Masked by Moonlight (5 page)

“T
hat’s servants’ gossip.” Georgia scowled. “Haven’t you better sources than that?”

Stuart broke a flower off the hall arrangement—from the center again, as he always seemed to do, no matter how many times the house staff had asked him not to—and slipped it into his lapel. “Better sources than servants? They’re the best sources there are, Peach. Now that our Bandit’s a public mystery, everyone wants in on the fun. Of course, the promise of a few coins for Bandit stories doesn’t hurt, either.”

Georgia planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve wasted your money. Really, a whip loose in the hotel laundry? That’s nonsense.” She took a step closer to him. “Honestly, Stuart, isn’t the Bandit selling enough of your papers? Now you pay people to invent collaborations?”

Stuart pouted. “You think so lowly of your own brother? Your own flesh and blood?”

“You are perfectly capable of such a thing.”

He snatched his hat from the hands of the waiting butler. “Loath as I am to disappoint your high moral standards, this tale just happens to be genuine. A black whip showed up in the laundry at the Palace Hotel last night, and some tall young lad snatched it back before anyone could get a good look at it or at him. Absolutely Bandit-worthy, in my humble opinion, and straight from the mouth of a highly respected source.”

Georgia frowned. “I’ve never known your opinion to be humble. Highly respected sources? In a hotel laundry?”

“On Mama’s grave, Peach,” Stuart said, leaning in and lowering his voice, “the whip’s for real.” He put on his gloves. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the talk of dinner tonight at the Hawkinses. Mrs. Hawkins has become one of the Bandit’s most ardent fans. Imagine that.”

Georgia winced. Stuart knew his strategy. Bedillia Hawkins was by far the most excitable woman Georgia had ever met. If by some remote chance the newspaper account of a Black Bandit whip sighting didn’t stir the public’s imagination, Bedillia Hawkins would surely finish the job. It would be the town’s juiciest gossip by sunrise. Stuart had probably made sure they would be dining at the Hawkinses tonight for just that reason.

“Don’t you think, Georgia, dear?” Bedillia inquired of her obviously distracted dinner guest.

“Mrs. Hawkins?” Miss Waterhouse blinked, pulling herself back to the topic at hand. Matthew couldn’t say he blamed her for her wandering thoughts. The conversation had been frightfully dull until the subject of the Bandit came up.

“I was saying, Georgia dear, how so much gossip seems to be coming out of the Palace Hotel these days,” repeated Mrs. Hawkins. “I was asking Mr. Covington if he finds it tiresome to be staying there, with so much going on. Bodies, thefts and whips—dear me, what will we see next?”

Matthew tried not to wince. He supposed he should be grateful they’d made it through the soup course before someone raised the dreaded subject.

The whip. Thompson’s expression had been unbearable when he’d held out the
Herald
’s account of the wayward whip. There, next to the latest installment of the Black Bandit’s adventures, was a tantalizing article about how a mysterious whip had surfaced in the laundry of the Palace Hotel. How a suspicious individual had stolen into the laundry and taken it back. Could the stealthy young man have been the Black Bandit himself? The text hinted at a variety of things that could set tongues and imaginations into motion all over the city. Based on Mrs. Hawkins’s fascination with the subject, it had been successful.

“Do you think he’s real, Miss Waterhouse? This bandit of your brother’s invention?” Mrs. Hawkins winked at Stuart while she asked the question. It made Matthew wonder just how often people used Georgia to get to her brother. Judging from her expression, it happened frequently, and she found it highly irritating.

“The bandit or the author?” Miss Waterhouse nearly succeeded in hiding the edge in her voice.

“Why, the Bandit, of course. Everyone knows who the author is, even if they aren’t saying.” Mr. Hawkins raised his glass in Stuart’s direction and let out a hearty laugh.

“Hawkins, you flatter me,” Stuart said, lifting his glass in turn. Matthew noted he neither denied nor confirmed the insinuation.

Miss Waterhouse had to work to raise her voice above the resulting hubbub. “I find myself wishing he were real,” she said, more sharply than he guessed she meant to. “I certainly would welcome him. San Francisco seems to be in dreadfully short supply of men with noble character—present company excepted, of course.”

Matthew wondered, by the way she said it, if she’d added the last remark out of sheer obligation rather than any genuine respect for the men in the room.

“Georgia doubts my sources, Mrs. Hawkins. She feels I manufactured the whip’s appearance to sell papers. That I’m printing shameless gossip rather than verifiable facts. As if I’d ever print anything but the honest truth.”

“Stuart Waterhouse,” laughed the rather besotted man next to him, “when have you ever printed the honest truth?”

“Miss Waterhouse, it seems to me that you endure much on your brother’s behalf,” Matthew offered, because it seemed that no one else in the room gave a thought to her obvious discomfort. “How do you find the strength?”

She smiled—just a bit, and only for a second, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Hours and hours of prayer, Mr. Covington. I have been known to take my frustrations out on the upper strings of my harp—I am forever breaking them—but mostly it requires endless prayer.” She kept her tone light and conversational, but he noted an edge of weariness in her glance.

Matthew looked around the table and thought Miss Waterhouse must have a penchant for lost causes. “That’s far too large a load for such delicate shoulders. Perhaps one ought to leave such a Herculean task to the likes of the Black Bandit.” The last remark jumped out of his mouth seemingly of its own accord, before he had one second to think better of it.

“Speaking of Herculean tasks, Mr. Covington,” declared Stuart, “I think it’s high time you visited Georgia’s precious Grace House. They’re always working to save the world over there. What do you say to a tour tomorrow?”

“Appealing as it sounds, I am expecting some documents to arrive from Sacramento in the morning. Perhaps another time?”

Dexter Oakman nearly jumped out of his seat, opposite Stuart. “Oh, gracious, I’d completely forgotten, Covington. Meant to tell you before dinner.” He put down his glass. “Those documents won’t be in until Tuesday, perhaps Wednesday. The wire came in this afternoon.”

“Well,” said Stuart, smiling broadly, “events are conspiring in your favor, aren’t they? Tour Grace House, then. Reverend Bauers and his high-minded companions will make excellent chaperones. I’ve even heard nuns work there.”

“I hardly think Reverend Bauers has time to conduct social outings,” said Georgia.

“Nonsense,” her brother replied. “You might even convince Covington to send over a spot of money to help the needy.” He turned to Matthew. “Mind your pockets, Covington. My sister can be most compelling when it comes to philanthropy.”

Of that, Matthew had little doubt.

T
he clock chimed quarter past the hour as Stuart refilled his glass and Oakman’s. “Did you have any trouble?”

Dexter winced. “Some. It took a bit more grease across the palm to get them diverted, but we’ll see those ledgers from Sacramento before Covington does. We’ll have to be careful.”

Stuart picked up the poker and stirred the fire. The gold-orange flames flickered, reflecting in amber liquid in his glass. “I’m always careful. Georgia’s just making my job that much easier. We practically waltzed into that tour of the mission this evening. I hadn’t yet worked out how I was going to get Covington out of the office for a few hours in order to switch things. Honestly, I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

“I did follow your line of thinking, Stuart.” Oakman groaned, rubbing his leg. “Was it really necessary to bash my shin under the table? You’ve left a mark.”

“Sorry about that, Dex.” Stuart replaced the poker and walked over to the chair where he sat. “I hadn’t time to be subtle. And speaking of marks…” He lowered his voice even though they were completely alone. “You’re sure of this fellow? They’ll be no trace of the alterations?”

Oakman drained his glass. “He’s the top man, they tell me.”

Stuart frowned. “Remind our friend that it won’t go at all well for him if anyone can notice his…handiwork.”

“Oh, I believe he knows.” Oakman smiled.

“Make sure,” Georgia’s brother said, sipping from his own glass. “Show him your shin if you think that will help. I want no slips on this. Not one.”

The man nodded, forcing a weak laugh. “Without a hitch, Stuart. It’ll come off without a hitch.”

Waterhouse began loosening the knot in his cravat. “Tell your wife there’ll be a lovely piece about her dress tonight in the social column this week. She looked stunning at dinner, and we haven’t run something about her yet this month. She deserves it.”

“She’ll be very pleased to hear that, Stuart. You’re always so good to her. And Caroline does love to see her name in the columns, you know.”

Everybody does,
thought Stuart.
Everybody always does
.

“It’s not a grand cathedral, but I rather fancy God enjoys it here.” Georgia ran her hand across the adobe arch of the mission’s side doorway, and a piece of the facade crumbled under her touch. “She’s put up a grand fight over the years, and she’s still standing. Reverend Bauers excels at what he calls ‘making do at making do.’”

“That really means finding new sources for bandages, making food go three times as far, and squeezing yet one more use out of most any object,” explained the reverend as he led Georgia and Mr. Covington out into the gardens.

They’d not gone three steps when a noisy commotion started somewhere off to their left, by the kitchens. Within seconds a pair of youths burst through the door, bundles in their hands. It was clear they hadn’t expected to find anyone in the garden.

“Thief!” a voice cried from inside. “Stop them!”

Georgia gasped as she realized what the boys were carrying. Poking out of one of the bundles was a gold cross from the mission’s tiny chapel. After glancing quickly at each other, they split up, running around the garden fountain toward the gate. Without any discussion whatsoever, Mr. Covington and Reverend Bauers set upon them, Covington taking the larger of the pair.

Georgia backed up to the fountain rim as a brawl broke out around her. “Help! In the garden!” she called as arms and legs thrashed.

As large as they’d seemed coming through the door, the boys were still rather young, and it was only a minute—albeit a dreadfully long one—before each was subdued. Grunting, they struggled against the grip of Reverend Bauers and Mr. Covington.

“How dare you!” the reverend huffed at his captive, as angry as Georgia had ever seen him.

In that second, the larger boy managed to pull out of Covington’s grasp and slide something metal from his boot. It was a knife, which he quickly waved at Matthew.

No one moved. The mission cook burst through the door, only to freeze on the threshold as she saw the weapon in play. Mr. Covington, however, somehow used that momentary distraction to grab a long stick from a pile behind him. He planted his legs in a defiant stance. How could he hope to defend himself with just a stick?
Oh, Lord, help him!

Both combatants brandished their weapons, and it was instantly obvious that Mr. Covington knew exactly how to wield his, whereas the boy had evidently just grabbed a kitchen knife. Slowly, the man angled his body sideways, his rear arm high while he swung the stick through the air, coolly meeting each of the lad’s angry thrusts.

The cook disappeared back through the door—going for help, Georgia hoped. She clutched the fountain rim, not caring if she soaked her sleeves, trying desperately to think of something she could do.

The smaller boy suddenly stomped on Reverend Bauers’s foot, sending the two of them doubling over. Immediately, the larger boy lunged at Covington, who tossed aside his stick, trying to wrestle the knife from his opponent’s hands. The lad only fought harder, slashing wildly at Covington’s chest.

Lord Jesus, save him!
Georgia nearly fell into the fountain, and a scream left her throat. The smaller boy took off through the gate with no thought for his conspirator. Reverend Bauers yelled for help as Covington struggled with the larger lad and his knife.

Georgia stood frozen and shocked. In all her time here, in all she had seen, no one had ever had the audacity to steal from Grace House.

Three men finally came rushing out the kitchen door, just as the blade sank into Covington’s forearm. Georgia flinched at the sound of it ripping through the fabric of Mr. Covington’s jacket. The Englishman gave a roar of pain, at which the wiry lad squirmed out of his grasp and leaped through the gate his companion had left swinging.

“We draw no blood in Grace House!”
Bauers bellowed after him, rushing to Covington’s aid.

Georgia was still clutching the fountain, unable to move as she watched scarlet ribbons creep out from between Mr. Covington’s clenched fingers. He’d been stabbed. She’d seen Cook cut herself with a kitchen knife, but had never witnessed anyone being
purposely stabbed.
Her brain seemed unable to accept the concept.

“Georgia!” the reverend called. “Come here.”

Covington’s eyes locked onto hers. She tried to breathe, but it was as if her corset had tightened into a vise. Dimly, she saw him force a smile.

“Shall we go find me a bandage and dry you off?” he asked.

A thick, red drop of blood fell from his clenched hand and splattered on the flagstone, snapping her out of her stupor. She let go of the fountain, and the breath she’d been trying to take rushed suddenly into her lungs.

Reverend Bauers took off his coat and wrapped it around Georgia’s shoulders. She really wasn’t that wet, but she shivered as the clergyman slipped Mr. Covington’s waistcoat off his good arm and bundled it around the injured one. “Since we’ve ruined your coat already, it might as well serve as a bandage until we get you inside. We might have to stitch you up, Covington. There are medical supplies in the next building—can you walk?”