Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  He waved his hand and took a large swig from a crystal goblet. “I don’t mean that. All this—” he gestured around the dining room “—is lovely, and you keep yourself enormously busy, but are you happy?”

  She considered several options before deciding on a straightforward answer. “Yes, Stuart, I am. My world is not ideal, I grant you, but all things considered, I am very fond of my life.”

  He put the goblet back down on the table and ran his fingers over its silver trim. “You don’t wish for more?” Stuart did have a gift for loaded questions.

  Georgia thought about the humble mission, the families like Quinn’s, and the abundance surrounding her here at the estate. More? She didn’t need half of what she had. But that was Stuart at his core: always trying for more. More power, more influence, more money, more satisfaction, more more. She mused that if the Waterhouses ever commissioned a family crest, the motto need only be More.

  “I should like to see more of my brother, but I fear I will have to wait in line behind his many minions.” She hadn’t entirely objected when he’d sent word about missing the exhibit at the conservatory. It had been a most extraordinary afternoon with Matthew Covington. Still, enough of those “coincidences” and there’d be talk. Stuart craved talk, but she did not.

  He caught the hidden meaning in her reply. She was forcing him to be direct, and he knew it. He folded his napkin and laid it on the table. Ah, thought Georgia as she leaned her elbow on the arm of her chair, now we get to the heart of the matter.

  “What do you think of our Mr. Covington?”

  Georgia smiled.

  “So you do like him!” Stuart pounced.

  She held up her hand. “My smile, brother, comes from my amusement at having guessed your real question ten minutes ago. Honestly, do you find directness so appalling that you cannot even manage to be forthright with your own sister?”

  Stuart planted his elbows on the table. “Where’d be the fun in that?”

  “We’ll never know until you try.”

  “We’ll never know what you think of Covington until you answer my question,” he insisted.

  “He seems a good and decent man. And so very important. Not to mention so very British.” Georgia gave him his answer, but threw Stuart’s own agenda back at him in doing so.

  “I could pursue Covington on your behalf, you know. I want you to be happy.”

  There it was. The tender, brotherly side the rest of the world never saw. People always asked her what it was that enabled her to endure all of Stuart’s larger-than-life tendencies. That quiet tone of his voice let her know that despite his questionable methods, he often had shreds of good intentions. She believed he truly did want to see her happy, though his vision of what it took to achieve that was sadly distorted. After all, despite several past chances to wed her off to someone highly advantageous, he’d never done so against her wishes. Nor would he. He might try mightily to persuade her, but would never override her decision.

  “I’ve no wish to haul off to England and play lady of the castle, Stuart. My home is here. Should I be swept off my feet anytime in the near future, however, I’ll be sure you are among the first to know.”

  “Among?” he cried in mock alarm. “Among the first?”

  “A lady does need a few secrets in this world,” she teased, glad to have that rough patch over with. “Especially a Waterhouse.”

  He rose from his chair and went to pull out hers. As he did, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Speaking of secrets,” he said into her ear, “I’ve a request to make of George.”

  Stuart shut the library doors a moment later. “We’re getting near the end of the quarter and I need a firecracker of a Bandit episode.”

  Georgia gazed up at him. He looked so much older when he slicked his hair back, close to his head like that. It made him look sleek and severe. Stuart’s personality almost demanded a headful of unruly curls, not the razor-straight white-blond hair they’d both received from their mother. Their father had had dark, wavy hair. Stuart had his eyes, but mostly her efforts to see her father reflected in Stuart went unrewarded. He neither looked like him nor acted like him. Still, Stuart was her brother, and no matter how much he liked to exploit the phrase, he was indeed “all she had in the world.”

  “I think you overstate my…George’s influence,” she replied. “It wasn’t the words that created the sensation. It was whoever duplicated them in real life.”

  “Never underestimate the power of the word, Peach. It’s all in the words.” He tapped a succession of books on the shelf behind him.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning give our mysterious imitator something to work with,” Stuart replied. “Write an episode that just begs to be imitated.”

  Georgia sat down. Write an episode designed to be acted out? The idea felt absurd. Why not simply hand out white ribbons with each issue of the Herald tomorrow? Goodness, she’d best not suggest that—Stuart might actually seize the idea. She stopped and stared at him. “You’re serious. You actually want to encourage such a thing?”

  “You’ve been encouraging people to do noble deeds your entire life. Why stop now?”

  There was some odd logic to his notion, but it still felt horribly wrong. Unscrupulous and manipulative. “Stuart, I couldn’t.”

  He pointed at her. “You could. And that’s what scares you. You’ve hidden behind your lack of influence for too long, Peach. Now you’ve got it. Use it.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. “George has it,” she replied, mostly because she couldn’t craft another answer.

  “What’s in a name? ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Shakespeare said that. And that man knew the power of words. Come on, Peach. Stir up a crop of heroes. Who knows what will happen if you do?”

  Who knows indeed, Georgia thought.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sitting at her bedroom desk, Georgia stared at her pen. Could she stir up a crop of heroes? It didn’t even need to be a crop, did it? Look at what just one man did at Grace House. Then again, did she know it was one man? Who knew anything about how the white ribbons and money had appeared? She thought about Reverend Bauers’s glowing face as he’d tucked the money into the mission safe. About the children playing with the white ribbons. She hadn’t done any of it, but she’d inspired it. Could she inspire more?

  Lord, Georgia prayed, clutching her pen inside her folded hands, I’m toying with fire. Guide my words. I know You have the power to transform men and to work wonders, but I’ve no wish to play God. Shut this door if this is not Your will, and end this charade before anyone is hurt. She waited for a sense of danger, an urge to halt, to overtake her. Instead, stories began to weave themselves together in her head. If You have something astounding in mind, Lord, then grant me courage. I’ll go where You want, but stay beside me.

  She stared at the blank sheet of paper. What would be easy to bring to life? Something common. Something everyday that could be swiftly transformed into something wondrous. What was commonplace to people in need? An image began to form in her mind’s eye. Georgia took a deep breath and wrote.

  “The fog swirled thick and gray around him. The Bandit shrugged off the evening’s chill as he watched the men unload the ship. They chatted casually, unaware of the priceless nature of the boxes they hauled.”

  Matthew woke from a delightfully sound sleep. He dressed quickly in an unassuming coat and trousers—a step or two down from his usual impressive attire—and snatched a trio of apples from the bowl on the sitting room table.

  Thompson looked up from polishing Matthew’s boots. He raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow at the plain dress of his master. Matthew raised an eyebrow back, then juggled the three apples for a moment before sending one sailing in Thompson’s direction.

  The old man calmly caught the fruit, as if he’d been expecting it for hours. “Feeling fit this morning, sir?”

  Matthew bit into the one of the remain
ing apples in his hands. “Indeed I am.”

  “May I ask why so casual?”

  “No,” said Matthew simply, suddenly wondering why in his seven-and-twenty years it hadn’t occurred to him to say such a thing before. “You may not.” It sounded rather petulant, but directness was surprisingly effective against an adversary as wily as Thompson.

  Matthew started to say something such as, “I’ll be inspecting some holdings until well into the afternoon,” but stopped himself. He wasn’t required to explain himself at all, was he? Surely civility and decorum required such a thing, but under the circumstances…

  “I’m off,” he said, taking another bite, as if the two words were all the explanation required.

  He strode down the hallway, imagining Thompson’s jaw hanging slack behind him. It probably wasn’t—there was a good chance Thompson wasn’t even surprised by Matthew’s unusual behavior—but it was much more amusing to think otherwise.

  It had been so easy to arrange. Reverend Bauers had proved an adept accomplice, with a dozen ideas on how to give the Bandit a life of his own South of the Slot. Anonymity and money rendered such things highly doable. Matthew had the easier role: secure the needed funds without attention—which generally meant putting a sizable dent in his own personal travel allowance—and then pass them on to the reverend. The funds changed hands two or three times—each with a small cost for the transaction, unsurprisingly—in order to ensure the proper amount of confusion, and the intended target received money from a variety of untraceable sources.

  Fortunately, Matthew thought with a smile as he stood several blocks away from the mercantile that was their first target, the reverend seems as skilled a prankster as I. For a man of the cloth, he got a very pirate-worthy gleam in his eye when he smiled.

  The neighborhood grocery market inhabited a wide, solid building whose front opened out onto an enormous porch-like space. Its owner was a stoic Italian named Vincenzo Trivolatti, who had come to San Francisco to seek his fortune, and found love in the process, marrying a local Irish girl. Where Vincenzo was all business, his wife, Irene, was all heart, or so Reverend Bauers said. Aiding the cause of the Bandit, provided it proved sufficiently profitable, would appeal to both their sensibilities. It seemed an ideal match.

  Despite the earliness of the hour, a crowd had already begun to form amid the neat stacks of produce and goods under the market’s front awning. It was Friday, market day, and the neighborhood grocery would be bustling even under normal circumstances. Matthew doubted Trivolatti would ever know the likes of this day again. He’d seen to that.

  It had taken only three hours to arrange the details. One hour before opening, a young boy was sent with a letter to the Trivolatti home, disclosing two impending arrivals at the market. The first would be a supply of white cloth strips. Reverend Bauers had prayed that God would prevent all medical emergencies as he and Matthew shredded Grace House’s existing bandage supply to produce the needed tokens. Matthew had thought to himself amusingly that at the rate he was going, several of the hotel bedsheets might have to go missing in order for him to restock Grace House’s medical stores. Bauers predicted that the ribbon delivery alone should catch Irene’s undivided attention. No one South of the Slot had escaped hearing about the Bandit’s first adventure.

  The second delivery, intended to secure Mr. Trivolatti’s cooperation, was a supply of funds delivered by secured guard as a deposit for the day’s tally. Matthew’s inspection of the Covington Enterprises shipping logs had given him enough of a working knowledge of the cost of daily goods in San Francisco. With a few simple calculations, he could guarantee that the amount delivered would be more than enough to ensure Trivolatti a healthy day’s profit. The letter instructed the grocer to take no payment for any order placed today, and that if the funds provided did not cover the orders placed—which Matthew predicted would be highly unlikely, but given the speed of dock gossip, not impossible—to write down the remaining balance and it would be paid the following morning by similar messenger. Instead of demanding payment, Vincenzo was to simply hand a white ribbon to his customers and inform them that the Bandit had bought their groceries.

  Irene, a generous and highly religious woman, would no doubt keep her eye on the entire proceedings. She was just the sort of principled individual who would rather die than see such a noble act abused. Times, however, were tough, and she was only one woman, so just in case greed should rear its ugly head, a banking clerk had been anonymously hired to keep tabs on the day’s event. Matthew didn’t much care for the idea of Irene having to single-handedly ward off a mob of opportunists. Matthew would have loved to have had the Bandit standing guard, sword gleaming in the sunshine from atop a nearby building, but such a thing was neither practical nor advisable. It was not only beyond outlandish, but Matthew’s arm had not yet gained back its full strength, and should the Bandit need to swoop down and defend the poor Trivolattis, Matthew—or any mere mortal, for that matter—would hardly be up to the task.

  Matthew and Reverend Bauers had opted for the power of words instead. “You will be watched,” the note had concluded, “for the Bandit rewards his partners, but hunts his adversaries without mercy.” True, it had been rather dramatic, but wasn’t drama the point of it all?

  Legends could hardly afford to be subtle. Stuart Waterhouse had taught him that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Matthew leaned against a building a block away, nondescript in his workman’s clothes, and observed. An old woman called out grateful exclamations as she left the mercantile, clutching the white ribbon to her breast. She spoke in Italian, but no translation was needed. Waving to a small boy across the street, she told him something in rushed words and shooed him away, presumably to spread the news. Other families came trotting up the street, nearly running in their hurry to take advantage of the windfall. Another woman took Mr. Trivolatti’s face in her hands and kissed him on both cheeks when he handed her the ribbon. Mrs. Trivolatti protested at great length, only to laugh, hug her husband and enjoy their role in the spectacle.

  This went on for over an hour as Matthew watched, the reactions of surprised and grateful families making him feel like a king. He had done it for Georgia, but felt such a deep personal satisfaction that he wondered which of them would enjoy it more.

  When Reverend Bauers came walking down the street midmorning, exactly as planned, the ruckus erupted all over again. Men and women huddled around him to tell him the news, and he feigned surprise comparable to the best London actors. Matthew laughed to himself, thinking he had chosen a highly capable coconspirator in the lively round man.

  The hush that suddenly fell over the crowd caught Matthew by surprise. It was a few seconds before he realized the market had fallen into prayer. In the quiet, he found he could hear the reverend’s words clearly.

  “Most Holy Father, we are overwhelmed in thanks to You this day. We bless You for how You have provided for Your faithful. In Your wisdom and mercy, You have sent us a champion. A soldier of justice we have not seen. Bless Your servant, this Bandit, and strengthen him with the thanksgiving of those he has helped. Reward him for honoring Your calling. Protect him for future deeds of justice and mercy. May we remain grateful and hopeful, and may we continue to trust in You, because of the things You have done today.” As the reverend raised his hand to pronounce “Amen,” a cheer went up through the small crowd.

  Matthew stood there, locked in place by the words. Bauers knew he would be within earshot. The reverend must have chosen his prayer as much for Matthew’s sake as for the crowd’s.

  He’d called him a servant. As though what he was doing was some sort of holy mission, not just one man’s ill-advised attempts at heroism.

  As though it hadn’t been Matthew’s idea.

  The concept shook him to the core. This was little more than a prank, not some crusade. He wasn’t even sure it fell under the category of “good deeds.” He was, when one got right down to it, showing off for a girl. One c
ould hardly call that divine intervention. More to the point, one could hardly take marching orders from a God one wasn’t even certain existed in the first place.

  Matthew shook his head, checked his watch and headed back to the hotel by a side street. California was proving to be a most unsettling place. The sooner he got back to precise, well-behaved ledgers and numbers, the better.

  “Are your inspections proving satisfactory?” Thompson droned as he brushed off Matthew’s coat and adjusted the lapel later that week.

  “Yes, quite.”

  “And you’ve fully recovered from your injuries?” Again, the dry tone of a man compiling facts. Which was always reason to suspect Thompson. He collected facts the way a boy with a slingshot collected small stones—as tiny weapons capable of great impact.

  “Nearly,” Matthew said carefully, flexing his arm and twisting his wrist this way and that. He suffered an occasional sting if he hit the wrong angle, but within the week he should be up to speed. The scar was quite evident. He was grateful life rarely afforded him a reason to roll up his sleeves. The thing looked like it belonged on a war hero, not a well-bred gentleman.

  Thompson had tried valiantly to repair the slashed coat, but it had been beyond helping. No matter, the finding, measuring and ordering of a new jacket had given Thompson something to do other than gather facts on Matthew.

  “Your father will be expecting a report next week,” Thompson said, as dryly as ever. He was a master at dropping verbal bombs without flinching.

  A report. There was much to report, but not much that Matthew could be certain about yet. His review of the books had proved them clean. Exceedingly clean. Unnaturally clean, which had given rise to Matthew’s suspicion that things were not what they seemed. In a town where corruption was the local currency, Covington Enterprises should not have such pristine books. A certain amount of “greasing the wheel”—he’d heard the term recently—would have to go on in any commercial enterprise as large as Covington. Yet everything lined up in the records. There was not even a simple addition error in sight.