Masked by Moonlight Page 3

  The Englishman raised the paper again with a far gentler touch. “What is your opinion of your brother’s venture into fiction, Miss Waterhouse?”

  In all the hubbub about the story, Mr. Covington had been the first person to ask her opinion. And, perhaps most pleasing of all, he looked at though he really desired to know, and wasn’t just making polite conversation. Perhaps it would not be such a difficult favor to keep him entertained, as Stuart had asked.

  “It is one of the rare things Stuart and I agree on.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” he murmured, in such a way as to make Georgia wonder if he’d intended to say it aloud. There was something, a sort of puzzlement, coloring his words. He stared at her for the briefest of moments before shifting his attention to the fire. He had extraordinary eyes, Georgia thought. Dark blue, beyond indigo. As if God, forgetting that most dark-haired men had brown eyes, had given him blue eyes at birth, and then darkened the blue to cover the oversight. The inky blue-black of stormy waters. They strayed back to her for a moment, and she quickly looked away.

  “Who is this George Towers? A local writer?”

  “I know many things about the way my brother does business, Mr. Covington.”

  “But…”

  “But I wouldn’t be privy to half of them if I didn’t know the value of a secret.” Georgia allowed herself to hold his eyes for a moment. “Especially one that is becoming rather sought after.” People wanted to know who George Towers was. The office had received numerous inquiries over the course of the day. Georgia was almost heady with pleasure at readers’ response to her story. Having it be a secret only intensified the effect. She imagined she had looked like the cat that swallowed the canary all day.

  Stuart burst back into the room. “All is well—or at least until the next disaster. Thank you, Peach.” He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, preparing to return to the ladies in the salon.

  “Stay just a moment.” Stuart took her hand. “I want you to hear what our guest thinks of the Black Bandit.”

  “I’ve yet to finish the story, Waterhouse,” Covington protested. “You can’t very well ask me to comment when I’ve read only a handful of paragraphs.” He didn’t much care for the article. Georgia could tell. And she knew in a heartbeat what Stuart was going to do next. Covington didn’t stand a chance.

  “Well, then, read the thing.” Her brother smoothed out the crumpled paper and motioned to one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. “Better yet, read it aloud to all of us.”

  “Stuart…” Georgia began, thinking he was going a shade too far.

  “No, really, Peach. The test of any good story is how it sounds aloud. Covington, you’ve a fine voice—that accent and all. Why don’t you read it to us?”

  “I…”

  Stuart was having fun with her, Georgia knew. Giving her a chance to secretly enjoy her talent. It was a dreadful thing to do to a guest, especially one who clearly didn’t relish the prospect, but she could help herself no more than Stuart could. The opportunity to sit and watch people listen to her words was far too enticing. She wanted to hear him read it. Very much.

  “Please, Mr. Covington,” she found herself saying. “Indulge us.”

  “Men who refuse Stuart Waterhouse live to regret it,” teased Oakman, “generally in the next day’s headlines!”

  Covington knew he was cornered. Gathering his dignity, he sat down, took a deep breath and began to read the inaugural installment of the Black Bandit’s adventures.

  His voice flowed on, deep and musical. But there was an odd note in it, whether of shock or of fascination, she couldn’t tell. And his whole body seemed to be reacting to the story, albeit subtly. His hands clenched the margins, and he shifted his weight two or three times. He stumbled on the paragraph that described the Black Bandit as tall and lithe, dark and powerful.

  He put the issue down quickly as he finished, and Georgia thought, Well, here’s one reader not won over by the Black Bandit.

  Chapter Five

  Desperate for the sleep that continued to evade him, and determined not to set foot outside and risk any association whatsoever with any bandits, real or imagined, Matthew settled for swinging his fencing foil around the hotel room as quietly as possible that night. He tried to block and parry as softly as he could, since he’d already roused Thompson once by knocking over a water pitcher. Even so, Matthew’s final thrust skewered an item from the fruit basket on the sideboard.

  He hoisted the fruit high, its weight making the foil wobble slightly as a sticky stream of juice began sliding down the blade.

  Pathetic.

  His San Francisco visit was not going well. And if he didn’t sleep soon, he wasn’t going to have a lick of business sense by the time he visited the shipping docks tomorrow. Matthew thought it a cruel irony that while he was forced to spend his day listening to the sleep-inducing rhetoric of Dexter Oakman, the combination of a silly newspaper story and a stunning woman made nocturnal sleep impossible.

  He stared at the pair of Herald issues that lay on the table, taunting him. They were staring back, ganging up on him, their dark headlines glaring unblinkingly. No, he thought, nearly declaring it out loud, I will not read it again.

  It wasn’t as if he needed to. He’d reread the piece enough times that he could practically recite it. Checking over and over for hints and similarities, for any sign that George Towers had been hiding in some dark corner of that alley. No, it was impossible.

  Wasn’t it?

  Matthew took his handkerchief and wiped down the foil, licking sweet juice off one finger.

  Georgia Waterhouse. What was it about her that intrigued him so? Some of it was obvious. Her relationship with her brother fascinated Matthew. He’d known sibling teasing from his younger brother, David, but there was far more competition than companionship between them. David was highly critical of Matthew, the principal heir. Entirely too eager, he suspected, to have the position for himself. David and his father seemed to agree on so much in life. Matthew had long felt that Covington Senior had never quite forgiven his wife for having their sons in the wrong order.

  No, affection was a longtime stranger to the Covington household. In recent years the fighting had cooled to an impassionate, rigid tolerance.

  Stuart and Georgia, on the other hand, had something unique, an obvious but indefinable bond. As if they knew a secret the rest of the world would never share. Matthew had seen such a look flash between his twin cousins. Something beyond language or gesture.

  Then again, knowing Stuart Waterhouse’s social and professional prowess, chances were those two did know a few secrets the world might clamor for. Hadn’t she said she’d been “privy” to a few of Waterhouse’s “hidden assets”?

  A beautiful woman with big secrets. Perfect.

  The downstairs clock chimed three. Georgia adjusted her pillow for the thousandth time. Sleep rarely eluded her, and she found this fit of wakefulness annoying. Try as she might, even with the help of her favorite psalms, her mind refused to quiet itself for the night.

  Granted, it had been a splendid day. Spending hours watching people carry the Herald to and fro, listening to visitors at the newspaper office gossip and wonder about George Towers and his captivating Bandit.

  “My captivating bandit,” she declared to the curtain fringe, which offered soft, frilly nods in the breeze. She cast a sheepish glance heavenward. “Well, ours. Thank you, Father,” she sighed, “for using Stuart and me in such a…satisfying way. Even if Stuart doesn’t see it as such.”

  Georgia rolled over and elected to take stock of the evening. Entertaining wasn’t really her gift, so perhaps analyzing the dinner and its guests might sufficiently bore her that she could sleep. She was a competent enough hostess—goodness knows Stuart invited people over constantly—but not the kind whose soirees made the papers. At least not without her brother’s direct intervention. He usually whipped up a dramatic paragra
ph or two when the mood struck him, more for the titillation of his dinner guests than any further need to see his name in print. Georgia knew full well it was Stuart’s power, and not her social prowess, that lured guests to the table. In truth, that suited her fine.

  The Oakmans were dull but useful, present tonight because of their association with Covington Enterprises, Georgia guessed. No, it was clear Stuart had focused his attention on Matthew Covington. Aside from her brother’s passion for all things English, Georgia guessed he’d sought out Covington—and asked that she do the same—for far more than his accent. The name Covington was familiar to businessmen in San Francisco. Their import holdings were considerable; Stuart told her that Covington Dry Goods kept half the finer stores in San Francisco stocked with European products. Stuart deemed them important enough that he made sure any Covington representative who came to town appeared at the Waterhouse table. The elder Covington had even been to dinner once, although a long time ago. Georgia didn’t remember him looking like the man who’d come to dinner tonight.

  What she’d noticed most about Matthew Covington was the extraordinary command he had of his body, which was athletic and graceful. Stuart galloped around a room, Oakman toddled, but Matthew Covington strode. It seemed an odd thing to notice—not like hair or eyes or a smile or such—but it struck her in a way she couldn’t put a name to.

  Georgia wondered how high those British eyebrows would go if he knew a woman had come up with the story of the Black Bandit. And penned it.

  The clock chimed half past. No reasonable woman would be up at three-thirty in the morning considering her publishing strategies.

  Well, then, she thought as she reached for her wrap, if Georgia Waterhouse oughtn’t to be up, perhaps George Towers can be awake.

  She smiled as the opening sentence came to her. Why not?

  Dipping her pen, she began:

  “The Black Bandit finished cleaning his sword as the sun dawned over the mountains. Sleep had eluded him that night….”

  “I had one hundred seventy-three reasons to decline your brother’s invitation,” Matthew said when he escorted Miss Waterhouse to an event a few days later.

  Why he chose this to be the first thing out of his mouth when she entered the parlor, he couldn’t say. He’d meant it as a compliment, but as the words escaped his lips he realized how insulting they could be.

  Fine opener, Covington. Did you leave your manners in England?

  Thankfully, she seemed to guess his intent—and his instant regret—for a small grin played across her face. Her response pleased him.

  “Yet, at the moment,” he continued in complete honesty, “I can’t recall a single one of them.”

  “A clever save, Mr. Covington. Perhaps you might fare better if you told me why you said yes,” she countered, adjusting the ribbon on her hat.

  “First off, it’s been made quite clear to me that one takes one’s life into one’s own hands when declining Stuart Waterhouse.”

  “True.”

  “And secondly, you make infinitely better company than sums and inventories.”

  She scowled. “I’m afraid I don’t find that much of a compliment. In my opinion, most of the world makes better company than sums and inventories.”

  “It depends on the sums,” replied Matthew, holding the door open for her as they stepped out into the afternoon light, “and very little of most of the world could convince me to endure a musicale.”

  “Endure? But it’s Gilbert and Sullivan. At Tivoli Gardens, no less. Stuart’s favorite—and very British.”

  Matthew grimaced and offered her his elbow. “My point exactly. I don’t like tea, either, you know.”

  She laughed. A lovely, bright laugh. “Well, there will be some of that, but I expect Stuart might be able to find you a cider. He’ll be joining us a little while after the concert starts. Some paper emergency.” She sighed. “There’s always some paper emergency.”

  It was a grand spring day. Matthew felt the crisp bay breeze—and the delightful company—lift his spirits. Admit it or not, he’d been wondering how he could see her again. He’d have said yes if Stuart had asked him to escort Georgia to a quilting bee. “I expect your brother thrives on crises, doesn’t he?”

  “He seems to. Anything less would bore him.”

  “Stuart Waterhouse bored. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.” Matthew gave a chuckle, thinking of how the man had sped around the room at the dinner party. How he seemed to everywhere at once, and hardly ever sat down.

  Georgia suddenly stopped walking. She turned and looked up at Matthew with intensity, the sun playing across her hair and cheeks. “I spend a tremendous amount of time talking about Stuart, Mr. Covington.” She lowered her eyes, as if her own comment caught her by surprise. “I…I should like it if that were not the case with you.”

  Matthew gazed at her, a sudden sympathy filling him. “I would like that very much.” Yes, very much.

  She broke the spell, picking up the pace again, a bit flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me say that.”

  “I do.” It was Matthew who stopped this time. “You’re much different than he. But people lump you together just the same. I’ve been lumped together with my father for ages, and we couldn’t be more different. Yet everyone assumes I’m just like him. I have to admit I don’t always enjoy the comparison.”

  “So you understand,” she murmured quietly, but said no more.

  Chapter Six

  It seemed ages before the portly soprano and her equally portly tenor husband ended their first act. Matthew wondered how the usually fidgety Stuart could sit transfixed by such music, but he was clearly enjoying himself.

  “Today’s edition, Peach,” he announced as he pulled a paper from under his arm at the intermission. “I’ll go fetch us drinks.”

  Georgia folded the pages directly to the back cover. “Ah, here it is,” she said. She began to read.

  Before he could stop himself, Matthew leaned over her shoulder to peer at the headline: Returning by Demand: Another Episode of the Black Bandit’s Adventures. He read on, drawn in despite himself.

  “The Black Bandit finished cleaning his sword as the sun dawned over the mountains. Sleep had eluded him that night, as it had many nights of late. The exertion of his battles, the welcome partnership of arm and whip, the song of the sword as it sliced the night air—these things eased his spirits. But lately, even they had failed to give him rest.”

  Matthew blinked and stared.

  Blinked again. Read and reread, his throat tightening.

  It was all there. Again. As if George Towers had somehow crept inside his life. How could someone he’d never met put words to his thoughts with such wrenching eloquence? Towers seemed to understand the solace sought in exertion—but the two of them had never met. Sleep surely eluded many men, but how many understood the art of weaponry such as swords and whips? Who was this man?

  Matthew turned away. No, the connections weren’t there. The tension and the sleeplessness must have drawn his nerves too tight.

  As he turned back, he saw that Georgia was still entranced by the story. He stared at her, sensing how completely opposite their reactions had been. Matthew wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and that confounding piece of newsprint. She, on the other hand, looked as if she would crawl into the story if she could.

  She must have sensed his stare, for she glanced up. Her eyes had a soft quality, as if she’d been someplace faraway and wonderful. Matthew tried to soften his own expression, but it was too late. She had seen his reaction—the fact registered on her face.

  “You’re not fond of the Bandit stories, are you, Mr. Covington?” Matthew swore there was disappointment in her voice.

  “No, it’s not that.” He gulped almost instinctively, then groped for some reasonable explanation to give her, wanting to banish the gulf that had just stretched between them. “They’re a bit…overwrought…for my taste.”

&nbs
p; “I see.” Her words were cool and clipped.

  “I’m sure there are many people who enjoy such tales,” he stated, trying to salvage the conversation. But the damage had been done. Why did she seem to care so much about what he thought? Why did it bother him so to disappoint her? Matthew opened his mouth to say more, then shut it with a sigh, convinced that anything he added would only worsen the situation. Well, Covington, you’ve botched that one thoroughly. Where’s Stuart with those drinks?

  Georgia’s hand tightened around the newsprint. She’d wanted him to like it. Which was nonsense, really. He hadn’t enjoyed the first episode, so why should he suddenly relish the second? It was even more effusive than the first.

  But she wanted him to like it. Her disappointment was as sharp as it was surprising. She drank her tea in silence while the men found something acutely businesslike to discuss.

  She had been sorry when her brother sat between her and Matthew Covington before, but now was grateful to have Stuart between them for the second act. Yet, sure enough, Stuart pleaded yet another crisis once the applause ended, and asked Matthew to see her home. In his usual obliviousness to other people’s feelings, her brother focused solely on his goal: ensuring that Georgia and Matthew saw a good deal of each other. She’d have to put a stop to that soon, favor or no favor.

  They spent most of the walk home engaged in forced bursts of small talk, grasping for the close atmosphere they’d enjoyed earlier. It seemed just beyond their reach. By the time they turned the final corner to her house, the gaps of silence grew uncomfortable.

  Ten steps farther he stopped. He fiddled with his pockets some more, then looked up at her and said, “Would you…would you like me to read you the episode? You said you enjoyed it so much the other night at dinner. There’s been so much rain, it seems a shame to go inside when the park looks so inviting.” She watched him fumble, trying to cover his all-too-obvious desire to set things right between them. “I suppose we don’t even need to discuss anything at all, just take in the view and…”