exciting storylines that endear Candace’s Regency Romances to her fans. I’ve loved rediscovering my mom’s older books and I am so excited that we are re-releasing them for new readers to discover, too. Before the Dawn is my absolute favorite with its wartime intrigue, lovely portrayal of friends who are more like family, and romance that grabs you by the heart and won’t let go. I hope you will all love it too!

  Anastasia Hopcus

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  East Sussex, England, June, 1942

  The road was hushed and deserted, squeezed between high green hedges. This late in the evening there usually wasn’t even a cyclist or a walker on it, and cars were always scarce. But now an old, battered automobile nosed its way along the lane, trailing the thick smoke that spoke of rationed gas mixed with kerosene to make it last longer. The car passed through a moist green tunnel formed by trees arching thickly overhead, and slowed down even more to turn onto the dirt track beyond.

  There were three women in the front seat of the car, all dressed in civilian clothes. It was a rarity nowadays to find as many as three people together, even women, without at least one being in uniform. The driver was dark and tall, a little too thin, with an air of crisp efficiency, the sort one could never imagine being late or forgetting something or losing her way. The woman seated next to the driver was also tall, and her slenderness was of the type often described as “willowy.” Her hair was a light-catching red-gold, thick and curling; in the early summer warmth, she wore it pulled back, the ends forced under into a roll, its heaviness caught in a silk net. Her eyes were gray, clear, and candid, and her skin was a fresh, translucent white, her cheeks vivid with color. No one, seeing her, would have mistaken her for anything but an Englishwoman.

  But just as everything about Jessica Townsend, from her hair to her clothes to her strawberries-and-cream complexion, cried out “England,” there was something about the woman on the other side of her, against the passenger door, that said she was from Occupied France. The brunette was dressed, like the other two women, in a plain cotton summer dress; and though hers was of a poorer cloth and cut than Jessica’s, it wasn’t the lack of quality that made the difference. It was something more subtle.

  The three women in the car knew wherein lay the difference. It was in the handbag the brunette carried that had been stolen from a refugee Frenchwoman and unaccountably not returned—even though the contents of the bag were found and turned in to the police. It was in the scuffed leather shoes she wore—they had been taken by another refugee in London to a repair shop and subsequently lost there. It was in the dress made from French-loomed cloth, sewn by refugees and fastened with buttons taken from other garments which were too torn and soiled to be used. And it was in a manner, a turn of speech, a Gallic inclination of the head—the result of a certain innate ability to mimic and weeks of training by a Frenchwoman. For the woman, while not English, was certainly not French, either, despite the ID card in her handbag that identified her as “Yvonne Pitot,” ladies’ maid. Her real name was Alyssa Lambert, and she was an American.

  The narrow path twisted through trees and out again, ending in front of a small thatched-roofed cottage. The car stopped, and the three women climbed out. Alyssa looked around her. At nine o’clock, the place was still bathed in the mellow glow of the English summer twilight. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of dog roses and honeysuckle. It was a scene of serenity and timeless beauty, at odds with the tangle of nerves in Alyssa’s stomach. It seemed as remote and unreal to her as a perfect movie set. She glanced at Jessica, standing beside her, and managed a small smile.

  “Please wait,” said the driver, whom they knew only as “Athena.” She walked alone into the small house. Jessica and Alyssa waited in patient silence, knowing that the other woman had to check that anyone else involved in the operation was out of sight before they passed through the house. It was the rule to let each participant know as little as possible about the other workers or the scheme in general. A major bending of the rules had let Jessica accompany Alyssa tonight, a rare concession which had come down from Pliny himself. Jessica was sure her request had been granted only because Pliny knew her so well and respected her ability to keep her mouth shut. But there had also been a strange, unidentifiable emotion in his eyes when he had granted Jessica’s request, something she had seen there more than once where Alyssa was concerned. Sorrow or regret, perhaps guilt, or simply a natural denial that someone with Alyssa’s beauty and talent should be exposed to probable death. God knows, the thought of Alyssa in Nazi-occupied Paris chilled Jessica to the bone. She dreaded the months of sitting at Evington Court, waiting for Alyssa’s messages.

  But now she returned Alyssa’s smile as best she could, knowing she mustn’t add her own worry to Alyssa’s burden. Athena emerged from the cottage, stooping slightly as she passed through the low doorway, and motioned for them to come. Alyssa and Jessica walked across the small yard and into the house, following Athena through a narrow, dark hallway to a back room.

  It was a small room of uneven height with plain white walls, its single window sealed with blackout curtains. An iron cot, a small table, and two wooden straight-back chairs were the only furnishings in the room.

  “Not exactly the Ritz,” Alyssa commented with a wry smile, strolling over to one of the chairs. She was tuned up and ready to go, but she knew that now all she could do was wait. Athena had warned her that there were often delays at this last, nerve-racking moment. There was no guarantee that the plane would arrive on time to pick her up—or even arrive at all. There were always other demands, other drains on pilots and planes, many with higher priorities than theirs. There was the possibility that something would go wrong with the plane at the last minute or that the weather might change, making it impossible to fly or to land. Athena had told her of delays of hours or even days. There had been one agent who had actually boarded the plane, then had to get off and return to the house to wait for another day. It was one of the things that was hardest for the agents, given as they were to independence and action.

  Jessica sat down across the table from Alyssa, and for a few minutes the friends simply looked at each other, full of chaotic thoughts and feelings
that they couldn’t express—or deemed it wiser not to. Jessica studied Alyssa. She had done her best to hide the beautiful, sophisticated woman Jessica knew. The rather shapeless cheap dress somewhat obscured Alyssa’s excellent figure. In a few months, when the weather grew colder, she would be able to disguise her form even further with bulky winter clothing. The clumsy, thick-heeled shoes distracted from the lovely line of her legs and ankles. Her once-manicured hands had become roughened over the past few months to suit her supposed occupation and station in life, and the polished nails were now bare and trimmed to the quick. She wore no jewelry and no makeup. Her luxuriant black hair had been dyed to a muddy brown and twisted back into a tight knot. But even stripped of makeup and deprived of the full glory of her hair, Alyssa was unmistakably lovely. There was nothing anyone could do to hide the perfection of her facial bones or the expressiveness of her large, deep blue eyes. This rare beauty would be a danger to her in the coming months; she was too noticeable. Too unusual. It would be hard for her to fade into the population, no matter how French she made her mannerisms, walk, and stance.

  Alyssa knew tricks to change her appearance; it was part of her trade. But adding a disfiguring scar or wart or birthmark would make her stand out even more. Spectacles would hide her eyes, but plain glass spectacles would be a dangerously suspicious thing to wear if she should happen to be stopped and searched by a German soldier. The wrong color makeup and lipstick could make her skin unattractively sallow; eye makeup could be used to make her eyes appear smaller. But makeup in Nazi-occupied France was a scarce thing now, a black market item out of the reach of a common servant such as she was supposed to be; again, if she were stopped, it would draw suspicion upon her. And the pencil lines of stage makeup to add age were too thick and obvious at close range.

  Jessica felt a chill. Alyssa was too pretty by far. How long would it be before some German soldier noticed her? Wanted to have her? What would Alyssa do then?

  Jessica swallowed and looked away, afraid Alyssa would see her thoughts in her eyes. She searched for an innocuous topic of conversation. What could one possibly talk about at a time like this? In a matter of hours her best friend would fly to France under cover of darkness to become a radio-telegraphist for a Parisian resistance group. The odds were high that this would be the last time Jessica would ever see Alyssa. It seemed impossible that they could be in this situation. Yet it seemed equally impossible that they could ever have been school-girls together, reading naughty French novels under the bedsheets with the light of an electric torch, giggling, daydreaming about their future. Alyssa had wanted to be a famous actress and fall in love with a handsome, powerful, exciting man. Jessica had just wanted to marry Alan.

  Funny, they had both gotten their wishes—and, like the wishes in the fairy tale, they had turned on them and brought them pain.

  Jessica sighed unconsciously. Alyssa didn’t ask why she sighed. She could see Jessica’s face and knew well enough what she was thinking. Jessica was far more scared for Alyssa than Alyssa was herself. Death didn’t frighten her. Physical pain, perhaps—but she had the precious L-pill if that got too bad. But oblivion, blackness—she wouldn’t mind that. She had been dead inside for almost two years now. Ever since Philippe…

  She turned her mind away from that, as she always did. She summoned up a smile for Jessica, searching for something to say. “Well,” she said at last, and her trained voice didn’t reveal even a quiver, “it’s a long way from Madame Brisbois’s, isn’t it?”

  Jessica smiled genuinely at the thought of the strict Swiss finishing school at which they had met and become friends almost twelve years before. “Lord, yes. Mademoiselle Musson would be horrified to learn you are doing something so unladylike.”

  They continued to talk of things in the distant past: their friends at the school, the first few years of Alyssa’s struggling career, Jessica’s marriage. But they spoke of nothing recent, nothing important, nothing painful.

  The time passed. The golden glow outside melted into darkness. The door opened, and Athena stepped into the room. Her face was pale, her eyes unreadable in the dim light of the room. “It’s time.”

  Alyssa rose jerkily. Her hands were icy. She turned to look at Jessica; this might be their last meeting. The first three women telegraphists who had been sent in were all dead now or trapped in a German camp, worse than dead. Alyssa saw the knowledge in Jessica’s eyes, too. Clear gray pools of honesty. Jessica had never been able to mislead anyone, even their once-dreaded headmistress. Alyssa opened her arms, and they hugged each other, a quick, hard movement. Then Alyssa spun away and strode from the room. Athena followed her, closing the door behind them. Jessica sat down again, clenching her hands together in her lap, and now the suppressed tears crept from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  Alyssa paused to let Athena come up beside her, and they walked together through the house and out into the field behind it. The Lysander waited for her, a black hulk against the dark sky. A pilot in RAF blue lounged beside the plane, arms crossed, waiting for her. Alyssa turned to the other woman. She’d worked with Athena for several weeks and in some ways was closer to her than to any other person alive, save Jessica. Yet she didn’t know the woman’s true name. She didn’t know what to say or do at this last moment with her.

  The other woman reached out and took Alyssa’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “Cleopatra,” she said, looking at Alyssa. It wasn’t hard to understand why Pliny had given her such an exotic code name. She was as beautiful as an enchantress, as poised as a queen. It seemed such a waste.

  Alyssa returned the squeeze and broke the contact. She turned away. The pilot waited for her in silence. Funny. Two years ago when she flew into England, it had been her first time in an airplane. Now here she was, flying into France under cover of darkness, trained to parachute out if necessary, this low, slow, hedgehopping flight the least of the dangers awaiting her. Two years…before the fall of Paris, before Philippe. Before life had seized her in its cold, tight grip. It seemed a century ago. If only she didn’t remember it so well.

  She started forward toward the plane.

  Chapter 1

  Southampton, England, April 23, 1940

  The ungainly looking British Imperial Airways Clipper touched down on the water, its pontoons smoothly making contact, and eased into place at the docks. Moments later the passengers disembarked onto the long wooden pier. Among them was one woman, and as she walked away from the plane, heads turned to look after her.

  She was a beautiful woman, out of the ordinary. She was taller than average, shapely, with long, lovely legs emerging from beneath the hem of her classic beige Chanel suit. Poised, graceful, her breeding showed in every line of her body, despite the rumpling inevitable from the twenty-one-hour-long flight from New York to Lisbon to Southampton. Her hair was coal black, glossy and thick, and it fell to her shoulders in a smooth cascade. A dainty hat sat atop her head, its net demi-veil shadowing her huge, vivid blue eyes, adding a touch of mystery without hiding any of their beauty. Thick black eyelashes outlined her eyes, tinting them with a sensual, smoky look.

  The face below the hat was delicately triangular, with prominent cheekbones, and her skin was smooth and creamy white, tinged with color along her cheeks. Her features were regular and even, except for the upper lip, which was a trifle too short, often slipping up to reveal straight white teeth. This one slight irregularity added a hint of sexuality and vulnerability to her beauty, saving it from the coldness of perfection. Her mouth called to be kissed, and there were few men who could resist its lure.

  Her name was Alyssa Lambert, and had she been in New York City, someone might have recognized her as one of the most beautiful and talented ingénues of the Broadway stage. Britishers saw only that she was a woman of beauty, taste, and elegance. And they were as correct as those who knew she was an actress. Her father was Grant Lambert, a distinguished American diplomat and son of an old New England famil
y whose wealth was so well established that the Depression had made scarcely a dent in it.

  It had been a long flight, and Alyssa hadn’t slept much on the plane, but she was too eager to see Jessica again to waste the day in Southampton, sleeping off her travel exhaustion. Instead, she boarded an express train to London and by midafternoon she arrived in Victoria Station. There she hailed one of the ubiquitous black London taxis and told the driver to take her to the Ritz Hotel, where she always stayed when she was in London.

  As she rode through the streets, Alyssa gazed eagerly around her at the city. She had loved London for years, ever since she had first visited it with her father when she was a child. Later, when she became friends with Jessica, she had come there often with her. The city was comfortable, dignified, without the bustle of New York, but rich in color and history.

  It was as beautiful as ever, dearly familiar, with its gracious stone buildings and sturdy plane trees, its tidy little squares of greenery and surprising bursts of expansive parks and riotously colored gardens. But it was disturbingly different, too. War had put its mark upon it. All around were the signs of a city preparing for an air siege such as the Luftwaffe had launched on Warsaw last September. Crisscrossed tapes marked storefront windows, and sandbags had been piled against walls to absorb the shock of bomb blasts. Long trenches had been dug in parks and the small green squares. Strangest of all were the huge white barrage balloons, meant to discourage the dive-bombing Stukas. They floated like bizarre, lightweight elephants above the buildings.

  The taxi stopped in front of the Ritz Hotel, and Alyssa looked up at the impressive white stone building with its massive carved heads. A doorman in a white-trimmed top hat and frock coat stood waiting on the steps. Another similarly dressed employee was sweeping the spotless sidewalk. Alyssa smiled. Well, at least the Ritz never changed.