Masked by Moonlight (16 page)

G
eorgia was beyond distracted for the next week. The situation seemed to have gained momentum of its own accord. The Bandit had a voice now, and she could hear it when he spoke in her dialogue. How easily she could picture the tale Quinn had first told her. Had it truly happened? Had she not invented the Bandit, not crafted the legend, but merely stumbled onto it? Suddenly everything was twisting back on itself. There seemed only one way to untangle the mess: to see him again. To know who he was. And so the ball became her best opportunity. Stuart’s manipulation would be turned to her own design.

That night, Georgia gave up the struggle to write a Bandit episode and wrote an open letter instead.

If Stuart resisted running the installment, well, she’d just have to find a way to convince him. But
oh, Lord, could you grant me another visit from him? Would that be too much to ask?

Matthew waited in the terrace shadows even though he shouldn’t have.

He knew he shouldn’t.

God probably had tired of telling him that.

He waited anyway. He knew Stuart was out tonight—he’d been invited to the same dinner himself—and Georgia was most certainly alone. She would come. Even if the note he’d secretly sent her earlier today had asked her to travel miles in the middle of the night, she would come. A corner of his mind wondered if she would go to such lengths for Matthew Covington instead of the Bandit but he hushed his thoughts.

The latch on the French doors clicked and Georgia stepped out onto the terrace. She had dressed in darker tones tonight, a smartly cut dress with only a small bustle, in an indigo that matched the night, and a mesmerizing cascade of small pearl buttons that looked like stars against the night sky. The shade emphasized the luminous quality of her skin, and made her beauty seem that much more ethereal. Had she dressed for the meeting? Did she realize how beautiful she was, how fragile she looked standing there clutching her wrap about her shoulders?

“Are you there?” she called in a voice just above a whisper.

“Yes,” he replied from his place in the shadows, almost forgetting to alter his voice. She looked in his direction and he backed farther into the darkness.

“Why do you alter your voice?” she asked.

He paused a long time, struggling for an answer. “It is for the best.” He knew she expected him to drop the pretense when she identified it, but he did not. He could not.

“Do I know you by day?” Her voice revealed a hint of frustration. Matthew realized she was probably insulted that he retained his secret once she had disclosed hers. Had she assumed that was why he had called again? In order to show his face?

“That is not a safe question to answer,” Matthew replied, admiring her persistence.

She crushed a bit of her skirt in one delicate fist. “I wish to know who you are.”

“That cannot be.”

“Now or always?” she pressed. Georgia took a half step toward him, forcing him to retreat farther into the bushes. She was disappointed, and it was his doing. Yet he found himself helpless to stop it. He had come for no nobler reason than the driving need to see her again. To hear the catch in her voice when she spoke to the Bandit, to note the look in her eyes when she strained to see him.

“Did I create you? Or was it you that night saving Quinn from those thugs trying to steal his money?”

How on earth should he answer that? “Both,” he said, opting for the strange truth.

Georgia put her hands to her forehead. “I cannot do this anymore. George Towers is a lie.”

He would not have her doubt her gifts because of his cowardice. “George Towers is an act of God. Can you not see that? Can you not see the role you’ve been given? The gifts you have to carry it out?”

“No,” she replied in almost a gasp, “I cannot. It started out as a good idea, a lark, but now…No, I thought I could see that once, but not now.”

“I can. I am what you made me.”

“You are more than that.”

He did not answer.

“I want to know who you are. Why can you not tell me?”

Tell her,
part of him cried out, his chest feeling as though it were breaking open.

You cannot. If you go to her, you will not be able to leave her, and you
must
leave her. England will not disappear. Your duty will not evaporate simply because you are in love.

And he
was
in love. For all the good it did him. The Bandit could love and be loved—even if from afar—but Matthew Covington would be prisoner to sums and tallies and England.

He turned away and ducked through the bushes.

Reverend Bauers had said the world made more sense to a man of faith. Matthew found he could not agree.

For the next few days, Matthew buried himself in the part of his life that ought to make sense. He tried to lose himself in the orderly procession of numbers, in the sheer volume of ledgers at Covington Enterprises.

The ledgers refused him any solace. Subtle discrepancies kept peeking out at him. Strange transactions. Odd numbers that seemed to fit entirely too easily into gaps created by other commerce. Produce bought too far out of season. Ships that returned to docks slightly before their voyages should have been over. Payrolls that seemed a tad too large for one ship, too small for another. Yet everything still added up—
if
one didn’t look too closely. It was as if someone was poring through the books ahead of him, shifting figures, covering tracks, smoothing over clues.

“Mr. Covington, a moment?”

“Oakman.” Matthew pulled his head up and rubbed his eyes.

“Everything in order, sir?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t a lie. Everything was in order. It was just in the wrong order, or too perfect an order…Matthew couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something in the books did not feel right to him at all. They felt tampered with, although by whom and to what end he could not yet say.

“Mrs. Oakman and I were wondering if you wouldn’t care to join us for dinner tonight. Caroline says she is sure you must be tiring of hotel fare.”

Matthew had planned to spend the evening going over more documents, but he did have to admit his eyes were bleary. And sleep? Sleep had become a luxury. Some nights he hadn’t slept at all. On the one hand, such wakefulness offered him great chances to pore through the tattered little Bible, and he’d learned much. On the other hand, he was becoming a bit unsteady during the day. He couldn’t be entirely sure that the dark doubts his mind produced were more the product of too little sleep than of suspicious bookkeeping. Matthew was long past weary. Perhaps a good sound meal was just what he needed. Besides, conversation with Oakman could only help to shed light on things—provided he asked the correct discreet questions.

“Mrs. Oakman is quite right. I should be delighted to attend. Do thank her for me.”

S
he was there.

It was both a wonderful and an awful turn of events to find Georgia Waterhouse and Sister Charlotte waiting with Mrs. Oakman in the parlor when Matthew and Dexter arrived at the house. Without Stuart. At first glance, Matthew thought it best to plead fatigue and end the evening as quickly as courtesy would allow. With his wits fraying, it would be the wisest thing to do.

Propriety told him he couldn’t, but he knew the real reason.

The Oakmans’ daughter also played the harp, and Mr. and Mrs. Oakman had invited them all into the library after dinner to hear her play. As they walked down the hall, Matthew inquired how things were going at Grace House.

“Quinn has asked Reverend Bauers for fencing lessons,” Georgia reported.

“Fencing lessons?” Matthew nearly stumbled as he entered the room.

“Evidently the combination of your victory over Ian and Michael, combined with a fascination for Black Bandit stories, has sparked an interest in swordplay. The reverend is understandably concerned.”

“Ian and Michael?”

“Oh, you know them.” She smiled and touched his once-injured arm. It was a light touch, yet his entire body felt the contact. “You owe your new scar to Ian.”

Matthew frowned. “In my opinion, I owe my new scar to Reverend Bauers’s medical skills.”

“He has a good heart,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as Amelia Oakman took her place behind the harp.

“Would that his hand were as steady,” Matthew couldn’t help adding, even though he had to lean close to her to do it. She smelled of lavender and something creamy that made his head swim. He saw the momentary reaction in her shoulders, the start she gave at his nearness, the smile that lingered at the corner of her mouth when she turned her attention to the music.

He, however, could not turn his attention to the music. He faced in that direction, gave the appearance of attending to the performance, but it was all pretense. Matthew watched Georgia instead.

“I’ve not yet heard
you
play, Miss Waterhouse,” Matthew said when the girl had finished. “Stuart tells me you are quite accomplished.”

“Georgia is exquisite at the harp, Mr. Covington,” Sister Charlotte declared. “A gifted musician, believe me.”

“As is Amelia,” Georgia added. “I see great talent in you, my dear.”

“Thank you.” Amelia dipped into a curtsy. “Would you like to play my harp?” Amelia asked. “I should love to hear you.”

“As would I,” agreed Sister Charlotte.

“And I,” said Matthew.

She resisted once, but finally agreed to play, and settled herself behind the instrument. Matthew was not prepared for what he saw.

Georgia was an altogether different woman when she played. Passionate. Dramatic. Matthew watched her shoulders press into the falling notes, pull others out of the velvety depth. That spark that always hid within her eyes burst into flame when she played the harp. Everything he had suspected of Georgia, everything that made her capable of writing the Bandit, emerged. She caught his eye once and he thought his heart would stop.

As they entered the carriage to ride home, Georgia wondered if inviting Sister Charlotte had been wise. She’d appeared as if she were enjoying herself earlier in the evening, but as the night wore on the nun began to look more and more agitated. Once inside the carriage, Sister Charlotte planted herself across from Georgia and crossed her arms sharply.

“Georgia Waterhouse,” she said the moment the carriage lurched into motion, “I never thought I’d have cause to say this, but you are a fool.” Those violet eyes gave her a look that likely stopped any misbehaving student dead in her tracks.

“A fool?”

Her slim fingers drummed against the black sleeves of her habit. “Do not think I’ve missed it. I have seen you back off from our young Mr. Covington because of this…this…character. The Bandit is not real. Covington is, and he is more than taken with you.”

Georgia pushed out a breath. She did not wish to get into this just now. Her brain was atumble enough as it was. “Charlotte, you know he visited me. The Bandit
is
real. Mr. Covington and I can have no future, however pleasing he may be.”

Charlotte untangled her arms. “I believe there is a man
portraying
your Bandit. He may be real. The Bandit is not. I wonder, Georgia, if you know the difference.”

“Of course I do,” she retorted.

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to look exasperated. “Are you sure? Forget the Bandit mess for a moment. Covington. Can you not see how he looks at you? Has he not given you any encouragement in the matter?”

Georgia sighed. “Yes and no. It is a jumble in my head.” She let her head fall against the carriage window. “Yes, he has been kind. Attentive, even.” She looked at her friend. “But Charlotte, what does any of that matter if he is going back to England?”

Charlotte rose off her seat and came to sit on the cushion next to Georgia. “What does any of England matter if there is a chance for love?” She looked intently into her eyes. “Tell me. Is there a chance you can love this man?”

Georgia thought of the lemon cake, and the flowers, and the way he’d looked at her tonight. She thought of what she’d seen in the mission garden, and how he made her laugh so many times. Yes, of course she could love this man. Part of her already did. She just refused to admit it. “I cannot go to England,” she said, in an almost whimpering tone.

Charlotte’s voice grew tender. “And why not? What is it that you think is keeping you here? Certainly not Stuart. Bauers will be sorry to lose you, but far more eager to see you happy.” She reached out and clasped Georgia’s arm. “You think you cannot be happy anywhere but here, but I think you haven’t even begun to know what your
own
life is. How happy you could be.”

Her expression darkened. “Or perhaps it is something deeper. It is far safer to love a man who does not exist, isn’t it? One who cannot hurt you because he isn’t real? After all, I did say how much some real men pale under scrutiny, didn’t I? Oh, Georgia, don’t listen to my foolish words.”

The carriage pulled to a stop outside of the convent. “I cannot tell you what to do,” Charlotte continued. “That job belongs to God. But I can tell you to heed your heart. God has your own life prepared for you, Georgia. Don’t miss it by staring at dreams and surrendering to obstacles.”

Later that night, Matthew reread the open letter “George” had written to the Bandit. The intensity of the plea, the need he saw in it for Georgia to meet her Bandit, took down the last of his resistance.

She had to know. He wouldn’t lie any longer, even if it cost him everything to reveal himself to her. She deserved no less.

She deserved so much more.

He would have to trust God with the consequences of that truth if he were to trust God at all. Even if all they would have would be the time before England called him home, who was he to say that would not be enough for her?

But how? Where? Part of him wanted to climb up her balustrade like Romeo and profess his identity tonight. An hour from now suddenly seemed too long. Then again, that moment of revelation might be all they would have. After all his cowardice, he owed her a dramatic, romantic, Bandit-worthy revelation. Perhaps it was time for Matthew Covington to write a Bandit episode of his own. And the upcoming Bandit Ball seemed ideal. Providential, even.

He found himself staring at the newspaper as if it could link him to her.
I love you,
his mind shouted into the night as he pulled on his coat.
I am the Bandit, and I love you. And at the ball, you will know.