Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  Yes, the Bandit wore his signature costume now. And no one could have predicted how that came to be.

  Thompson, in an act that would shock Matthew until his dying day, had appeared with the garb two evenings before. How the valet had figured out his role, Matthew didn’t know. Nor would he ever, for when he found his tongue again and asked Thompson how he’d guessed, the man had only produced the widest smile Matthew had ever seen and said absolutely nothing.

  Thompson—Thompson, of all people—knew.

  Thompson approved.

  Wilder still, he conspired! If Matthew was looking for signs that playing the Bandit was his destiny, then one could find no greater endorsement than Thompson’s cooperation.

  “It is my duty to see you properly dressed,” his valet had said, after laying out the dark trousers, charcoal-gray shirt, wide-brimmed black hat and outlandish white feather—cleverly removable for discreet missions. The design of the Bandit’s wardrobe had not been Thompson’s; the outfit had been detailed in a recent episode in the Herald. Its execution, however, was extraordinary. Matthew could only imagine what it had taken for Thompson to see to its secret assembly.

  True to the old man’s impeccable sense of detail, Matthew noted a few smart embellishments. The pants had dozens of useful pockets and specially sewn loops to hold a unique belt. Rather like a holster, but much more elegant, the latter held both Matthew’s sword and his whip. The mask, perhaps the most difficult thing of all, was outstanding. A thin leather caplike contraption, with a panel that folded down over the eyes, close to the head and neatly under the hat. The outfit was half pirate, half Musketeer and wholly perfect.

  “I—I’ve no words,” Matthew had stammered as he took the clothes from the grinning old man.

  “Then none are needed,” Thompson had said simply, as if the exchange were as common as a daily bath.

  Something indescribable had stirred in Matthew when he put the clothing on. As if a new man—a bold, invincible spirit—had slid from the shell of the duty-bound accountant. It was as if, before, Matthew had been imitating the Bandit. But once wearing the disguise, he became him.

  And the Bandit could do anything, including wrangle chickens.

  One hoped.

  By four-thirty in the morning, the crates of quieted chickens had been loaded onto the cart. Matthew sat in the driver’s seat, convincing himself that the Bandit could drive a buckboard wagon at considerable speed just as easily as Matthew had raced his father’s best carriage around the stable yards.

  He edged the cart forward and heard a few clucks of protest from waking chickens. Now was the time.

  He was just about to spur the team of horses forward when he felt Reverend Bauers’s hand clasp his right foot. The clergyman bent his head and rested both hands on Matthew’s shiny black boot.

  “Bless this man and his bravery, Father. See that this food finds its way into homes to honor you, just as this man honors Your call to service. These creatures are given to those who dearly need food. And dearly need hope. Let us never forget Your hope and the sacrifice You paid for our sins. Protect this man with the might of Your hand as he serves Your people. Amen.”

  Matthew once again found his tongue tangled by the reverence this man seemed to place upon his ridiculous deeds. He was play-acting for his own vaunted reasons, not “saving” anyone. Still, something tugged at him, that same sense of being caught up in something larger than himself or his faulty motives. Tonight, he felt as if he were a shred of the hero Reverend Bauers seemed to make him.

  Was it selfish to hope that Georgia Waterhouse would hold the deed in the same regard? If he was truly going about God’s business, then he had no right to twist such service to catch the eye of a woman. Still, if God was as all-seeing as Bauers claimed him to be, then surely He was already aware of Matthew’s baser motive. And is most likely angered by it, he thought. It’s a wonder I’m not struck down by lightning this very second.

  Wouldn’t that roast the chickens? He laughed, thinking how they might at least smell better. As Reverend Bauers called “Godspeed!” Matthew pulled the cart into the street and spurred the horses into a quick trot.

  After so much planning, the execution seemed to fly by in a matter of heartbeats. Dressed as the Bandit, he drove squarely into the middle of a predetermined intersection. They’d chosen one in the center of the neighborhood, where it would soon be noticed. He suspected he’d already been, even at that hour.

  He quickly leaped from the cart and sprinted to the back, where the crates of sleeping chickens stood beside several boxes of eggs.

  Now for the finishing touch. The last dollop of drama to take this episode from anecdote to legend. And the first test of Matthew’s healed arm. With a deep breath, he pulled his whip from the loop on his trousers and clasped the handle. Shifting it back and forth a time or two, he let his arm recall its weight and rhythm. Then, with enormous satisfaction, he swung it back and cracked it several times just above the chicken crates, sending the sound ringing through the deserted intersection in a way that was sure to call attention.

  Matthew waited only one second before dashing off into the darkness, where a hidden set of clothes waited to usher him back into obscurity.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “It sounds calamitous,” Matthew said as he poured a second cup of tea. “I do wish I’d been around to see it. Chickens? Really?” It felt ridiculous to pretend ignorance.

  “Hordes of them,” Georgia said, a laugh stealing into her voice. Matthew could see the amusement in her face as she described the wild scene. “They were still running everywhere, even hours later, trailing white ribbons, feathers flying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  “How on earth does one get that many chickens beribboned and into the center of town undetected?” he asked, doing his best to sound astonished. He forced himself, for discretion’s sake, to interject a shred of disapproval into his voice. In truth, it was more than just an effort to maintain his disguise; some part of him wanted to see what Georgia would do if pressed to defend the Bandit.

  “It seems to me,” she replied, as she set down her teacup, “that we are dealing with a most extraordinary fellow. Quite resourceful. Very noble, but I suppose a bit reckless by some standards.”

  Very noble, resourceful and a bit reckless. It was funny to hear such words. If God himself had asked Matthew how he would like to be remembered, those were very nearly the attributes he would cite. And here Georgia was mentioning that about the Bandit—who was, and was not, Matthew Covington. It was an odd and yet powerful sensation.

  Made more so by what Matthew could see lingering in Georgia’s eyes—an admiration for the recklessness. An admiration that came close to affection for the dashing hero her brother had dreamed up. What a heady concept that was.

  Which made Matthew wonder…had Stuart dreamed up the Bandit just for her? A prank to please his sister? Matthew scorned the idea of playing upon her sensibilities like that…until he realized that what he was doing was not much different.

  It stung.

  The Bandit was reckless. Matthew Covington could not be. Dashing midnight bravery was a luxury for imaginary men, not Covingtons.

  Still, as he looked at her there, glowing in a butter-colored gown that set off her glistening gold hair, he knew he would do it again. To watch her talk of it with that look on her face, to know that she held a part of him—even an invented part—in such esteem, was enough.

  It would have to be, wouldn’t it? There could be no future between them. The cold gray halls of England would stifle her, and he was duty-bound to return home soon, no doubt to marry an appropriate woman of his mother’s choosing.

  “The eggs will help make a festive Easter for the children. I’ve always loved Easter eggs. I think childhood traditions are the ones we most remember,” Georgia said, smiling as she evidently recalled another detail from the scene. “What are the Easter traditions at the Covington household? Do you remember
any from your youth?”

  Matthew toyed with his spoon. “There was always an enormous fair. There was an egg tradition there, too. Blindfolded men and women would dance across the street and try to avoid the eggs placed in their path. Many a good pair of shoes came to ruin on those days. My father took me to Spain several times to the bullfights that happen there at Easter. Ghastly business, really. I much preferred the fair at home. One could have far more fun with far less mortal injury.”

  “I’d love to see a bullfight,” said Stuart. “So far all I’ve seen is that business where they walk down the street in New York. I hear in Greece they throw huge pottery jars from the windows to make noise.”

  “And what are the Waterhouse Easter traditions?” Matthew asked, expecting the pair of siblings to spout all manner of memories. Given how playful they were with each other, he had no doubt they’d given their parents a challenge as youngsters. Especially Stuart.

  “Oh, our mother loved Easter,” Georgia sighed. “We colored eggs, of course, and there would be a big cake and enormous meal waiting when we came home from church. She would fill the house with lilies and tell the Easter story with great dramatic flair.” She nudged her brother. “Stuart gets his theatrics from Mother’s side of the family.”

  “Peach had the luck to be born on an Easter Sunday, so some years it was a double celebration,” offered Stuart, who had spent most of teatime surveying the room over Matthew’s shoulder. Sizing up the social value of everyone present, Matthew surmised. It had become clear that to Stuart, life was a series of potential deals. He paid little attention to the moment because his gaze was forever fixed on the next big opportunity. Matthew was surprised he could contribute to the conversation at all, given how little notice he seemed to be paying to it.

  “So you’ve a birthday coming up?” Matthew asked with a grin. Peach, hmm? It suited her, silly as it was.

  Georgia blushed, and he could easily see where the nickname came from. She did have a peachy glow about her.

  “Tomorrow!” announced Stuart. “Georgia’s birthday is tomorrow.”

  “Stuart, hush.” She swatted at him. “You shouldn’t…oh dear.” Her face fell as a waiter arrived to stand over Stuart’s shoulder.

  “Message for you, Mr. Waterhouse. At the front desk.”

  Georgia seemed to know how events would proceed from here. Once again, her brother was going to pull his infamous disappearing act.

  “Back in a jiffy.” Stuart pushed his chair away from the table. “Entertain our birthday girl for a moment, won’t you, Covington?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as he buzzed off, responding to yet another important interruption. And then again, not so uncomfortable. Matthew enjoyed Georgia’s company tremendously. He just wished things didn’t always have the feeling of being orchestrated. He would have preferred to know she sought his company by choice, not manipulation.

  Matthew stifled a sigh. It must be tiring to be so continually maneuvered by someone you love. He leaned in a bit and whispered, “I give him eight minutes before he returns to tell us he’s ‘dreadfully sorry but he must be going.’”

  Matthew’s talent at impersonations paid off, for his imitation of Stuart’s voice was spot on.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Georgia gave a start, shocked at Matthew Covington’s mimicry and his directness. It was one thing to know what was going on, quite another to declare it openly. For a moment it stunned her, but then she discovered it felt surprisingly refreshing. As if he respected her enough not to pretend they both didn’t see what was going on in Stuart’s constant disappearances.

  “Mr. Covington, what a thing to say.” She played for a moment at being insulted, then let a hint of her amusement show. “Personally, I’d give Stuart no more than five minutes, under the circumstances.”

  Mr. Covington’s face creased in a gleaming smile and he pulled out his pocket watch. “Shall we see who wins?”

  Georgia feigned astonishment. “Am I to understand you are suggesting a wager? Here, during tea at the Palace Hotel? The very thought.”

  “I’d never suggest such a thing,” he replied, looking all too much as if he’d be delighted to do that very thing. “Think of it as hypothesis and observation. A scientific study.”

  She shot him a doubtful glance. “A scientific study. Of Stuart’s diversionary tactics?”

  Her label evidently delighted him. “‘Diversionary tactics.’ Why, I do think that’s a most appropriate term.” He made a show of checking his watch. “Two minutes fifteen seconds.”

  “This is outrageous.” She fanned herself, playing along. “I should be most insulted.” But it wasn’t insulting at all. As a matter of fact, it was satisfying to call Stuart at his own game.

  “But you’re not,” Matthew retorted, “because you’re far too smart for that.”

  “A backhanded compliment, Mr. Covington.” She was too smart for this. Suddenly, she found herself wondering why she had ever put up with it.

  He stared at her for a moment, almost indecisively. Then, after looking over her shoulder toward the hotel desk, as if to judge how much privacy they had before Stuart’s return, he leaned in. “Then I shall pay you a true compliment, Miss Waterhouse. I find you a most delightful woman, honorable and admirable in every detail. And…” he softened his voice until it seemed to tingle down the back of her neck “…in possession of the most astounding eyes I believe I have ever seen.”

  He stared at her again, for how long she could not say. His expression confounded any attempt at words. He found her delightful. Honorable and admirable. Not just the sibling shadow of her outlandish brother, but her. And to think that he found her eyes astounding, when she could hardly think of words to describe his. Their impossibly deep indigo seemed to pin her to her chair.

  His directness flustered her. He spoke as though her opinion meant something to him. And that was a rare thing indeed for the sister of Stuart Waterhouse.

  After a pause that seemed endless and yet far too short, Georgia saw his gaze shift over her shoulder. “Four minutes fifty seconds,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You win.”

  On cue, Stuart appeared at her right side, a stack of papers in his hand and a waiter just behind him. “Crisis at the office. I’ve got to run, Covington, it can’t be helped. But…” He stepped out of the way to reveal the waiter holding two slices of lemon cake, a specialty of the house, and one of Georgia’s favorites. “I thought this might keep you both from missing me. Consider it an early birthday cake, Peach, from me to you. You’ll see her home, of course, Covington?”

  The waiter set the slices down in front of them. “Of course,” replied Covington, managing to look surprised despite his earlier prediction.

  “My favorite. Thank you, Stuart. I almost forgive you.” The words were hollow. Stuart was trying to be nice, in his own selfish, manipulative way, but somehow a line had just been crossed. True forgiveness felt just out of her grasp at the moment.

  Stuart winked. “That’ll have to do.” And he was gone.

  Covington gave her a sympathetic look before attempting to make the best of things. “Is this a favorite of yours?”

  “My very favorite, as a matter of fact.” She straightened in her chair. “And don’t worry,” she added in a firm voice, “I have every intention of making Stuart bring me back here tomorrow for more. He can buy my forgiveness today, but it won’t excuse his obligation tomorrow, I assure you.”

  “Well then, I suppose I should have to reluctantly thank Stuart for the opportunity to see you again tomorrow. Perhaps we should consider tying your brother to his chair so as to insure you an uninterrupted birthday luncheon.”

  Georgia imagined Stuart lashed to his chair with the red velvet stanchions from the hotel lobby. “That would be something to see,” she laughed. “Then one of us would have to feed him his cake.”

  “I do believe I’ll leave that duty to you,” Mr. Covington said before taking a bite of his cake. He
nodded in approval of the fluffy, lemony confection, and some part of her was pleased to know he liked it as well. “Happy birthday, Miss Waterhouse.” His eyes held hers for a moment, the smile in them fading to something far more unsettling.

  Her hand clutched her napkin under the table. His voice had the most extraordinary smoothness when he spoke softly. It seemed to ripple over her. “Thank you, Mr. Covington.” She felt as if she gulped out the words.

  “Please,” he said, his voice gaining even more warmth, “call me Matthew. Even if just for today.”

  Matthew. She’d known since they were introduced that his name was Matthew. She’d heard the name dozens of times. Yet to hear him speak it, to hear him ask her to use it, was another thing altogether. Matthew. It suddenly sounded as smooth and lovely as his accented voice.

  She took a breath, dared to look in him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Matthew.”

  She didn’t ask him to call her Georgia. He didn’t expect her to. He was almost surprised she’d granted his request and called him Matthew. Not that he hadn’t surprised himself by asking her.

  That woman did things to him. Unsafe things he couldn’t help and wouldn’t deny. It was worth any impropriety to give her that moment of feeling special, when she’d been so repeatedly brushed off by her brother.

  No, he didn’t mind that she hadn’t asked him to call her Georgia. He liked the secrecy of calling her that in his thoughts. Georgia. To him, now, she was Georgia, even when he said goodbye to her as “Miss Waterhouse.”

  And when he went back to his hotel room after seeing her home—and after daring to plant a light kiss on her hand when he helped her out of the carriage—he knew sleep would evade him tonight.

  It did. He wandered about his room, restlessly turning a thousand thoughts over in his mind until the wee hours of the morning. There, in the sleepless darkness, Matthew pulled out his sword for the first time in weeks. It did not surprise him when he thought it whispered “Georgia” as it sliced through the air.