Masked by Moonlight

She was slim and graceful. Her skin was the palest he’d ever seen, but it lacked the blue tint that lurked in so many of London’s pale complexions. No, hers was infused with rose and gold.

Oh, Covington, his brain cautioned, now’s hardly the time.

Stuart left the room barking instructions for Georgia to stay and seek Mr. Covington’s opinion of his paper. The Englishman had the newspaper in quite a grip and for some reason she noticed his thumb was lying across the “George” of her byline.

“It seems my brother’s not won the instant subscriber he was expecting, Mr. Covington.”

“Pardon?” their guest swallowed.

“I gather you’re not fond of the Herald?”

“Why would you say that?” he replied quickly.

“You’re holding it as if it were a goose you planned to behead for supper.”

It proved an effective metaphor. Covington made such a show of loosening his grasp on the paper that he nearly dropped it. Dexter Oakman laughed.

“Perhaps I should say I found it rather gripping reading,” Covington said wryly.

She smiled. “Stuart would like that.”

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.”