Masked by Moonlight (3 page)

N
o.

Impossible.

Matthew sat down, hoping he showed no sign of the storm going off in his gut. He read the rest of the story, willing himself to look casual. Evidently the other night had been a spectacularly bad idea.

Don’t jump to conclusions,
he admonished himself. He knew who had witnessed the conflict in the alley that night, and none of them were reasonably able to document it. Several details were different.

Smile and leave it, Covington. Leave it alone. Leave it…“
Who is this George Towers?”

“Fine storyteller, isn’t he? He’s one of my, shall we say, hidden assets. The tale’s been the talk of the town today. I hadn’t been eager to run fiction in my paper until now, but I must admit I’m insanely pleased.”

Talk of the town. Marvelous. Father would be so very…
intent on killing him.

“I’d imagine you are.”
Waterhouse had said fiction, hadn’t he?

“We haven’t got a bumper crop of real heroes in San Francisco these days, so this author came to me with the idea of making one up. Seems to have hit a nerve. We may give your man Dickens a run for the money, eh?”

“Indeed…” That was all Matthew could spit out.

“I’ll run one of these every week if the attention keeps up,” Stuart announced.

“If I know you, Stuart,” chimed in Dexter Oakman, “you’ll run
two.”

Matthew made a mental note to never step out of his bedroom door after dinner
ever again.

Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Yes, the Bandit used a whip, and he wore dark clothes. And he had saved a child—granted, it was a small girl in this story, but in other details the story was alarmingly similar to what had happened.

Stop it.
This was pure coincidence. It had nothing to do with Matthew. He had nothing whatsoever to do with bandits, black or otherwise.

He had just gotten his doubts under control when Georgia Waterhouse walked into the room.

“There’s someone at the door to see you, Stuart. He’s being rather insistent. Something about the presses.”

She was slim and graceful. Her skin was the palest he’d ever seen, but it lacked the blue tint that lurked in so many of London’s pale complexions. No, hers was infused with rose and gold.

Oh, Covington,
his brain cautioned,
now’s hardly the time
.

Stuart left the room barking instructions for Georgia to stay and seek Mr. Covington’s opinion of his paper. The Englishman had the newspaper in quite a grip and for some reason she noticed his thumb was lying across the “George” of her byline.

“It seems my brother’s not won the instant subscriber he was expecting, Mr. Covington.”

“Pardon?” their guest swallowed.

“I gather you’re not fond of the
Herald?
”

“Why would you say that?” he replied quickly.

“You’re holding it as if it were a goose you planned to behead for supper.”

It proved an effective metaphor. Covington made such a show of loosening his grasp on the paper that he nearly dropped it. Dexter Oakman laughed.

“Perhaps I should say I found it rather
gripping reading,
” Covington said wryly.

She smiled. “Stuart would like that.”

The Englishman raised the paper again with a far gentler touch. “What is your opinion of your brother’s venture into fiction, Miss Waterhouse?”

In all the hubbub about the story, Mr. Covington had been the first person to ask
her
opinion. And, perhaps most pleasing of all, he looked at though he really desired to know, and wasn’t just making polite conversation. Perhaps it would not be such a difficult favor to keep him entertained, as Stuart had asked.

“It is one of the rare things Stuart and I agree on.”

“I’ve no doubt,” he murmured, in such a way as to make Georgia wonder if he’d intended to say it aloud. There was something, a sort of puzzlement, coloring his words. He stared at her for the briefest of moments before shifting his attention to the fire. He had extraordinary eyes, Georgia thought. Dark blue, beyond indigo. As if God, forgetting that most dark-haired men had brown eyes, had given him blue eyes at birth, and then darkened the blue to cover the oversight. The inky blue-black of stormy waters. They strayed back to her for a moment, and she quickly looked away.

“Who is this George Towers? A local writer?”

“I know many things about the way my brother does business, Mr. Covington.”

“But…”

“But I wouldn’t be privy to half of them if I didn’t know the value of a secret.” Georgia allowed herself to hold his eyes for a moment. “Especially one that is becoming rather sought after.” People wanted to know who George Towers was. The office had received numerous inquiries over the course of the day. Georgia was almost heady with pleasure at readers’ response to her story. Having it be a secret only intensified the effect. She imagined she had looked like the cat that swallowed the canary all day.

Stuart burst back into the room. “All is well—or at least until the next disaster. Thank you, Peach.” He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek.

“You’re welcome,” she said, preparing to return to the ladies in the salon.

“Stay just a moment.” Stuart took her hand. “I want you to hear what our guest thinks of the Black Bandit.”

“I’ve yet to finish the story, Waterhouse,” Covington protested. “You can’t very well ask me to comment when I’ve read only a handful of paragraphs.” He didn’t much care for the article. Georgia could tell. And she knew in a heartbeat what Stuart was going to do next. Covington didn’t stand a chance.

“Well, then, read the thing.” Her brother smoothed out the crumpled paper and motioned to one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. “Better yet, read it aloud to all of us.”

“Stuart…” Georgia began, thinking he was going a shade too far.

“No, really, Peach. The test of any good story is how it sounds aloud. Covington, you’ve a fine voice—that accent and all. Why don’t you read it to us?”

“I…”

Stuart was having fun with her, Georgia knew. Giving her a chance to secretly enjoy her talent. It was a dreadful thing to do to a guest, especially one who clearly didn’t relish the prospect, but she could help herself no more than Stuart could. The opportunity to sit and watch people listen to her words was far too enticing. She wanted to hear him read it. Very much.

“Please, Mr. Covington,” she found herself saying. “Indulge us.”

“Men who refuse Stuart Waterhouse live to regret it,” teased Oakman, “generally in the next day’s headlines!”

Covington knew he was cornered. Gathering his dignity, he sat down, took a deep breath and began to read the inaugural installment of the Black Bandit’s adventures.

His voice flowed on, deep and musical. But there was an odd note in it, whether of shock or of fascination, she couldn’t tell. And his whole body seemed to be reacting to the story, albeit subtly. His hands clenched the margins, and he shifted his weight two or three times. He stumbled on the paragraph that described the Black Bandit as tall and lithe, dark and powerful.

He put the issue down quickly as he finished, and Georgia thought,
Well, here’s one reader not won over by the Black Bandit.

D
esperate for the sleep that continued to evade him, and determined not to set foot outside and risk any association whatsoever with any bandits, real or imagined, Matthew settled for swinging his fencing foil around the hotel room as quietly as possible that night. He tried to block and parry as softly as he could, since he’d already roused Thompson once by knocking over a water pitcher. Even so, Matthew’s final thrust skewered an item from the fruit basket on the sideboard.

He hoisted the fruit high, its weight making the foil wobble slightly as a sticky stream of juice began sliding down the blade.

Pathetic.

His San Francisco visit was not going well. And if he didn’t sleep soon, he wasn’t going to have a lick of business sense by the time he visited the shipping docks tomorrow. Matthew thought it a cruel irony that while he was forced to spend his day listening to the sleep-inducing rhetoric of Dexter Oakman, the combination of a silly newspaper story and a stunning woman made nocturnal sleep impossible.

He stared at the pair of
Herald
issues that lay on the table, taunting him. They were staring back, ganging up on him, their dark headlines glaring unblinkingly.
No,
he thought, nearly declaring it out loud,
I will not read it again.

It wasn’t as if he needed to. He’d reread the piece enough times that he could practically recite it. Checking over and over for hints and similarities, for any sign that George Towers had been hiding in some dark corner of that alley. No, it was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

Matthew took his handkerchief and wiped down the foil, licking sweet juice off one finger.

Georgia Waterhouse. What was it about her that intrigued him so? Some of it was obvious. Her relationship with her brother fascinated Matthew. He’d known sibling teasing from his younger brother, David, but there was far more competition than companionship between them. David was highly critical of Matthew, the principal heir. Entirely too eager, he suspected, to have the position for himself. David and his father seemed to agree on so much in life. Matthew had long felt that Covington Senior had never quite forgiven his wife for having their sons in the wrong order.

No, affection was a longtime stranger to the Covington household. In recent years the fighting had cooled to an impassionate, rigid tolerance.

Stuart and Georgia, on the other hand, had something unique, an obvious but indefinable bond. As if they knew a secret the rest of the world would never share. Matthew had seen such a look flash between his twin cousins. Something beyond language or gesture.

Then again, knowing Stuart Waterhouse’s social and professional prowess, chances were those two
did
know a few secrets the world might clamor for. Hadn’t she said she’d been “privy” to a few of Waterhouse’s “hidden assets”?

A beautiful woman with big secrets
. Perfect.

The downstairs clock chimed three. Georgia adjusted her pillow for the thousandth time. Sleep rarely eluded her, and she found this fit of wakefulness annoying. Try as she might, even with the help of her favorite psalms, her mind refused to quiet itself for the night.

Granted, it had been a splendid day. Spending hours watching people carry the
Herald
to and fro, listening to visitors at the newspaper office gossip and wonder about George Towers and his captivating Bandit.

“
My
captivating bandit,” she declared to the curtain fringe, which offered soft, frilly nods in the breeze. She cast a sheepish glance heavenward. “Well,
ours.
Thank you, Father,” she sighed, “for using Stuart and me in such a…satisfying way. Even if Stuart doesn’t see it as such.”

Georgia rolled over and elected to take stock of the evening. Entertaining wasn’t really her gift, so perhaps analyzing the dinner and its guests might sufficiently bore her that she could sleep. She was a competent enough hostess—goodness knows Stuart invited people over constantly—but not the kind whose soirees made the papers. At least not without her brother’s direct intervention. He usually whipped up a dramatic paragraph or two when the mood struck him, more for the titillation of his dinner guests than any further need to see his name in print. Georgia knew full well it was Stuart’s power, and not her social prowess, that lured guests to the table. In truth, that suited her fine.

The Oakmans were dull but useful, present tonight because of their association with Covington Enterprises, Georgia guessed. No, it was clear Stuart had focused his attention on Matthew Covington. Aside from her brother’s passion for all things English, Georgia guessed he’d sought out Covington—and asked that she do the same—for far more than his accent. The name Covington was familiar to businessmen in San Francisco. Their import holdings were considerable; Stuart told her that Covington Dry Goods kept half the finer stores in San Francisco stocked with European products. Stuart deemed them important enough that he made sure any Covington representative who came to town appeared at the Waterhouse table. The elder Covington had even been to dinner once, although a long time ago. Georgia didn’t remember
him
looking like the man who’d come to dinner tonight.

What she’d noticed most about Matthew Covington was the extraordinary command he had of his body, which was athletic and graceful. Stuart galloped around a room, Oakman toddled, but Matthew Covington
strode.
It seemed an odd thing to notice—not like hair or eyes or a smile or such—but it struck her in a way she couldn’t put a name to.

Georgia wondered how high those British eyebrows would go if he knew a
woman
had come up with the story of the Black Bandit.
And
penned it.

The clock chimed half past. No reasonable woman would be up at three-thirty in the morning considering her publishing strategies.

Well, then,
she thought as she reached for her wrap,
if Georgia Waterhouse oughtn’t to be up, perhaps George Towers can be awake.

She smiled as the opening sentence came to her.
Why not?

Dipping her pen, she began:

“I had one hundred seventy-three reasons to decline your brother’s invitation,” Matthew said when he escorted Miss Waterhouse to an event a few days later.

Why he chose this to be the first thing out of his mouth when she entered the parlor, he couldn’t say. He’d meant it as a compliment, but as the words escaped his lips he realized how insulting they could be.

Fine opener, Covington. Did you leave your manners in England?

Thankfully, she seemed to guess his intent—and his instant regret—for a small grin played across her face. Her response pleased him.

“Yet, at the moment,” he continued in complete honesty, “I can’t recall a single one of them.”

“A clever save, Mr. Covington. Perhaps you might fare better if you told me why you said yes,” she countered, adjusting the ribbon on her hat.

“First off, it’s been made quite clear to me that one takes one’s life into one’s own hands when declining Stuart Waterhouse.”

“True.”

“And secondly, you make infinitely better company than sums and inventories.”

She scowled. “I’m afraid I don’t find that much of a compliment. In my opinion,
most of the world
makes better company than sums and inventories.”

“It depends on the sums,” replied Matthew, holding the door open for her as they stepped out into the afternoon light, “and very little of
most of the world
could convince me to endure a musicale.”

“Endure? But it’s Gilbert and Sullivan. At Tivoli Gardens, no less. Stuart’s favorite—and very British.”

Matthew grimaced and offered her his elbow. “My point exactly. I don’t like tea, either, you know.”

She laughed. A lovely, bright laugh. “Well, there will be some of that, but I expect Stuart might be able to find you a cider. He’ll be joining us a little while after the concert starts. Some paper emergency.” She sighed. “There’s
always
some paper emergency.”

It was a grand spring day. Matthew felt the crisp bay breeze—and the delightful company—lift his spirits. Admit it or not, he’d been wondering how he could see her again. He’d have said yes if Stuart had asked him to escort Georgia to a quilting bee. “I expect your brother thrives on crises, doesn’t he?”

“He seems to. Anything less would bore him.”

“Stuart Waterhouse bored. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.” Matthew gave a chuckle, thinking of how the man had sped around the room at the dinner party. How he seemed to everywhere at once, and hardly ever sat down.

Georgia suddenly stopped walking. She turned and looked up at Matthew with intensity, the sun playing across her hair and cheeks. “I spend a tremendous amount of time talking about Stuart, Mr. Covington.” She lowered her eyes, as if her own comment caught her by surprise. “I…I should like it if that were not the case with you.”

Matthew gazed at her, a sudden sympathy filling him. “I would like that very much.”
Yes, very much.

She broke the spell, picking up the pace again, a bit flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me say that.”

“I do.” It was Matthew who stopped this time. “You’re much different than he. But people lump you together just the same. I’ve been lumped together with my father for ages, and we couldn’t be more different. Yet everyone assumes I’m just like him. I have to admit I don’t always enjoy the comparison.”

“So you understand,” she murmured quietly, but said no more.