Masked by Moonlight (18 page)

G
eorgia would have sworn an earthquake had just struck her back terrace. He? Expecting George? That could only mean…no. It couldn’t be. He had somehow discovered the truth and had the audacity to toy with her so. Something close to anger swept through her.

She stared at him. “You couldn’t…George…” The pieces began to fall into place. It was, in fact, completely possible. He’d told her he was good with voices as a child. As a visitor, he could move unrecognized throughout many parts of the city. The first strips of cloth had always been bandages from his arm. She’d just not seen it because she was embroidering every detail with her own fantasy.

“It is me,” Matthew said, his gaze so fierce she thought she’d keel over. “It has always been me.”

A thousand questions, a thousand thoughts tumbled in her head. The two men who held her heart were one man. Matthew was the Bandit. The Bandit was Matthew.

“H-how?” she stammered. “Why?”

He took a step toward her. “Mostly because it pleased you so. I saved Quinn by accident—it was happenstance that I was there. Then, when it appeared in the papers, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know you’d written the story. That first time, at Grace House, it was mostly because I knew you wished the Bandit to be true. I thought Stuart wrote about him as a gift of sorts to you. And, somehow, I knew I could make that gift come alive for you.”

At first, it pained her as yet another manipulation. But looking at him, hearing his words and seeing the emotion laid bare in his eyes, she knew it truly had been a gift. “I begged you to tell me.”

“It will be only a matter of weeks before I am called home. I thought it would hurt less if you did not know. If he remained unreal.”

“And now?” Her voice wavered with the threat of tears. From pain or happiness, she couldn’t yet say—they collided in the back of her throat.

“It hurt too much to keep deceiving you. It came to the point where even if I sailed tomorrow, I would bear it to give you one day of knowing it was me.” He took another step toward her, his face suddenly dissolving into a look of vulnerability. “Can you not see it? How I care for you?” He swung his hands in a frustrated gesture. “I cannot bear to take you away from everything you love, and yet I cannot bear to stay away from you. I thought having the Bandit appear to you would solve it—that you could remain enamored of him in your mind and not suffer when I left.” He stepped closer still and touched her cheek.

She brought her hand up to clasp his, and felt as if their joined hands were the only thing keeping them from spinning off the end of the world. She tried to say something, but couldn’t find words.

“But I could not bear it,” he continued, the pain in his face slowly melting into a look of such tenderness that she was certain her knees would give way. “And, truth be told, I was jealous of your affection for him. I am your Bandit, Georgia. For as long as I can, I will do anything to save your world and make you happy.”

The night careened around her. She could not draw in a breath deep enough.

He put his other hand to her cheek, so that he held her face. He stared at her as if she were the most precious treasure in all the universe. “Please say something,” he whispered.

Georgia thought of all she had wished, the hero she had dreamed of, and the man she had resisted. She thought of Sister Charlotte’s call to follow her heart, and God’s call to her newfound courage.

Georgia Waterhouse became something she had never been: bold. And discovered that Sister Charlotte was indeed right—a wise woman
did
know a true kiss when it came her way.

“Y
ou,” Georgia said, when at last she pulled away. He nodded with a broad smile and sparkling eyes. “You,” she repeated, still trying to grasp the wild idea.

“Do you find the concept so entirely implausible?” he teased. “I should like to think I am not entirely unheroic by daylight.” He had the look of a man who had shed a great weight.

“I think you are a wonderful man, armed or unarmed.” She couldn’t resist. “But I must admit I did think your costume below par.” She ran her hand down his arm, feeling the strength of his muscle as he held her. Delighting in the fact that it was
he
who held her. She touched the fabric of his shirt with wonder, as if it would give up clues to the adventures it had seen. “How amazing to discover it is in fact the real thing.”

Matthew smiled, his eyes alight. “My hat has no mere nick in it, you know. Signore Trivolatti’s meat hook is a most deadly weapon.” He nodded as Georgia’s fingers ran across the patch on his sleeve. “That came from those dreadful chickens.”

“Oh,” said Georgia, her head falling against his chest as the memory of the pandemonium made her laugh. “The chickens! Even Stuart enjoyed that chaos.” She kept her head there, clinging just a bit tighter as the mention of her brother brought the world back into somber focus. “Does anyone know?” she asked, marveling when her cheek bumped up against a corner of what she knew to be Reverend Bauers’s Bible.

“Bauers knows.” Matthew stroked his palm down her arm, and she thought it the most soothing sensation in all the world. “He’s been after me to tell you since Good Friday. He’s been an accomplice of sorts.” Matthew pulled back to look into her eyes. It seemed amazing to her that his could look so dark and so bright all at once. “My valet, Thompson,” he said, “worked it out weeks ago, but I’ve no idea how. The clothing was his doing. He’d be insulted to know you found my costume inferior.”

“Perhaps I should revise my comment to say it is more ‘authentic.’”

Matthew smiled. “Who knows you are George?” he asked softly.

“Only Stuart. I believe most people suspect it has been Stuart all along.”

“Oh, they do. I did.” He fingered a stray lock of her hair, his smile broadening at the feel of it. “I imagine quite a few of them would be slack-jawed to discover the author’s real identity. You would surprise quite a few people.”

Which brought up the unwelcome subject of what to do now. The world had spun on its ear not half an hour ago. How would the new world turn from here? She pulled away from his embrace and walked to the edge of the terrace. “Matthew, what do we do?”

He sat down on the short wall. “I am at a loss. Other than praying for legions of divine guidance, I hadn’t thought it through any further than that.”

Georgia sat down on the wall beside him. “Surely, God must have some sort of reason for all this.”

“I can only—”

“Peach!” Stuart’s voice came from behind the French doors. “Are you out here?”

Georgia’s heart leaped into her throat. She shot up off the wall and rushed to the doors as she heard a rustle behind her. “Stuart?” She kept her hands firmly on the door latch, prepared to block it from opening with her foot if need be. When she turned and looked behind her, she was alone on the terrace. Matthew had somehow disappeared, but had left his hat and mask. “I’m out here,” she said, as calmly as she knew how while she tossed the items over the wall into the bushes. “I needed some air.” Stuart came though the doors. “All those Bandits.”

“There’s about a dozen you still haven’t met yet. Have you spotted him?”

Georgia dreaded the prospect of having to lie to Stuart, so she was thankful when God gave her an answer that was indeed the truth. “I thought I would know him when I saw him.”

“I’m sure you will. But you won’t meet him out here, that’s for certain.”

Oh, Stuart, you have no idea how wrong you are
. “It seems you’ll have more introductions to make on my behalf, then.”

“Actually, Peach,” Stuart said as he undid the buttons on his frock coat and checked his watch, “I’ve got a bit of business to attend to. Can you manage on your own for a time? I won’t be but half an hour, if that.”

“Business, at this hour?” Georgia frowned at her brother.

“My presses never stop. Therefore my problems arise at all hours.” It was a weak maxim Stuart quoted entirely too often.

“I am all too well acquainted with the notion,” she replied. “Very well, do what you must. I’ll be in the parlor searching out heroes.”

Her brother’s face darkened slightly. “Do find him, Georgia. I need to know who he is.”

“So do I.” She said a quick prayer that God would keep Stuart or anyone else from finding the hat and mask before Matthew did, and left Stuart to do whatever it was that needed doing “at all hours.”

Matthew was doubling back for his hat and mask when he saw that the terrace was not empty. Stuart was pacing it, and there was no sign of Matthew’s belongings. Georgia must have been clever enough to whisk them from sight in the nick of time. But why was Waterhouse out here when he had a houseful of guests to attend?

Matthew hung back in the shadows, watching. Stuart snapped his watch open and shut. Twice. He was meeting someone. Someone who was late, from the looks of his impatient frown. After a moment of two, Dexter Oakman walked out onto the terrace.

“Well,” barked Stuart the minute Oakman had shut the French doors behind him. “What’s the matter? I’m in the middle of something, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“There’s a problem,” said Oakman, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his balding forehead. It wasn’t that warm an evening, something else was making him sweat.

“Well, I
gathered
there was a problem. I doubt you pulled me out here just to compliment me on the decorations.” Stuart’s voice took on a snarl Matthew had not heard before.

“There’s a new policeman on the force. He’s the problem I told you about before. We haven’t been able to find a sufficient…incentive to get his cooperation. He’ll be on the docks Thursday when the shipment comes in.”

Incentive? Cooperation? Was Oakman talking about bribing someone? And whose shipment? Stuart’s? He had his fingers in dozens of businesses around the city—importing could easily be one of them. Or, worse yet, were they discussing one of Covington Enterprises’ own shipments?

“So offer him more money,” Stuart replied, as if it were as simple as that. “It’s taken me months to set this up. You know I can’t afford to have this one go wrong. So find his price and pay it. Covington’s got boxes coming in all the time. It shouldn’t pose that big a problem, Dex.” Stuart stared straight at Oakman, turning his back to Matthew in the process. From the look on Oakman’s face, Stuart’s expression must be deadly. “Your job is the easy part,” he snarled. “Three hours. In the middle of the night, for that matter. Just get the opium off the boat and get Covington markings on the crates. Everyone suspects the Chinese, so no one’s even looking our way.” Stuart threw down a white ribbon he was holding and swore liberally. “Even my sister could do this. Get it done or I’ll find someone else who can.”

“I will,” Oakman promised.

“Yes, you will. You will or it’ll be the last thing you do for me. Now get out of here, and I don’t want to hear about any more problems.” He waved Dexter Oakman away and cursed a bit more as the man fled off through the French doors. Stuart stood alone on the terrace for a minute, fuming, before he snatched up the ribbon again and left the terrace, muttering under his breath.

Matthew pushed out a breath. Dexter Oakman and Stuart Waterhouse? Trafficking? It seemed impossible to believe. He’d always assumed the men were friends, but what he saw tonight was not friendship.

It all clicked into place within seconds. The funds moving in and out of the books at odd places—they were to and from Stuart. The extra personnel hid payoffs. And for as many crates that came onto the docks under the Covington stamp, a few more, for something as small and disguisable as opium, would slip by with ease. Stuart was right—everyone assumed opium the territory of the Chinese. No one would be looking for a well-bred white man to be trafficking against their powerful smugglers. Matthew imagined the Chinese thugs called “highbinders” would be quite nasty to Stuart should they discover him muscling in on their dealings.

Covington Enterprises had been corrupted.

What’s more, Covington Enterprises had been corrupted by Dex Oakman working for Stuart Waterhouse. And who knew how many other Covington employees were under Stuart’s thumb? There must be more than Oakman by now. There’d be no end to the ugliness if this came to light. The weight of deceit Matthew had felt lifting off his shoulders just an hour earlier returned threefold.

His gut twisted. He’d just dispelled a lie, only to learn a far more gruesome truth.

Dear God,
he cried out in the silence of his heart,
what do I do now?

There were a dozen things he had to do. He had to get out of there and think—for a week, he guessed—about how to handle Covington Enterprises. He had to find a way to face Stuart Waterhouse calmly now that his stomach roiled in anger against the man—not to mention keep Dexter Oakman from suspecting he’d discovered something. He had to find a way to see Georgia again privately—although who knew what he’d say to her when he did. He had to go find Reverend Bauers and pray for guidance. He had to consult his father.

And all before Thursday. He sank down on his haunches at the base of a tree and shut his eyes. He’d read the story of Joshua and the walls of Jericho the other night. Another man facing an impossible challenge.
Could You please send one of those angels, Father? The army of the Lord would be rather handy right now.

It had to start with Georgia. And it couldn’t start with her unless he could see her. Bauers could arrange it more quickly than anyone. Tonight, even. Matthew hated to end tonight’s happiness with such an ugly blow. Still, he had loved her enough an hour ago to give her the truth no matter the cost, and he would not stop now. She was like his Bible, he thought as he straightened up and put his hand over the book underneath his shirt. One could cut an enormous chunk out of her, and she’d still be able to do more good than most people. He just never thought he’d be the one wielding the knife.