Masked by Moonlight (2 page)

“G
eorgia, you always get these kinds of ideas after you’ve been to Grace House.”

Georgia stared at her brother. They sat talking over breakfast in the family dining room. The sun had overpowered the morning fog, to produce a victorious wash of bright light. Unlike the estate’s massive formal dining hall, this was a warm and comfortable room. Georgia had seen to its welcoming palette of honey-colored wood, gold and tan wallpaper, with a few hints of green and burgundy in various accents. She loved that the petit point chair cushions were their late mother’s needlework. That the impressive gold candlesticks and clock on the fireplace mantel had been a favorite of their late father’s. Even though they were long gone, this dining room was one of the places she most felt her parents’ presence. Perhaps that’s why she had chosen to launch her extraordinary plan over breakfast here.

“That place has cost me thousands of dollars in your brand of philanthropy. They’ve got you hoodwinked,” her brother was saying.

Georgia gathered strength from the room around her and silently held her ground. Or, as she liked to think of it, she held ground for God.

Stuart finally looked up from his paper. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” With one hand she instinctively gripped the cushioned arm of her chair, as if her mother’s needlework would support her cause.

“Peach, I can’t just run something like that in the
Herald,”
said her brother, who often called her Peach, especially when being difficult. “You know that.”

“You run whatever you please in that paper, Stuart. Facts or no facts.” Georgia knew she had him there. Stuart Waterhouse ran a highly successful but highly disreputable paper.

“Peach,” he moaned at her display of determination, “be reasonable. We’ve already had a Black Bandit Bart. People aren’t going to believe that some man with the same name as that stagecoach robber has suddenly sprung up to play the noble hero. They aren’t going to believe it
at all.
It’s
fiction.”

Fiction.
How funny of him to use such a term. She wondered what he called half of his paper’s contents, since Georgia knew the term “fact” hardly applied. Quite clearly, Stuart viewed fiction as something beyond his dealings, even though Georgia imagined half of San Francisco might think otherwise.

“I know very well what it is. And believe me, Stuart, if I had a set of good deeds for your reporters, I’d tell you. But, as you so often point out, this city seems steeped in bad news. And you gave Black Bandit Bart a lot of coverage, so why not a new Black Bandit?”

Stuart rolled his eyes. “Oh come now, Georgia, times aren’t as bad as all that.”

“Aren’t they? Have you visited Grace House? Seen what kind of people come there asking for help? Things are going from bad to worse lately. You know it. I worry that you thrive on it, for goodness’ sake.” She reached for the morning’s edition of the
Herald,
which lay on the table between them. The cool black-and-white newsprint stood out against the honey-toned wood that surrounded them.

Georgia unfolded the paper and held it up to her brother. “I don’t see a piece of good news in here, Stuart. Can you show me even one story?”

He evaded her challenge, as she knew he would. “I’m not going tit for tat with you on this.” He rose and walked to the window, slipping his hands inside the pockets of his crisp gray trousers. He was a fastidious dresser, her brother. He always looked sharp and strong, his meticulously tailored coat rarely unbuttoned. “Write all the stories you like, tell tales to your heart’s content,” he said, gazing out the window. “Just don’t ask me to run them in the
Herald.”

The servants brought in breakfast, interrupting the exchange. The siblings ate in silence, he thinking he’d ended the conversation, she regrouping for another attempt.

When he’d finished the last of his eggs, Georgia slid the paper over to his side of the table once more. She would not back down. Not again. “We don’t have any good news, Stuart. We’re going to have to make our own. Fiction reminds people of what
could
be. Stories touch their hearts. This city isn’t suffering from a lack of facts. Folks already have more than enough facts to fill their heads. It’s suffering from a lack of heart. A lack of faith. Stories reach that part of us.”

Stuart’s expression told her she was speaking about things he neither understood nor valued. He ran his empire, and cared little for lingering over breakfast to discuss San Francisco’s moral failings.

He didn’t concern himself with the citizens’ hearts or souls.

Their wallets, however, commanded his full attention.

Georgia looked at the candlesticks, massive and ornate. Her father had brought them back from a trip because he’d felt they caught one’s eye. They were, in fact, the first thing anyone noticed when entering the room. She needed to catch her brother’s eye, then, and put this in terms he could appreciate. She altered the tone of her voice.

“If there’s one thing you know, Stuart, it’s how to give your readers what they want.” She handed him a small stack of handwritten pages. “Read this. Just read it once, that’s all I’m asking.” She sent up a prayer that he would do so. “See what those famous instincts of yours tell you about what people might think of this.”

Stuart reached for a piece of toast and glared at her.

She did her best to glare back.
Lord, please let him read it. Only You can do this.

Slowly, Stuart’s hand moved toward the pages. She straightened her spine, trying to look as if she’d never leave the breakfast table until he granted her request. If the sun could conquer the fog this morning, she could stand up to Stuart.

He took hold of the pages while biting into his toast.

Georgia waited.
Show him, Lord. Let him see it. See what I see.

She studied her brother’s face as he began to read. After a paragraph or two, Stuart stopped chewing. He let out a little humming sound as he turned the page.

“It’s fine work, but I…”

“You ought to have thought of this yourself, Stuart. You ought to have
written
it yourself. It would do you a world of good to pen something that might actually be categorized as…uplifting.”

Stuart dismissed the idea with a snort. “I haven’t any talent for
this
sort of thing.” He put down the toast, half-eaten, and emptied his coffee cup instead. “‘Uplifting’ doesn’t sell.”

Georgia tried out her newfound glare once more. “But you know this will sell. And don’t try to deny it—I see it on your face. Everyone needs a hero. And if they need one bad enough, he doesn’t even have to be real. That little boy at Grace House made up his own personal hero so he’d believe he had someone looking out for him. So he could believe that good might just conquer evil, after all. Hold up a little piece of good for once, Stuart. It won’t hurt you. And won’t cost you a dime.”

Her brother was right in one respect: he
couldn’t
have written it. There was nothing ideological about Stuart. He’d built a fortune on his keen grasp of the public’s insatiable hunger for news.
His
brand of news. Sharp, eye-catching, unabashedly partisan news. In all honesty, her brother’s outlandish character sold as many papers as his headlines. Stuart Waterhouse wasn’t exactly known for his respect of facts, but his opinions were the stuff of legend.

Well, she could be a legendary Waterhouse, too. And Georgia knew, just as God did, that the public’s appetite for something good was just as strong as its craving for slander.

“Run it, Stuart. One installment. As a favor to me.”

“Georgia, I’m not—”

“Please, Stuart. For me.”

A wry smile crept across his face, and she knew she had him. “Oh, very well, then, I’ll run it.”

Thank you, Father!

“On two conditions.”

Well, if she hadn’t known that was coming, it was her own fault. She should have guessed there’d be
conditions.

Stuart held up one finger. “Pen name.”

“But…”

“
Male
pen name,” he asserted.

So the victory goes to a George, not a Georgia, hmm?
She rolled the idea over in her mind and decided that the prospect might be acceptable. As unconventional as Stuart could be, even
he
knew that writing as a man was a safer idea. Still, would it be deceitful? Georgia looked at the
Herald,
lying crisp and bright on the table between them. Tomorrow’s paper would contain her story.
Her story.
Even “George” couldn’t dampen the thrill in that. She waited for some sense of a heavenly warning, but none came. Just the joy of seeing the story come to light. That was confirmation enough for now.

She nodded.

“And second, speaking of favors, I’m having someone over to dinner tomorrow night….”

That
one Georgia had seen coming a mile off.

“W
ell, hang me, Peach, you really can turn a phrase. Astounding.” Stuart had actually interrupted his breakfast to read her the Bandit’s debut installment. “How does it feel,
Mr. George Towers,
to have your dashing hero introduced to the world?”

Georgia couldn’t deny her joy. Nor could she deny the blatant admiration in Stuart’s voice as he read the piece. It was identical to the handwritten words he’d read yesterday, but the man’s love affair with ink and newsprint was overwhelming. It struck Georgia that her Bandit was her brother’s exact opposite: larger than life, just like him, but a man of impeccable heroic morals, where Stuart was a man of…Perhaps it was more polite to say his morals were rather in question.

Her Bandit was a shamelessly inspirational hero. A dark and brooding champion. Georgia had taken the seed of an idea planted by Quinn and his fantastic tale, woven in a touch of Robin Hood, and then spiced it with the distinct grandiosity of the American West. She envisioned him like King David in his glory: distant and handsome, strong, compelled by an unshakable code of justice. Like all good heroes, he had the knack of sweeping in just when all hope seemed lost.

“Here’s the way I see it, Peach. Do you notice where it’s placed? On the back page here? I’ve posted your story right where someone else can see it while a man reads the paper.” Stuart held up the issue in a classic pose, then peeked above it at Georgia. “You can read about your hero while I read the other pages. I see wives across San Francisco catching a glimpse of our Bandit while their husbands scan the business column. Brilliant, don’t you think? Our man George ought to be a hit by week’s end.”

Georgia eyed her brother. Why did it surprise her that he was managing to capitalize on this? Only Stuart could take something so noble and turn it into a way to sell more papers. Not to mention his sudden partnership in the idea.
Our
Bandit?
Our
man George?

“It’s how Dickens got his start, you know,” offered Stuart in response to her look. “Serialized in the dailies.”

Georgia was not Dickens. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about being George Towers. She’d prayed over it for hours after her agreement, waiting for God to put His foot down and end the charade. Instead, she continued to feel as though God had opened this window and wasn’t in any hurry to shut it. It was an idea born of good intentions, given directly to her by the Almighty—or so it felt. But it was still a deception of sorts. One couldn’t ignore Stuart’s manipulation of her, nor their partnered manipulation of the public’s imagination.

But oh, there it was. Sprung to life in the
Herald
’s wonderfully immortal ink. Sparking some hope in the troublesome world that was San Francisco these days. She thought of the spark in Quinn’s eyes.

“Peach? You’ve got that far-off look again. I always worry when you look like that. I’m not always fond of what shows up afterward.”

Georgia set her teacup down with a resolute clink and stared straight into Stuart’s inquiring eyes. “Stuart, thank you.”

“My pleasure. For what?”

“For being important.”

He merely returned her stare, and she could watch him resign himself to the oddities of his sister. And that’s precisely how Stuart viewed Georgia’s faith: as one of her oddities. “Speaking of my vast importance—not to mention that favor you owe me—Matthew Covington’s coming to dinner tonight.”

“Covington? The dry goods company?” Georgia surveyed the flowers brought in for tonight’s dinner table. They were almost right. Not enough bright colors. The gardener was forever forcing pastels on her.

“He’s that English fellow I was telling you about,” replied Stuart, plucking a blossom from the center of the cuttings for his own lapel. “The flesh-and-blood heir to that dry goods company. He’s here doing the family duty, showing up to play at keeping his eye on things.”

“And, of course, you asked him to dinner.”

Stuart launched into a chorus from Gilbert and Sullivan.

Just before he ducked around the corner, Stuart looked back at her. “He’s vastly important and very wealthy. I want him to have a grand time while he’s here. That’s where you come in. Fire up your charms, Peach, I want the man dazzled.”

Oh yes, with Stuart there was always a deal.

Matthew eyed his valet as the old man held up the remains of a newspaper. Pages had been sliced to ribbons. “You do know, sir,” said Thompson wearily, “that a large portion of Englishmen
sleep
at night?”

“Yes, Thompson,” he replied, finishing up his collar, “I’m well aware of that. But no one has yet expired from a bout of sleeplessness, so I gather I’m safe to live another day.” He shrugged into the coat Thompson held out, offering the most challenging look he could muster. The old man merely opened the door and handed Matthew a thick file, looking as if he might nap the minute Matthew left the room.

“Remember your dinner engagement at Stuart Waterhouse’s home this evening. Shall I order up a double set of tonight’s papers, sir, so you can read them
and
duel them?”

Try as he might, Matthew couldn’t think of a clever enough response. His valet was always getting the last word. Probably what kept him alive all these years.

As Matthew boarded the carriage bound for the Covington Enterprises offices, Matthew’s family duty spread before him like a dull column of orderly figures. He merely had to inspect what was presented and tally up the sum. There seemed so little art to it. Like the predictable shot of a rifle. None of the arc or parry he found in the foil or the whip. Pull. Aim. Shoot. Obey.

“How are you finding San Francisco, Mr. Covington?”

“Lovely, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying your stay.” Miss Waterhouse gave him a charming smile. “San Francisco is not…everyone’s taste,” she continued. “I’m afraid we’ve not quite grown into our big-city shoes.”

“What my sister means is that we’re still a bit rough around the edges, Covington,” interjected Stuart.

“Not at all, Waterhouse.” Matthew forced his gaze away from the man’s sister. “I find it refreshing to be someplace where everything isn’t hundreds of years old. Tell me, Miss Waterhouse, aside from the very formidable task of keeping an eye on your brother, how do you spend your days?”

She caught the jest, and smiled at him. Her eyes turned up just enough at the corners to give the impression that she was keeping a secret.

“Attending to Stuart’s conscience is only one of many interests, Mr. Covington. I play the harp, and I work a great deal with Grace House, our local mission. It serves the city’s many needy families. But you are correct—Stuart is my most pressing cause.”

“I spend hours trying to outwit my sister, Covington.” Stuart gave her a look that held both boundless annoyance and deep affection.

“All of San Francisco thanks you for your efforts, Georgia,” replied another of the evening’s dozen guests, Covington Enterprises’ local manager, Dexter Oakman.

“And what would you say to this new fascination of ours, Covington?” asked Stuart. “Have you got any such heroes in Britain?”

“Pardon?”

“Robin Hood!” Oakman chimed in behind a mouthful of potatoes. “He’s an English hero, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he was,” Matthew answered carefully. “The legend overshadows the real man, but often the best heroes are embellished, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Covington,” Miss Waterhouse replied. “I quite disagree. The very finest heroes are the ones that aren’t fictionalized.”

“Fine, perhaps, but exceedingly rare,” Matthew stated.

His hostess held an indefinable look in her eye as she murmured, “I would not argue with you there.”

Stuart lifted his glass. “To heroes, then.”

“Will we drink to all of them, or just this new fellow in your paper, Stuart?” inquired Oakman.

He rolled his eyes. “Drink to the Bandit if you must, but I’d much rather you drink to me.”

“One must first do something heroic, Stuart,” teased his sister.

He sighed dramatically. “To be so misunderstood.”

“Is the fate of most great men,” Matthew finished for him.

“Ah, Covington, I knew you’d come through for me. To our Bandit, then, and great—or should I say greatly misunderstood—heroes everywhere.”

“And what do you think of our Bandit?” asked Mrs. Oakman, a round, rather witless-looking woman who had been engrossed in the minute dissection of her pork for most of the meal.

“Bandit, Mrs. Oakman?”

Stuart made a gesture as though he’d been stabbed through the heart. “I’m wounded, Mr. Covington. You don’t read my paper?”

Well, that had been foolish. Thompson had truly seen to it that two copies came up to the room, but Matthew had fallen asleep over them, too exhausted to read the issue. And now Waterhouse knew. This trip was supposed to be Matthew’s declaration that he could carry the family name with respect and reserve. He didn’t need Georgia Waterhouse’s fascinating eyes spurring him on to what his father called “his fantastic talent for making a spectacle of himself.” Oh, the evening had taken a bad turn.

“Forgive me, Mr. Waterhouse. I pledge my loyal reader-ship for the rest of my visit.” It wasn’t a very good recovery, but it would have to do.

Evidently not one to miss an opportunity, Stuart handed him a copy of the
Herald
the minute dinner had ended. Folded over to a back page, where some sort of serialized story had been printed.

Matthew read the first four paragraphs.

What?!

He quickly read them again, squelching the urge to gasp aloud.