Masked by Moonlight (12 page)

“I
t sounds calamitous,” Matthew said as he poured a second cup of tea. “I do wish I’d been around to see it. Chickens? Really?” It felt ridiculous to pretend ignorance.

“Hordes of them,” Georgia said, a laugh stealing into her voice. Matthew could see the amusement in her face as she described the wild scene. “They were still running everywhere, even hours later, trailing white ribbons, feathers flying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“How on earth does one get that many chickens beribboned and into the center of town undetected?” he asked, doing his best to sound astonished. He forced himself, for discretion’s sake, to interject a shred of disapproval into his voice. In truth, it was more than just an effort to maintain his disguise; some part of him wanted to see what Georgia would do if pressed to defend the Bandit.

“It seems to me,” she replied, as she set down her teacup, “that we are dealing with a most extraordinary fellow. Quite resourceful. Very noble, but I suppose a bit reckless by some standards.”

Very noble, resourceful and a bit reckless.
It was funny to hear such words. If God himself had asked Matthew how he would like to be remembered, those were very nearly the attributes he would cite. And here Georgia was mentioning that about the Bandit—who was, and was not, Matthew Covington. It was an odd and yet powerful sensation.

Made more so by what Matthew could see lingering in Georgia’s eyes—an admiration for the recklessness. An admiration that came close to affection for the dashing hero her brother had dreamed up. What a heady concept that was.

Which made Matthew wonder…had Stuart dreamed up the Bandit just for her? A prank to please his sister? Matthew scorned the idea of playing upon her sensibilities like that…until he realized that what he was doing was not much different.

It stung.

The Bandit was reckless. Matthew Covington could not be. Dashing midnight bravery was a luxury for imaginary men, not Covingtons.

Still, as he looked at her there, glowing in a butter-colored gown that set off her glistening gold hair, he knew he would do it again. To watch her talk of it with that look on her face, to know that she held a part of him—even an invented part—in such esteem, was enough.

It would have to be, wouldn’t it? There could be no future between them. The cold gray halls of England would stifle her, and he was duty-bound to return home soon, no doubt to marry an appropriate woman of his mother’s choosing.

“The eggs will help make a festive Easter for the children. I’ve always loved Easter eggs. I think childhood traditions are the ones we most remember,” Georgia said, smiling as she evidently recalled another detail from the scene. “What are the Easter traditions at the Covington household? Do you remember any from your youth?”

Matthew toyed with his spoon. “There was always an enormous fair. There was an egg tradition there, too. Blindfolded men and women would dance across the street and try to avoid the eggs placed in their path. Many a good pair of shoes came to ruin on those days. My father took me to Spain several times to the bullfights that happen there at Easter. Ghastly business, really. I much preferred the fair at home. One could have far more fun with far less mortal injury.”

“I’d love to see a bullfight,” said Stuart. “So far all I’ve seen is that business where they walk down the street in New York. I hear in Greece they throw huge pottery jars from the windows to make noise.”

“And what are the Waterhouse Easter traditions?” Matthew asked, expecting the pair of siblings to spout all manner of memories. Given how playful they were with each other, he had no doubt they’d given their parents a challenge as youngsters. Especially Stuart.

“Oh, our mother loved Easter,” Georgia sighed. “We colored eggs, of course, and there would be a big cake and enormous meal waiting when we came home from church. She would fill the house with lilies and tell the Easter story with great dramatic flair.” She nudged her brother. “Stuart gets his theatrics from Mother’s side of the family.”

“Peach had the luck to be born on an Easter Sunday, so some years it was a double celebration,” offered Stuart, who had spent most of teatime surveying the room over Matthew’s shoulder. Sizing up the social value of everyone present, Matthew surmised. It had become clear that to Stuart, life was a series of potential deals. He paid little attention to the moment because his gaze was forever fixed on the next big opportunity. Matthew was surprised he could contribute to the conversation at all, given how little notice he seemed to be paying to it.

“So you’ve a birthday coming up?” Matthew asked with a grin. Peach, hmm? It suited her, silly as it was.

Georgia blushed, and he could easily see where the nickname came from. She did have a peachy glow about her.

“Tomorrow!” announced Stuart. “Georgia’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“Stuart, hush.” She swatted at him. “You shouldn’t…oh dear.” Her face fell as a waiter arrived to stand over Stuart’s shoulder.

“Message for you, Mr. Waterhouse. At the front desk.”

Georgia seemed to know how events would proceed from here. Once again, her brother was going to pull his infamous disappearing act.

“Back in a jiffy.” Stuart pushed his chair away from the table. “Entertain our birthday girl for a moment, won’t you, Covington?”

There was an uncomfortable silence as he buzzed off, responding to yet another important interruption. And then again, not so uncomfortable. Matthew enjoyed Georgia’s company tremendously. He just wished things didn’t always have the feeling of being orchestrated. He would have preferred to know she sought his company by choice, not manipulation.

Matthew stifled a sigh. It must be tiring to be so continually maneuvered by someone you love. He leaned in a bit and whispered, “I give him eight minutes before he returns to tell us he’s ‘dreadfully sorry but he must be going.’”

Matthew’s talent at impersonations paid off, for his imitation of Stuart’s voice was spot on.

G
eorgia gave a start, shocked at Matthew Covington’s mimicry and his directness. It was one thing to know what was going on, quite another to declare it openly. For a moment it stunned her, but then she discovered it felt surprisingly refreshing. As if he respected her enough not to pretend they both didn’t see what was going on in Stuart’s constant disappearances.

“Mr. Covington, what a thing to say.” She played for a moment at being insulted, then let a hint of her amusement show. “Personally, I’d give Stuart no more than five minutes, under the circumstances.”

Mr. Covington’s face creased in a gleaming smile and he pulled out his pocket watch. “Shall we see who wins?”

Georgia feigned astonishment. “Am I to understand you are suggesting a wager? Here, during tea at the Palace Hotel? The very thought.”

“I’d never suggest such a thing,” he replied, looking all too much as if he’d be delighted to do that very thing. “Think of it as hypothesis and observation. A scientific study.”

She shot him a doubtful glance. “A scientific study. Of Stuart’s diversionary tactics?”

Her label evidently delighted him. “‘Diversionary tactics.’ Why, I do think that’s a most appropriate term.” He made a show of checking his watch. “Two minutes fifteen seconds.”

“This is outrageous.” She fanned herself, playing along. “I should be most insulted.” But it wasn’t insulting at all. As a matter of fact, it was satisfying to call Stuart at his own game.

“But you’re not,” Matthew retorted, “because you’re far too smart for that.”

“A backhanded compliment, Mr. Covington.” She
was
too smart for this. Suddenly, she found herself wondering why she had ever put up with it.

He stared at her for a moment, almost indecisively. Then, after looking over her shoulder toward the hotel desk, as if to judge how much privacy they had before Stuart’s return, he leaned in. “Then I shall pay you a true compliment, Miss Waterhouse. I find you a most delightful woman, honorable and admirable in every detail. And…” he softened his voice until it seemed to tingle down the back of her neck “…in possession of the most astounding eyes I believe I have ever seen.”

He stared at her again, for how long she could not say. His expression confounded any attempt at words. He found her delightful. Honorable and admirable. Not just the sibling shadow of her outlandish brother, but
her.
And to think that he found her eyes astounding, when she could hardly think of words to describe
his.
Their impossibly deep indigo seemed to pin her to her chair.

His directness flustered her. He spoke as though her opinion meant something to him. And that was a rare thing indeed for the sister of Stuart Waterhouse.

After a pause that seemed endless and yet far too short, Georgia saw his gaze shift over her shoulder. “Four minutes fifty seconds,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You win.”

On cue, Stuart appeared at her right side, a stack of papers in his hand and a waiter just behind him. “Crisis at the office. I’ve got to run, Covington, it can’t be helped. But…” He stepped out of the way to reveal the waiter holding two slices of lemon cake, a specialty of the house, and one of Georgia’s favorites. “I thought this might keep you both from missing me. Consider it an early birthday cake, Peach, from me to you. You’ll see her home, of course, Covington?”

The waiter set the slices down in front of them. “Of course,” replied Covington, managing to look surprised despite his earlier prediction.

“My favorite. Thank you, Stuart. I almost forgive you.” The words were hollow. Stuart was trying to be nice, in his own selfish, manipulative way, but somehow a line had just been crossed. True forgiveness felt just out of her grasp at the moment.

Stuart winked. “That’ll have to do.” And he was gone.

Covington gave her a sympathetic look before attempting to make the best of things. “
Is
this a favorite of yours?”

“My very favorite, as a matter of fact.” She straightened in her chair. “And don’t worry,” she added in a firm voice, “I have every intention of making Stuart bring me back here tomorrow for more. He can buy my forgiveness today, but it won’t excuse his obligation tomorrow, I assure you.”

“Well then, I suppose I should have to reluctantly thank Stuart for the opportunity to see you again tomorrow. Perhaps we should consider tying your brother to his chair so as to insure you an uninterrupted birthday luncheon.”

Georgia imagined Stuart lashed to his chair with the red velvet stanchions from the hotel lobby. “That would be something to see,” she laughed. “Then one of us would have to feed him his cake.”

“I do believe I’ll leave that duty to you,” Mr. Covington said before taking a bite of his cake. He nodded in approval of the fluffy, lemony confection, and some part of her was pleased to know he liked it as well. “Happy birthday, Miss Waterhouse.” His eyes held hers for a moment, the smile in them fading to something far more unsettling.

Her hand clutched her napkin under the table. His voice had the most extraordinary smoothness when he spoke softly. It seemed to ripple over her. “Thank you, Mr. Covington.” She felt as if she gulped out the words.

“Please,” he said, his voice gaining even more warmth, “call me Matthew. Even if just for today.”

Matthew. She’d known since they were introduced that his name was Matthew. She’d heard the name dozens of times. Yet to hear him speak it, to hear him ask her to use it, was another thing altogether. Matthew. It suddenly sounded as smooth and lovely as his accented voice.

She took a breath, dared to look in him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Matthew.”

She didn’t ask him to call her Georgia. He didn’t expect her to. He was almost surprised she’d granted his request and called him Matthew. Not that he hadn’t surprised himself by asking her.

That woman did things to him. Unsafe things he couldn’t help and wouldn’t deny. It was worth any impropriety to give her that moment of feeling special, when she’d been so repeatedly brushed off by her brother.

No, he didn’t mind that she hadn’t asked him to call her Georgia. He liked the secrecy of calling her that in his thoughts.
Georgia.
To him, now, she was Georgia, even when he said goodbye to her as “Miss Waterhouse.”

And when he went back to his hotel room after seeing her home—and after daring to plant a light kiss on her hand when he helped her out of the carriage—he knew sleep would evade him tonight.

It did. He wandered about his room, restlessly turning a thousand thoughts over in his mind until the wee hours of the morning. There, in the sleepless darkness, Matthew pulled out his sword for the first time in weeks. It did not surprise him when he thought it whispered “Georgia” as it sliced through the air.

His father was fond of saying that Matthew frequently lost his composure. Matthew was beginning to think the heir of Covington was in very real danger of losing his heart.

I’
ve no right, Father. I owe so much to Stuart. Without him, I could have been forced into a marriage by now simply to survive. Why has he begun to grate on me so? I’ve withstood his tricks for years without chafing, but now it’s become so much harder. What is happening?

Georgia sat in her window seat, her arms hugging her knees, her toes tucked under the hem of her shift. She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders as a gust of wind rattled the bay window. Droplets of rain raced each other down the panes, joining and pooling, then splitting again in a glistening web across the glass. She traced one drop’s path down the window with her finger. Spring in San Francisco was always an unpredictable affair—warm and welcoming one day, damp and dreary the next.

It seemed a fitting time for a birthday, as her life seemed to be changing pace. An agitation had stolen over her in recent weeks. She’d put it down to the excitement of the Bandit, but she was coming to realize it was far more than that. It had been coming on for months, long before the dark brooding hero of her imagination had appeared. Six months ago she’d have told anyone who asked that life was perfect just as it was. That things could go on in their present state indefinitely, and she’d consider herself supremely blessed.

She could no longer answer so firmly. Things could not go on in their present state, even if she had no idea what the alternative might be.

Where are you pulling me, Lord? Are You pulling me at all? Or am I simply straying, straining against You? I’ve never felt lonely before. Even when people could not understand how I was content, You’ve given me great contentment. Why remove it now?

Perhaps it was just the passing of another year that made her so pensive. She was, after all, turning twenty-five, and that seemed like an important year. One that invited retrospection. Perhaps in a week she’d look back on all this tumult as just an emotional response to the passing of time. After all, Stuart had been sour-faced a whole month earlier this year when he turned thirty.

An hour later, the thought still held no comfort. It was almost two in the morning, and if she didn’t find a way to sleep, she would spend her birthday in a sorry state indeed. She read a psalm—the one about God knitting her together in her mother’s womb—for it seemed appropriate to the day. She found herself wondering if this section was one of the ones cut from Matthew’s Bible.

Matthew.
How easily the name slipped into her mind now. She allowed herself to imagine him, sitting up late into the night, exploring the Bible Reverend Bauers had given him. She was sure she’d sensed some reaction in him when she’d read him the passage from Corinthians. Yet he did not seem a man of faith at all. Seeking, perhaps, but no faith had taken hold, as far as she could see. It seemed unwise to nurture any fondness for a man so ill at ease with himself. Still, that was how Reverend Bauers always said God shook a man to attention. With an unrelenting ill-ease. Was God shaking Matthew Covington? What an extraordinary thing that would be.

He would be a wonderful man of faith, she surmised, without really knowing why. It was just an instinct.

I’m quite fond of him, Father. You know that. And You know how unwise a thing that is.

Despite her self-lecture, the memory of his impulsive kiss on her hand this afternoon wedged its way into her thoughts.
He is fond of me, I think, but for such unusual, rewarding reasons. He sees me. I know You see me Father, and that You know me. But to be seen, be recognized by him in such a way, was so pleasing. Thank You for that blessing. A birthday present from You, it almost felt like.

Matthew Covington, for all his attributes, was a most unwise prospect. She could recognize this, even if she kept rubbing the top of her palm where he’d touched her. No, she’d be wise to direct her energies into something else.

Perhaps in a week or two the contentment would return. She did, after all, have another man to consider. One who depended heavily upon her affections. Who existed by virtue of the fine imagination God had given her.

She had the Bandit, and he was a most excellent place to channel all those energies.

When would the Bandit have his birthday? Would he be the kind of man to celebrate the passing of his years, or ignore them? Yes, this was a much better place to focus her thoughts. Georgia let her head fall against the glass as she wondered. Her hero needed a birthday of his own. How to give him one? The scene came to her in an instant, as if it had dropped from heaven in complete form. It was perfect; dark and brooding, just like her hero. Tragic and yet deeply poignant. She heaved a sigh of thanks toward heaven and nearly ran to the desk, flipping open the top of her inkwell with such vigor that it sent a small shower of droplets over the page.

“Easter is over this weekend, isn’t it?” Stuart asked with annoyance. The eggs had been fine—charming even—but when the real-life Bandit had upped the ante to all those chickens, things got a little more complicated than Stuart would have wished. He didn’t like someone trying to outdo him. Stuart wanted to have his hands on the reins. He wanted to know he could orchestrate events to his liking. He didn’t much care for a loose cannon like this Bandit impersonator roaming his city unsupervised. He’d need to find him somehow, so he could keep him under control.

“Yes, sir,” Oakman replied.

Stuart looked at him. “Who is this man impersonating my Bandit, anyway? Do we have any idea? Not that I want to stop him, mind you, but I want to know where to put the pressure if he goes too far.”

Oakman leaned back, resting his hands across his belly. “There are loads of theories. But no one knows anything definite, that I can find.”

“Keep looking.”

“Oh, you can count on that, sir. I’m looking.”

Stuart leaned against his desk and lowered his voice. “We’re a month away. Are we ready?”

That brought Oakman to attention. “Near as I can tell. There are a few loose ends to tie up. One contact on the docks I’m not quite sure about, yet. I need to take a few steps to ensure his loyalty, but I don’t think there’ll be any problem.”

A few steps. Stuart was relatively certain what kind of persuasion bought loyalty on the docks. It was a jungle down there, a predatory landscape if ever there was one. Which was just fine by him. He preferred the open food chain of the docks to the gilded treachery of Nob Hill any day.

“What about our friend Mr. Covington? Has he found anything?”

Oakman paused for a second, running his hands down his face. “He asked for a second set of ledgers yesterday. That worried me a bit. But I’m not sure it’s a problem.”

Stuart blew out an exasperated breath. Covington was presenting more of a challenge than he’d anticipated. Why couldn’t the Brit just give in to his obvious infatuation with Georgia and stop being so studious? A healthy young man shouldn’t be so hard to distract. Stuart checked his watch. “Well, I’ve got to meet Georgia for lunch. It’s her birthday.”

Oakman looked up. “Didn’t you take her to lunch for her birthday yesterday?”

“No.” Stuart shook his head, not hiding his exasperation. “Covington had us over to the Palace for tea. I gave her an early piece of birthday cake when you sent over the message to call me back.”

“But you
told
me to send over the message to call you back, sir.”

“I’m aware of that, Dex. She just didn’t take it very well, that’s all. Something’s put a bee in her bonnet lately. She’s all up in arms over little things. Told me in no uncertain terms last night at dinner that I was to take her back to the Palace today for her birthday, and that if I was to leave for any reason at all, heads would roll.”

“Georgia? Said that?”

Stuart glared at his colleague. “She did. Emphatically. I don’t know what’s gotten her all riled up.”

“What?” said Oakman, with the most ridiculous look on his face, “or whom?”

“But I’ve just
come
from cake.” Georgia tried to resist as Quinn pulled her down the Grace House hallway toward the dining room.

The boy spun on his heels. “Don’t you tell anyone that. This cake is
your
cake.” He tugged on her sleeve. “Act happy to have it.”

“But I am happy to have cake,” Georgia replied, her heart warming at the boy’s concern. “Just not so
much
of it.”

“We
made
you this cake,” he said, as if that should be argument enough. “Is icing supposed to be green?”

Georgia tried not to consider the possibilities. “Some is. Icing comes in lots of colors.”

“We only got green. So pretend you like it.” He seemed to consider it his job to manage her participation.
Just what I need,
she thought for a moment,
another male telling me what to do.
When she noticed a large splotch of something greenish on Quinn’s elbow, she decided perhaps it was not as bad as all that.

Quinn halted in front of the closed dining room door. “Come in here for a moment, Miss Georgia,” he shouted in a rehearsed tone, evidently providing the “cue” needed by those within. “We’ve got something to show you,” he bellowed.

Quinn pushed open the door to a room filled with smiling faces. A pack of recently scrubbed, smeary-aproned “bakers” yelled “happy birthday” around a lopsided green cake. It wasn’t a happy green, more brackish than lime-colored, with a frightening collection of black bits, but the cheery expressions couldn’t help but make Georgia chuckle. Reverend Bauers had a “we did the best we could” expression that only deepened her laugh.

The exquisite lemon cake at the Palace Hotel might have delighted her palate, but this questionable confection delighted her heart. She clasped her hands theatrically. “My goodness,” she exclaimed, “I’m absolutely surprised.”

“We made it!” a small child to her left boasted, pointing with pudgy green-tinted fingers as one corner of the top layer slid slightly off its base. “Can you tell?”

“Not at all,” Georgia said. “It looks like you just brought this from the finest bakery in the city.”

Reverend Bauers extracted himself from the sticky crowd and came around to pull out a chair at the head of the table. “Miss Waterhouse, will you share your cake with us and celebrate your birthday?”

“I’d be delighted.”

As he pushed in the chair, the children scattered to their own seats, eager for a piece of their creation.

“There’s room for one more, I trust?” Matthew Covington’s voice came from behind her. “I missed the earlier birthday cake.” Obviously, he’d not seen the cake in front of her, or she doubted he’d ask.

Georgia whirled to face him, giving him an exaggerated wink. “Oh, but Mr. Covington, I’ve had
no
cake yet today.”