Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  Reverend Bauers huffed and pushed the packet toward Georgia. “Open it for him, will you, child? I’d just as soon that wounded arm stayed resting on the table, Covington.”

  Georgia opened the wrinkled brown paper—on its sixth or seventh use, she mused—to reveal a small Bible. It was old and well used, and had a chunk missing from the middle, as if someone had carved a bite out of it, like a steak. The pages had been cut clean through to somewhere in the Psalms.

  “Seen a bit of wear, this Bible has,” said the reverend.

  Georgia handed the small, leather-bound book across the table to Mr. Covington, who held it up and squinted at the cover. “Looks as though someone took a knife to this,” he remarked.

  Reverend Bauers chuckled. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened. I wore that Bible in my breast pocket throughout my travels in the islands. I served our Lord setting up no fewer than four churches in Hawaii. We did not always get the warmest of greetings.” He pointed to the gap. “A spear thrown at my heart took out that bit. Saved my life, it did.”

  He motioned for Georgia to search the coat she was wearing, and sure enough, in the breast pocket she found a small Bible nearly identical to the one Mr. Covington was holding. Only this one had a black leather binding and was still intact.

  “I’ve taken to always wearing one over my heart. And I’ve been looking to pass this on to the right man ever since.” The reverend paused and gazed at his guest. “I think it ought to be you, Covington.”

  “I can’t accept this. It saved your life.”

  “You saved Grace House from theft, my son. And came out much worse for your effort. No, no, I’ll not be refused. You must have this, I insist.”

  Covington looked at Georgia. “I implore you, Miss Waterhouse, reason with him. It’s far too dear a gift. I simply can’t accept it.” He slid the Bible across the table toward her.

  She put out her hand to stopped him. “I would think it’s become all too clear to you by now that Reverend Bauers cannot be refused. Accept the gift with gratitude, Mr. Covington. After all, as the reverend is all too fond of saying, God is on his side.” As she spoke, Georgia felt something very close to a wink—the sort of playful glance she would give Stuart over the head of a dull dinner guest—spark in her eyes. It lasted a fraction of a second—a heartbeat, really—but seemed to stretch on in time. Their hands lingered on either end of the Holy Book, and she had the sensation of something important transpiring. It was nothing she could name or even really recognize; rather, the sort of flash one would put down to an overactive imagination or insufficient sleep. A “hunch,” Stuart would have called it.

  But he would have been wrong. It was something else entirely.

  Reverend Bauers might have called it “the wind of the Spirit,” but that would not be entirely correct, either.

  Georgia spent the entire carriage ride home, and the ensuing afternoon sequestered in her rooms, trying to put a name to it.

  Some part of her already knew.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stuart, how could you?

  Georgia roamed through the house, fuming. For a moment she stopped in the dining room, but she had no taste for breakfast. Clutching the offending newspaper, she headed toward the parlor.

  I cannot believe you’ve done this!

  She pushed through the enormous double doors and stood in the center of the opulent room. It seemed stifling. Even though she’d chosen many of the furnishings, because Stuart had no patience for such things, she could see none of her own touches. Stuart’s character was all over the house. He was everywhere, and Georgia seemed invisible. Frowning, she spun on her heels, heading toward his study.

  He’d done the unthinkable. Betrayed their agreement in the worst way. She simply stood in the doorway, betrayal choking down all the words she wanted to say.

  “Oh,” he said after what seemed like hours, finally noticing her presence. How could he look up from his papers like that, as if she’d just breezed into the room to ask about the weather? “So you’ve seen it?” His voice was casual, almost dismissive. It incensed her.

  She dropped the paper onto his desk, astounded that he—her own brother—couldn’t see the pain he’d caused her. “How could you?” she finally asked, sounding so weak she wanted to kick herself.

  He sighed, more in frustration than sympathy. “I own the paper, Peach. And I edit all my writers. Why should you be any different?”

  It stung beyond her ability to describe. He would never see the enormity of what he had done. Why had she expected to be exempt from Stuart’s legendary meddling?

  “Because I am different,” she retorted, wishing she had a more clever argument. “You added to my story. Something silly that shouldn’t ever have been in there.”

  “Embellished. I embellished. It needed something to lighten up all that drama. Really. Carrying a Bible over his heart? With a knife mark in it? It was too much. You should be glad I didn’t cut that part out altogether. I had to give the readers something a little more real. And you hadn’t given him a calling card yet.”

  “A what?”

  “A calling card. A sign that the Black Bandit had been there. It’s in every good story, like a signature. Terribly dramatic. People will love it.”

  “A white ribbon nailed to a tree?” In Stuart’s version, the Bandit had left a white ribbon nailed to the tree above the villain’s head. Georgia found it ridiculous. As if her mysterious hero was wandering the streets of San Francisco with ribbon and tacks in his pocket like a hatmaker.

  “Well, black seemed too morbid. It’s a delicious irony, the Black Bandit leaving a white ribbon. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  She appreciated nothing of the sort. “You could have asked.” Georgia had taken this astounding risk, reached for this impossible dream, and he’d run over her. Like he ran over everyone. Lord, how could You let this happen? I was so certain this came from You. And now…

  “Trust me. It’ll run like wildfire.” His condescending tone sliced at her—not because he was being deliberately cruel, but because he truly had no idea how much he’d hurt her. “You’ll see,” he said, returning his eyes to his work. “I’m very good at what I do.”

  Yes, Stuart, you’re very good at what you do. She stood planted in the doorway, paralyzed with frustration at not being able to tell him how she really felt.

  But would that change anything? Stuart would not suddenly soften his tactics because she had been the target this time. The paper was out. The calling card had been added. Her hero had been tainted by her brother’s never-ending exploitation of everything he touched. Why had she expected better of him?

  “You could have asked me to add a calling card of my own design,” she said after a long pause, disgusted with the weakness of her voice.

  “I don’t ask,” Stuart declared, obviously finding her suggestion ridiculous. “Not anyone. Not even you.”

  Matthew stared at the six columns before him, absent-mindedly feeling for the bandage knotted under his shirtsleeve. He kept seeing the face of Georgia Waterhouse, her pale lashes resting against alabaster cheeks, her head tilted against the sturdy back of the chair, her creamy fist still clenched around the handkerchief. It was absurd that he found her so stunning in a dead faint. One does not, after all, look one’s best when keeling over. She had “fainted in his best interest,” as he’d put it when he recounted the entire morning’s events to an astounded Thompson—yes, visibly astounded, and that was worth something! The whole incident endeared Miss Waterhouse to him.

  Matthew did omit one detail to Thompson. He found he did not want to speak of the small, battle-sliced Bible that the reverend had handed him with such unsettling reverence. At first, Matthew thought his reluctance to accept the token was born of the clergyman’s great affection for it—he’d not merited so dear a gift from someone he’d just met. As he carried it home, he realized that the reluctance came from the feeling that he was standing on a very slippery slope.
Had things not come to such dire ends with the whip, Matthew confessed he more than once thought to hide the Bible under his blankets.

  When he opened the morning paper, he wished he had.

  Chapter Twelve

  There it was in the newest episode of the hero’s adventures: the Black Bandit and his own battle-scarred Bible. It could only mean Stuart Waterhouse was writing the Bandit stories himself. Given what Matthew knew of him, it was easy to believe Waterhouse penned his paper’s greatest sensation. Georgia must have told him the story of the Bible, and he’d used it in the Bandit’s adventures. A foolish act, as it gave away his identity.

  Or did it? Perhaps Stuart wasn’t as foolhardy as he seemed. Only three people in the world knew the source of the tale, and none of them had any interest in angering Stuart Waterhouse.

  “Mr. Covington, sir?” A bright-faced clerk rapped on his office door. Matthew set down his pen and looked up from the ledgers. “There’s a Reverend Bauers here to see you.”

  So someone else has been surprised by the morning paper, Matthew thought as he stood up and pulled off the black sleeves that protected his shirt from the ledger ink. He harbored a moment’s ingratitude toward the reverend as the sleeve bumped painfully over his wound. Crude as the stitches were, he found he couldn’t bring himself to have the wound redone by another surgeon. Not only would it be embarrassing to have to recount how one small street urchin had bested him in a fight and skewered his arm, but Matthew was certain the reverend would be coming to check on his “patient,” and would feel disappointed that he had chosen to seek care elsewhere. Matthew’s father was always boasting about the ghastly war scar on his left shoulder, and now Matthew had a ghastly scar of his own to boast about. As to its source, well, perhaps he’d omit some of the less heroic details when he told his father.

  “Covington,” Bauers called as he bustled into the room. He carried, not surprisingly, a copy of the Herald, as well as a small bag Matthew was sure presaged further medical atrocities yet to be endured. “How are you, my son?” The reverend pointed to his arm. “Healing well?”

  “I had all but put the incident behind me,” Matthew lied. “That is, until I read the morning paper. Seems we share a bit of the Black Bandit legend now, don’t we? Do sit down.” He came around his desk and motioned for the reverend to take one of the high-backed chairs that faced his desk.

  “I suspected Mr. Waterhouse all along,” Reverend Bauers said in a hushed voice as he eased his considerable frame into the chair. “Now we can be certain, can’t we?” By his expression, Bauers enjoyed his newfound secret celebrity. “I must say I never thought I’d see the day when Stuart Waterhouse wrote about the Bible. God is full of splendid surprises.” He chuckled, patting the folded paper on his lap.

  “Will you reveal him?” Matthew asked, welcoming any topic that kept Reverend Bauers from opening that bag. Diversionary, yes, but he was curious to know what the reverend planned to do regarding Stuart. Several of the “men of God” Matthew had encountered back in England wouldn’t hesitate to parlay such a secret into several sizable contributions if they found themselves in the clergyman’s position. Everyone knew George Towers didn’t really exist, but part of the Black Bandit story’s attraction was its mysterious author. Stuart knew the mystery helped line his pockets, and he probably would consent to a few “acts of charity” to preserve it. Still, Matthew doubted the reverend would be the kind of man to pursue extortion, even for the sake of his ragged little flock.

  “Oh, I suppose there’s some that would try to use it for their own gain,” Bauers replied, echoing Matthew’s thoughts. “I’m sure if I went to see Mr. Waterhouse, I would come away with several tidy gifts. I confess I thought of it, for an instant, last night when yet another chair broke in the dining room. I find myself having great fun with the secret of it all, however. And if it means Stuart Waterhouse will actually have to pen the word Bible a few more times, then I am all for letting him run with our tale.” The clergyman leaned close. “Ah, but Mr. Covington, could you not expose him as easily as I? After all, you’ve got the Bible now. I do wonder what the good Lord has in the offing with this one.”

  Matthew had not yet considered the idea of God somehow placing this particular Bible in his particular hands. It was an odd, squeamish thought to entertain. “What do you make of the Waterhouse family, Reverend? Did you know Georgia and Stuart’s parents at all?”

  Bauers either took the bait or chose not to recognize the diversion. “Alex and Audrey Waterhouse? No, but one hears things. I know Alex was the one to move the family business away from shipping into a variety of other interests, not the least of which is the newspaper Stuart now runs. Mrs. Waterhouse, from what I’ve been told, was a very great woman. Much like Georgia, I think. Very strong faith and a good, strong spirit. I’m not at all sure what she’d think of Stuart these days.”

  Matthew eased back in his chair and leaned his weight on his good hand. “And what do people think of Stuart Waterhouse these days?”

  Reverend Bauers paused, stroking his chin. “He can be a very great friend. Or a greater enemy. Still,” said the reverend, opening his bag, to Matthew’s growing distress, “I wonder if Stuart has even an inkling of all the good he’s doing.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” inquired Matthew, half out of curiosity and half to keep the man’s hands out of that blasted bag.

  “Oh, I know Stuart Waterhouse only thinks he’s landed on a new way to sell papers, but God is no stranger to using bad intentions for good. Take the book of Genesis, for example. Joseph’s brothers hardly had good intentions when they sold their little brother into slavery. God took their evil plot and used it to save thousands of lives.” Reverend Bauers held the paper up. “If Stuart could see what I see, how people believe the tales to be true because they need the Bandit to be real, it would frighten him to bits. Georgia is proud of her brother, despite his motives, because he gave San Francisco what it needed most—a hero. I’d like to think you wouldn’t be sporting that—” he pointed to Matthew’s wound—“if our young friend had had a better start in life and more men of character to show him how to behave.”

  “Did you catch the thieving little urchin?”

  “We did. And he was punished. Not to defend him, but you might steal as well if your father had poured all his wages into the bottom of a glass and your family hadn’t eaten in three days.”

  Matthew fingered the knot on his bandage again. “Hard times are no excuse for criminal behavior.”

  “Oh, he’s a bad seed, I’ll grant you that. But all these boys know is cheating. Dockworkers are cheated out of fair pay as often as you and I breathe. If there’s no justice around, you quickly learn to take all you can just to live. Steal to eat. Lads learn by example.” The clergyman heaved a sigh and set about opening the bag again.

  “Surely men of the cloth such as yourself can show them a better course,” Matthew said, attempting to keep the conversation open and the bag shut.

  “Come now, Mr. Covington!” The reverend spread his pudgy arms wide. “Do I look like the focus of a young man’s aspirations? I’ve no curves to capture their hearts and no gallantry to capture their minds. Oh, no, Covington. Surely you can see why Miss Waterhouse thinks the Bandit is such a fine idea. A swashbuckling man of mystery is just the thing to turn these young imaginations around. The Black Bandit may be the best thing Stuart Waterhouse has ever done for us.” Bauers chuckled as he pulled at the drawstring of the small brown bag. “Unless, of course, our Mr. Waterhouse can make his Bandit come to life. Now that’d be nothing short of a wonder.”

  He produced some wicked-looking scissors and a bottle of something Matthew was sure would result in considerable pain. “Now, Covington, let’s see to that arm.”

  His arm had been stinging for hours. That was his excuse. Surely the pain had driven him to such foolishness.

  The pain and the harrowing tales he had heard that afternoon.

  After Bauers had left, Matthew’s arm
stung so badly he decided further ciphers would be out of the question. He shifted his attention to the shipping interests of Covington Enterprises. A couple of inquiries had led him to a contact, a clerk within the offices who dealt repeatedly with dockworkers and marine merchants.

  Matthew didn’t like what he found.

  An hour or two with the clerk not only confirmed Reverend Bauers’s dire assessments, it exceeded them. Commerce on the docks, if one could even stretch to call it such, was nothing short of piracy. London’s worst corners held more justice than San Francisco’s docks. So far Covington Enterprises appeared innocent of such behavior, but given such a culture, Matthew couldn’t be certain. It was standard practice to promise immigrant workers one wage and then pay another after a long day’s labor. One company’s shipments moved swiftly through the docks while another’s rotted in plain sight.

  Matthew had heard enough to sour his stomach.

  And that’s why he’d done it.

  Well, that and the fact that he couldn’t sleep. A man’s mind plays tricks with his good sense at three in the morning. He hadn’t set out to head South of the Slot at that hour—no man in his right mind would consider such a thing. He hadn’t set out to do anything. It just overtook him, like a wave sweeping out to sea.

  And somehow, with no forethought, as if someone else had moved within his own body and the way had been cleared for him, the deed was done.

  He came back near dawn, exhausted, and astonished at his own actions. Thompson asked where he had been, but he didn’t answer. Thompson stared at his exposed wound and asked if he wanted a new bandage, but Matthew still said nothing.

  Mostly because he had absolutely no idea what to say.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Quinn? How on earth did you find your way here?”