O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,32

himself inside the luxurious abode of his former paramour. When he opened his eyes, he was in the foyer, surrounded by marble floors and pillars, the ceiling above adorned with gilt moldings and frescoed cherubs. His feet moved silently over the floor as he closed the distance between himself the small bit of light filtering beneath the door of Averston’s study. Slipping through that closed door was much easier than willing himself through the thick stone walls of the exterior. Somehow, Burney resisted the urge to pat himself to be certain that all parts of himself had survived the process. It was something that he’d not quite become accustomed to yet. Not having a true, solid, physical form was quite remarkable.

His gaze moved unerringly and instantly to the large desk occupied by a man who wielded wealth and power with both ease and skill. Whatever the world believed of him, whatever society whispered of him, Averston was impervious to the lot of them. Because he frankly didn’t care about their opinions. That was the source of power, really, his complete and utter disdain for all of society. There were very few people the man actually cared for. In all honesty, Burney wasn’t even truly certain that he was one of those lucky few. He liked to believe that, had he lived, he might have been. It had been a unique connection between them, instantaneous and undeniable.

Closing the distance, Burney stared down at Averston for a moment. But it wasn’t the man that drew his gaze. It was the sketch spread out on the desk before him. Burney was staring at his own likeness and the charcoal staining Averston’s elegant fingers was evidence enough of who the artist had been. It was gratifying but also heartbreaking. In a way that he never could have while counted amongst the living, Burney could feel the waves of sadness and grief emanating from the man most thought of as heartless. And all he wished for him that moment was happiness and peace.

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry for my carelessness and what I cost us both,” Burney said softly.

Averston said nothing, but he did shiver as if the temperature of the room had dropped significantly. For Burney, that was another sort of proof altogether. He wasn’t supposed to be there. If so, his presence would not cause discomfort to the living. He was breaking the natural, or in this case, the supernatural order of things. And so he stepped away, easing backwards toward the door he’d entered through. But just as he reached it, Averston looked up, his gaze locking on the spot where Burney stood, almost as if he could see him.

“I’m sorry,” Burney whispered again and then simply slipped away into the darkness. He had work to do, after all.

Chapter Four

Oliver awoke to a splitting head and a stomach that roiled with nausea. He’d consumed much more brandy than could ever be recommended, especially for a man of his age. What he couldn’t quite fathom was why the hell he was awake so impossibly early. To that end, he cracked one eye open and glared at his valet who moved briskly about the room.

“What is the meaning of this, Rollings? I demand some sort of explanation for why you would invade my chamber at such an ungodly hour,” Oliver groused. For the first time, he sounded like a damned aristocrat, he thought bitterly.

“Only at your request, my lord. You directed me to wake you in time to attend church services at St. James. Your bath awaits you.”

At that, both eyes cracked open. “Have you ever known me to attend church, Rollings? Dammit, man! What sort of torment is this?”

“My lord,” the valet began, his tone clearly placating and more than a bit condescending, “You left a note for me that I should wake you. In that note, you stated that it was imperative that I wake you for church. That a lady’s future rested upon your attendance on this particular day!”

“A lady?” Oliver echoed back at him. Memories of the previous night flooded his mind. The beautiful and mysterious Elizabeth, the strange encounter with the man who called himself Burney—all of it came rushing back. But he had no recollection of leaving a note for Rollings or of having had any inkling that he was to meet Elizabeth at a church. He’d been foxed certainly, but surely not that far gone.

“Yes, my lord. You were quite specific on the matter. It was