O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “You want to go now?”

  It was, thought Charles, an enormous feat for Nigel to be coherent. He’d never been prone to morning alertness. Charles, conversely, could rise whenever anyone needed him to. It turned out to be a handy trait when he was hired as a valet. The secret was that he did not sleep deeply. He never had. It was not the lamentable lack of sleep that some men complained of—it was more a natural state. He seemed to be ever on the alert. And here in Mr. Lester’s inn, that feeling had not abated.

  It was not exactly worse, but he had much to think about.

  After his assertion that Mr. Mason the elder had killed his own brother in a duel, the innkeeper grew ominously silent. Neither Charles nor Nigel could coax more information from him.

  “It might not have been a duel,” Nigel had said later, once they were in comfortable rooms and Harriet had served them crocks of stew. Charles sat on Nigel’s bed as he paced before a small fire in the dusty hearth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, did anyone see it?”

  “Mr. Lester didn’t say.”

  “He would have said if they had.”

  “I don’t think he has any reason to lie.”

  “That is not what I mean,” said Nigel. “Think about it this way—how could you kill me in a duel?”

  Smirking, Charles shrugged. “Sometimes, I have wanted to kill you, whether through a duel or in another way.”

  Unlike Nigel, he most likely could kill someone; after leaving Glasgow, he had ventured south and fell in with a gaggle of cutpurses and a few cutthroats, all of them revolving around the less illustrious areas of London under the auspices of an older gentleman called only “Mac”.

  Mac was surely not his real name. He spoke as though he had lived everywhere and nowhere, and wielded authority as a benevolent but harsh grandfather, taking a tithe of sorts from all who allied themselves with him. He knew everyone important who had money, secrets, and pressure points, and made certain to exercise his influence on all three. From Mac and those who worked for or with him, Charles had learned much that traditional schooling would never teach him.

  Unlike some, he’d gone through enough education to be literate and able to complete sums, perhaps to the level of being able to help operate a business. That was Mr. Maclean’s favored plan for him and Nigel, with Nigel slated to inherit and Charles meant to help Nigel with the day-to-day business of being a merchant.

  At the time, he did not want to be indebted to his mother’s husband, the man who seemed to be accepting him only because of her.

  In a manner of speaking, Charles helped someone with a business, though admittedly not in the way his mother or Mr. Maclean would support. At least he’d had the foresight to do it under a false name. Then he met the prior Duke of Welburn—elder brother of the present Lord Valencourt. Rather than succumb to blackmail at Mac’s hand, the duke had offered Charles a proposition. His service and his silence.

  Charles had grown tired of the demimonde. He accepted, only to realize too late that the duke was a cold man whose tastes ran along the more perverse side.

  Nigel had laughed and said, “I don’t think I buy the story. What if your father made it up?”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”

  Charles tried to remember their conversation from the night before as Nigel roused him. They did not arrive at any solid conclusions. Nigel was taken with the idea that there had been no duel, no reason for Ullinn House to be haunted at all.

  He posited that Mr. Mason had wanted to be left alone.

  Yes, Charles wanted to say. He wanted to be left alone because he felt so badly about casting me out. But there had to be more than Charles was seeing.

  He acknowledged that. Perhaps Nigel could help him divine it more clearly.

  If he was more inclined to think charitably, he would admit that no man would leave property to a bastard whom he hated.

  “Charles,” said Nigel. “Let us go and see what Ullinn House is hiding. I wager it is nothing, but the sheer strangeness of it all has me wondering.”

  “Fine,” said Charles. He yawned. “Let us go.”

  Chapter Five

  The first thing he noticed was that it was colder. It would be the sort of day in which everyone should be indoors before a fire. The grass crunched with frost and his breath puffed white. It had taken a little longer than expected for them to make it out and yet the sun was barely up.

  Charles did not see the need for this kind of enthusiasm.

  But Nigel, who had chivvied him along, trotted at his side like an enthused puppy.

  He wondered, not for the first time since undertaking this journey, why he was so ready to come with him. Although they had shared much, there was no need for Nigel to overextend himself simply to accompany him to an old house that likely held nothing but mice and dusty possessions.

  “I’m amazed you are awake.”

  “Is this not thrilling?”

  “Depends on your definition of thrilling,” said Charles.

  “A supposedly haunted house, your father going years without contacting you or our mother… this is shaping up to be quite a mystery.”

  He’d forgotten about Nigel’s love for fiction. It was a rather rare thing in boys, but perhaps not unheard of. He, Mother, and Mr. Maclean had supposed Nigel would grow out of it in time.

  Nigel hadn’t. He had a large appetite for the theater, novels, and even ballads. As such, although he viewed ghosts as the stuff of fairy stories, Nigel was well-positioned to be interested in these odd circumstances.

  Uneasy, Charles reflected that he actually would rather none of this had happened at all, so that he was still at home listening to Mr. Clements instruct one of the new lads on proper comportment around a duke. Lord Valencourt did not expect immense formalities, but Clements prided himself on how everyone behaved.

  They had arrived at the gate just as Charles was wishing for a hot cup of tea. Nigel stopped both of them and peered at the old thing.

  “I believe we’d best just climb the fence,” said Charles.

  Two grown men clambering over the high iron posts was bound to look ridiculous, especially as they were each fully—though not formally—dressed. But he preferred looking foolish to using force to break the lock. Besides, with the weather being so starkly cold, metal was liable to go flying everywhere if one of them tried to strike it. It was not glass and would not shatter, but there could be debris, chips that might cut skin.

  Nodding, Nigel said, “You’re lucky I’m spry.”

  “Lucky? You are the one who insisted we come here.”

  “I have always felt bad for you.”

  “Pardon?”

  Nigel shrugged. “I have always known both my mother and father. There have been times when I wish Father was kinder, or more demonstrative, but… he is still my father. I love him, and I know he loves me. You have never had that satisfaction. I am sorry for it.”

  They both knew that Mr. Maclean did not love Charles. He’d looked after him, he’d done all that was required of a legal guardian.

  On balance, Charles could not fault him.

  “You needn’t feel responsible.”

  “I don’t. I know it is not my fault. But I wish you could have known what that was like.”

  Gone quiet, Charles mulled it over. He had not rebelled because of his lack of a father. He hadn’t left his mother and the comfort they had because he hated Mr. Maclean. No, he had done it because he felt different. Alien and foreign even compared to his mother, who’d seemed to acclimate to a new life better than he could, and Nigel, who was more personable and likable than he seemed to be.

  Mother never really spoke of his father, either. He always assumed that it was because the match had nothing to do with love, and perhaps he’d been conceived by force. If she did not wish to speak of it, he would not press her. He did sometimes wonder why she’d not given him the surname Maclea
n.

  He put all of this from his mind. “Thank you. I have to say that I do not know what I missed, and… it’s not something I tend to think about.”

  But he had as a child. He had not necessarily wanted the love of his father as such, or of Mr. Maclean. He’d still wondered what sort of father he would be if he had his own children. He was not old, now, and supposed he could still have them—at two and thirty, he was hardly past his prime. There was the matter of his looks, which were often considered too dark to be attractive. They had to have originated from his father, for his mother was pale with gray eyes.

  Well, he thought, maybe a small consolation will be the funds you gain from selling off this place.

  With a few misgivings, he allowed himself to consider the thought of having money to save. He did not even know where to start going about any kind of property sale.

  Mr. Clyde, Lord Valencourt’s steward, might help him. They were on friendly terms.

  “If you were never given the chance, it’s little wonder,” said Nigel. He looked at Charles in the weak light. “Well, shall I go first, or do you wish to catch me on the other side?”

  Charles grinned. “I should. You could never catch me. I would crush you.”

  Nigel, who was more slight, grinned back at him. “Wonderful point. On you go, then.”

  In a trice, Charles was on the other side. He listened to Nigel clamber over the fence, then drop to the ground.

  His eyes were too busy taking in Ullinn House from the owner’s side of the fence. From here, he was starting to see that the place once must have possessed some charm.

  Chapter Six

  Dejected, Florence definitely decided against the bath or bathing ever again. It was simply too cold.

  In reality, anyway, she had no need to be clean or presentable. She knew it might help her feel better. But the prospect of chilling herself into catching an illness was too terrifying. Her father had died after an unexpected tumble into the sea, not of drowning—he never would have; he had been swimming as long as he could walk—but of a subsequent fever.

  She sat on the kitchen floor, her back leaning against the wall. “You really were ridiculous. You should have just run out of the nursery, collected yourself, and gone back to work.”

  Mr. Danvers had not hurt her. She knew that many women had suffered worse at the hands of an employer, yet they had not run away. Perhaps she had ideas above herself, or she was weak and everyone else was comprised of sterner stuff.

  Just when she was thinking on what it might be like to go back, there was a scrape outside a door to the side of the kitchen. It led to an herb garden, or what had once been one years ago.

  When the knob started to turn, she shot up and looked for the nearest solid object.

  Making ghostly noises wouldn’t work—it was unlikely that they could even be heard through the solid door.

  Besides, she hadn’t the strength to shriek or sob so loudly. Not now.

  She snatched up a sturdy pan that parted from the table with a flurry of dust motes. Then she fixed her eyes upon the door.

  It came open, hinges groaning, and a slim young man sprung inside, saying, “I told you that one of those keys was bound to work on a door. They cannot all be stuck clo—” He saw Florence when he turned from whomever accompanied him. “Good lord.”

  Only her sad, pilfered candle stub lit the large room, but she might swear that he went pale.

  With disdain, she wondered if he thought she was a ghost. “Who are you?”

  Words quick, she did not add sir to the question. This was not one of Mr. Danvers’ associates. That she knew of. But he could still be a threat.

  “Mr. Nigel Maclean.”

  He wasn’t a Mason. That was some relief.

  When she did not reply or lower her pan, he said, “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

  She liked that he did not come any closer, so she elected to tell her Christian name. “Florence.” Her parents were rolling in their graves, but she was not quick enough to pick a false surname in the name of propriety.

  Propriety did little good, now. It had done nothing for her in that nursery.

  His mouth opened.

  Then someone else spoke to him, saying, “Who are you talking to? The Sobbing Lady of Ullinn House?”

  Mr. Maclean said, “Well… Charles, I do believe your house has more than mice in it.”

  Charles, whoever that was, stepped past him.

  Florence knew her eyes went wide. It was due to attraction, she was reluctant to admit, because like propriety, attraction would do little for her. It might even do less. Unless she considered the thought of potential damage.

  Attraction could do heavy damage.

  Still, her mind immediately drank in this stranger—Charles—and there was little she could do to halt it. Tall, taller than any man she knew. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. Wearing an expression of high bemusement that did nothing to detract from strong features.

  Still, she held her makeshift weapon aloft and ready.

  She might only strike Charles’ knees, given that he stood at such an impressive height, but she could probably manage to hit Nigel upside the head.

  Charles stared at her.

  She stared at Charles.

  “Whom am I addressing?” he asked, tilting his head. His voice was quiet and measured. She did not get the sense that he usually resorted to anything louder than a normal speaking voice. A similar, startled want that matched hers was visible in his eyes. But she appreciated that he had not opened with anything lascivious.

  She could only imagine what some men might say upon discovering an unaccompanied, filthy woman in their empty house.

  This time, she had a surname at the ready. “Miss Florence Doyle.” Doyle wasn’t completely false. It had been her mother’s unmarried name.

  “I’m Mr. Charles Mason,” he said, with a bow that seemed practiced. It was all too deep for her.

  Her face fell. If he was here, that might mean his family—his father—was of a similar standing as the Danvers. She knew she should not judge all men of a similar kind, yet her mind raced with the worst possibilities. Mr. Mason probably believed in the law and the right order of things.

  She would have to go back to the Danvers. She had nowhere else to go. If she was lucky, they would not try to dismiss her.

  And even if she decided to somehow find something else to do to earn her way, almost no one would hire a woman with no references. There would also be time between when she was paid or compensated, and now. She had nothing to her name on which to survive.

  Thinking all of this, she tried to calm herself.

  “Well, I do apologize, Mr. Mason, for my presence here. I did not know Mr. Roderick Mason had any heirs. I thought I would be undisturbed for some time.”

  “Until when?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Had you moved in, or were you just stopping over?”

  He was teasing her, albeit gently, and she did not appreciate it. “My business is my own.”

  “Not when it takes you into my house.”

  Mr. Maclean smothered a chortle from behind Mr. Mason.

  She said, “I do suppose that is correct.”

  The three of them stood in silence for a small moment. Then, Mr. Mason said, “Would you please consider setting down that pan, Miss Doyle?”

  Florence knew as soon as he asked that she would do anything he asked her, so long as he said please. She did not know how she could know that after knowing someone for less than five minutes.

  She still knew.

  She put the pan down.

  Chapter Seven

  Of all the things he expected to be in Ullinn House, he had not imagined it would contain a breathtaking woman.

  Holding a cooking vessel like it was a sword and she was ready to strike him down.

  “Thank you,” he said, once she lowered it. “May we come in?”

  “It is your house,” she said. Her eyes
went from him, to Nigel, then back again. “Apparently. I don’t think you need my permission.”

  Her fear was masked with droll petulance. But he knew fright when he saw it.

  Then Nigel asked what they were both thinking. “How long have you been here, Miss Doyle, if you do not mind me asking?”

  As she considered her answer, Charles shut the door to the kitchen. She blinked when it clicked shut but kept her mettle and replied without so much as a tremor in her voice.

  “A fortnight, I believe.”

  He tried to hide his surprise. She was bewitching. But there was no denying even in the bad light that her dress was dirty, her hair disheveled, and her face smudged with dust, soot, and dirt. He could not tell what color her hair or eyes were, and the dress itself seemed dove gray or light fawn. The cut was nothing ostentatious, which led him to suspect she was likely common.

  Nigel might postulate that she was a lady on the run and in hiding, therefore her dress was borrowed subterfuge.

  Charles was less interested in dramatics. He also wanted them to stop standing about gawking at one another. Glancing at the chairs around a vast, wooden table, he said, “If you are amenable to sit with strangers, Miss Doyle, might we make use of this table?”

  There was a visible layer of dust on the chairs and the tabletop.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You are not angry?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Most men would not be pleased I was here.”

  Miss Doyle stood, her hands clasped before her. Were it not for the way her arms and legs trembled, she would have been the picture of resolute. Charles would not sit until she did.

  “I am concerned, but not angry.”

  Nigel said, “Clearly, this has not been a pleasant stay.” He offered Miss Doyle a smile that she did not return.

  “It has not.”

  With a short inhalation, Charles realized she must be hungry. He had never been without food for more than a few days. She must have been eating something, for two weeks was too long to survive without anything at all.

  Reflexively, he began patting his pockets.