Masked by Moonlight (8 page)

S
urely, the Bible all but proved Stuart Waterhouse wrote the Bandit.

Ah, but Stuart still didn’t know that Matthew was the one to bring the Bandit to life. Even if he never stooped to use them, holding such trump cards over Waterhouse was a rare moment indeed.

He’d rather have spent this moment in more private company with Georgia, but polite society had other plans. Instead, he found himself reduced to engaging Miss Waterhouse in a series of bland pleasantries as the other guests persisted in drifting in and out of their conversation. Stuart soared in for a moment, waving a white ribbon and pecking his sister on the cheek before a pair of his business associates whisked him away to meet someone “most important.” After three more such distractions, Matthew finally secured a moment of privacy with her, and dived into the subjects he had wondered about for days.

“Why has Stuart never married?”

Miss Waterhouse put down the punch cup she was holding. “A bold question, Mr. Covington.”

He tucked his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Stuart is a bold man, Miss Waterhouse. And one of substantial wealth. Even with his…distinct character, he could have his choice of San Francisco’s eligible young ladies.”

Georgia turned her attention to an overlarge portrait of Stuart that hung beside the fireplace mantel. Posed in a thronelike chair beside a roaring fire, her brother looked so regal that the painting could have been hung on an ancient castle wall in Britain. The artist had also, however, captured the rebellious glint of Stuart’s eyes. The sly turn of his mouth that let one know the man held a thousand secrets and wouldn’t hesitate to use them.

“Stuart was almost married once,” she said, her voice faraway as she touched the bottom corner of the frame. Matthew found the gesture surprisingly tender.

He liked that about her. Despite her brother’s appetite for scandal, despite the fact that the floor beneath her feet and the clothes on her back and perhaps even the pearls at her neck had been very likely purchased with scandal, she wouldn’t stoop to it.

Matthew held her eyes for a long moment, wanting to say so much more than was possible in the circumstances. “Still,” he finally offered, “I believe marriage to be a fine and worthy institution.”

“I agree.” She gave a small smile and clasped her hands together. “I have seen the characters of many men highly improved by a fine marriage. I persist in my hope for Stuart.”

He simply could not resist. Dropping his voice, he inquired, “And of your own hope? If I were a less honorable man, I would not resist the temptation to ask you why it is that you haven’t married.”

Her smile became warm and broad. She laid her hands across her throat in a mock swoon. “Oh, then it is a good thing you are an honorable man, Mr. Covington. Your resistance is most appreciated.”

It was the flash in her eyes that banished the last of his restraint. “Why is it you never married, Miss Covington?”

“What of your resistance?”

“It seems to have wandered off. I shall fetch it back…eventually.”

“As well you should.”

He waited for her to reply.

She didn’t. She simply looked at him with a sly smile. Again he saw a hint of the very complex woman lurking under all that propriety. “Then I shall answer you…eventually,” she murmured.

“But not now.”

“No, Mr. Covington. Not now.”

Somehow, her refusal to comply was even better than any answer she could have offered. Which was a daft thought. Georgia Waterhouse drove him to sheer lunacy. His previous night’s work was proof of that.

Georgia fell back on her pillows, exhausted yet wide awake.
Such a day this has been, Lord.

One of the two dogs that lived in the Waterhouse mansion home laid its head across the foot of the bed. More than a dozen years ago a San Francisco man had been crazed enough to declare himself emperor of the United States. He’d had two dogs, one named Lazarus, the other named Bummer. When the “Emperor” died in 1880, Stuart had gone out and purchased two dogs and given them the same names. Georgia pitied the beasts, which were caught up in her brother’s endless plays for power, just as she was. “Lazarus, can you imagine such a thing? Money, nailed to trees with white ribbons? How do you suppose it was done?” She flipped herself around on the bed to face the dog, scratching the thin-faced hound between the ears. “How is it that no one saw it?”

Lazarus only moaned, then turned in circles to settle himself on the thick rug. Georgia flopped back, her arms spread across the plush covers. How had it been done? The scene unfolded in her imagination, materializing out of a gray fog in tiny details. He must be tall—of course he would be tall—and athletic. Nimble but very strong. He must have dressed in dark clothes to have moved about unnoticed, she imagined. Black? Brown? No, gray. A misty gray.

Where had the money come from? Locals always used gold coin—only Easterners had paper money. What did that mean? When had he decided to adopt Stuart’s white strips?

She saw him in her mind’s eye—a faceless, noble silhouette sliding in and out of the shadows. Broad-shouldered, dark-eyed. A brooding personality, perhaps. A man who had known some of life’s pain, she decided, although she couldn’t exactly say why. A man who knew the burden of command and the power of mercy.

A man too noble, too perfect to be real. Oh, what she would give to meet such a man. He must be out there, somewhere.

“Bless him, Father. Whoever he is, wherever he is, he is my hero. And, perhaps, Yours.”

Hero. The Bandit lived. Georgia fell asleep imagining the mysterious details of the man who had stepped into the Bandit’s boots and changed her world.

“T
hank you. I should have been loath to miss this.” Georgia smiled at Matthew Covington as they wandered about the art exhibit.

“You live too much at the mercy of Stuart’s schedule,” Mr. Covington offered. “Surely you could have your choice of escorts or husbands to free you from such a fate.”

She wished he would move his focus from such a tender topic. “Mr. Covington,” she replied, lightening her tone intentionally, “are you trying to tell me you’ve rediscovered your restraint? For I must confess, I see no evidence of it yet.”

He grinned, caught in the act. He seemed to enjoy trying to get her to address the one question she had clearly told him she would not answer. Not anytime soon, at least. “I’ve seen no evidence of your response, either.”

“And you shall not.” She twirled the handle of her parasol. “As such, we are at an impasse. Shall we find a more pleasant topic?”

He paused, as if searching for one, but Georgia was quite convinced he had a list of conversational gambits lined up in his head, each one designed to land up at the reason for her unmarried status.

He took a more direct tack than she would have expected. “Your brother seems quite intent on fostering our friendship.” He chose his words carefully. They both knew it might have been more accurate to say, “Your brother throws us together at every opportunity, and I suspect invents his own.”

Georgia opted for a sliver of truth. “Stuart believes you to be important.”

“Stuart’s fascination with the English is no secret. Perhaps all he admires is my pedigree.”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Would he be mistaken, Mr. Covington? Am I to discover that you are in fact a dishonorable Spanish spy? A notorious German, perhaps, gifted in deceptive accents?”

Matthew bowed. “A son of British soil, Miss Waterhouse, loyal to crown and country. Although I was thought to be good with voices as a child. Used to play endless tricks on the house staff and my brother.” He tucked his hands in his pockets as they turned the corner. “But I’m afraid there’s not much use for such antics in the running of a proper British enterprise. Stuart is right in one respect, I suppose—I am important.” He did not say the word as if it were a compliment. Quite the opposite. “I’ve responsibilities bearing down upon me at every turn. Reputations to maintain. Honor to uphold. Profits to tend.” He gave a small sigh. “I am continually aware that should Covington Enterprises pull up stakes, many would lose their livelihood.” He stopped and gazed at her, as if it was something he hadn’t intended to reveal. “I believe we were in search of a pleasant subject. This hardly qualifies.”

“You feel your obligations keenly, don’t you, Mr. Covington?”

“Yes, Miss Waterhouse, I suppose I do.”

“A very good thing. I believe God wisely places men of high conscience in charge of such sizable burdens.”

They stepped out onto a small terrace warmed by the sun. “You still think God wise, Miss Waterhouse? With all that you see of man’s evil toward his fellow man?”

“Of course I think God wise,” Georgia said, turning to gaze at a tall row of trees. The aging newspaper minion Stuart had sent along as a chaperone had disappeared into another exhibit hallway nearly a quarter of an hour before. “Man’s evils are not God’s doing, but only born of the wisdom of His gift of free will.” She allowed herself to turn and look at Matthew, straight into his eyes. “No, Mr. Covington, I do not think God is at all pleased with San Francisco these days.”

“You hold the scriptures in high regard, don’t you?” He motioned for her to sit on a bench off to one side of the terrace.

“Indeed I do.” She settled onto it, taking care to ensure space between them.

Mr. Covington glanced back at the terrace gate, as if confirming the predictable absence of their “guardian.” “Very well, then. Last time, you asked me to read to you. I should like you to return the favor.” He removed the tattered volume from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Surely you have favorite passages.”

“I know you must have one, if not several,” Matthew continued when she hesitated.

Her eyes darted back and forth, as if this was something too private to do on a terrace bench. Did the words in that book really mean that much to her?

“I’m afraid it is on a subject most men find dull,” she stated, sounding as if she knew it was a useless defense.

“I care not,” he said quietly, refusing to let his gaze drop from the inviting puzzle of hers.

Finally, she let her eyes fall as she feathered through the pages. She cleared her throat and adjusted herself on the bench. “‘If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love,’” she began, and then read through a poetic passage about what real love was and why it mattered above all else.

He watched how her fingers held the page with affection. She did love these words.

“‘Believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…’” She paused just a moment before she finished, “‘Love never faileth.’” She shut the book with a tender gesture, running her finger along the slice as if to soothe it.

Georgia Waterhouse was an extraordinary woman. She was beautiful, but it was her inner strength, her fierce devotion and hope, that pulled at him.
Can I tell you how I admire you, or would it frighten you away?

She held the book out to him and he took it, clasping her hands in his and holding them as long as he dared. She seemed small and fragile in that moment, and he wanted to draw a long silver sword and demand the world pay attention to her, to honor her for the wonder she was. “Thank you,” he said, meaning so much more.

Late that night—so late, in fact, that it was actually the next morning—Matthew sat at his hotel bay window. Sleepless, he stared at the full, creamy moon and the shadows it cast over the city. He thought of her. He fingered the jagged hole in the Bible just as she had done, feeling for evidence of her touch. Her hands had felt so small in his.

He was taken with her.

He’d been taken with women before. Struck by some stunning beauty or a clever wit. But those were quick flashes of fireworks compared to the slow burn he now felt in his chest.

“Oh, you fancy her,” his brother would often say of the latest object of Matthew’s affections. He would not use that word now—
fancy
seemed nowhere near what he was feeling.

Of course, nothing could be less sensible. Even if Georgia—and he enjoyed thinking of her as “Georgia,” not “Miss Waterhouse,” even though he’d never take such liberties out loud—was the perfect woman for him, it could never be. He was an Englishman who must someday, sooner or later, return home. And even if Stuart Waterhouse might view it as the coup of the century, Matthew couldn’t see himself taking Georgia away from either her brother or her beloved San Francisco. He wouldn’t uproot her like that. Even if he managed to persuade her to move with him to England—which he suspected he could—eventually she would feel uprooted and displaced.

But he
was
taken with her. So much that he could scarcely picture himself leaving California under his own free will.

And that’s what duty was about, wasn’t it? Handling responsibilities even when doing so clashed with one’s own free will.

Matthew stared about the room, looking at the trappings of his lifetime of obligation. Files upon files. Dignified coats and hats, letters of introduction, documents piling up beside books and ledgers. Only the whip and sword felt like his own possessions.

The whip and the sword.

Put that thought away right this moment,
Matthew scolded himself.
You’ve no right to deceive her like that.
Still, he had already done so, hadn’t he? He’d made the Bandit step into the real world. And it had nearly made her glow when she talked about it.

He bolted upright, the truth of it shocking him. Matthew Covington could never woo Georgia Waterhouse.

But he knew someone who could.