Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  His father was fond of saying that Matthew frequently lost his composure. Matthew was beginning to think the heir of Covington was in very real danger of losing his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’ve no right, Father. I owe so much to Stuart. Without him, I could have been forced into a marriage by now simply to survive. Why has he begun to grate on me so? I’ve withstood his tricks for years without chafing, but now it’s become so much harder. What is happening?

  Georgia sat in her window seat, her arms hugging her knees, her toes tucked under the hem of her shift. She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders as a gust of wind rattled the bay window. Droplets of rain raced each other down the panes, joining and pooling, then splitting again in a glistening web across the glass. She traced one drop’s path down the window with her finger. Spring in San Francisco was always an unpredictable affair—warm and welcoming one day, damp and dreary the next.

  It seemed a fitting time for a birthday, as her life seemed to be changing pace. An agitation had stolen over her in recent weeks. She’d put it down to the excitement of the Bandit, but she was coming to realize it was far more than that. It had been coming on for months, long before the dark brooding hero of her imagination had appeared. Six months ago she’d have told anyone who asked that life was perfect just as it was. That things could go on in their present state indefinitely, and she’d consider herself supremely blessed.

  She could no longer answer so firmly. Things could not go on in their present state, even if she had no idea what the alternative might be.

  Where are you pulling me, Lord? Are You pulling me at all? Or am I simply straying, straining against You? I’ve never felt lonely before. Even when people could not understand how I was content, You’ve given me great contentment. Why remove it now?

  Perhaps it was just the passing of another year that made her so pensive. She was, after all, turning twenty-five, and that seemed like an important year. One that invited retrospection. Perhaps in a week she’d look back on all this tumult as just an emotional response to the passing of time. After all, Stuart had been sour-faced a whole month earlier this year when he turned thirty.

  An hour later, the thought still held no comfort. It was almost two in the morning, and if she didn’t find a way to sleep, she would spend her birthday in a sorry state indeed. She read a psalm—the one about God knitting her together in her mother’s womb—for it seemed appropriate to the day. She found herself wondering if this section was one of the ones cut from Matthew’s Bible.

  Matthew. How easily the name slipped into her mind now. She allowed herself to imagine him, sitting up late into the night, exploring the Bible Reverend Bauers had given him. She was sure she’d sensed some reaction in him when she’d read him the passage from Corinthians. Yet he did not seem a man of faith at all. Seeking, perhaps, but no faith had taken hold, as far as she could see. It seemed unwise to nurture any fondness for a man so ill at ease with himself. Still, that was how Reverend Bauers always said God shook a man to attention. With an unrelenting ill-ease. Was God shaking Matthew Covington? What an extraordinary thing that would be.

  He would be a wonderful man of faith, she surmised, without really knowing why. It was just an instinct.

  I’m quite fond of him, Father. You know that. And You know how unwise a thing that is.

  Despite her self-lecture, the memory of his impulsive kiss on her hand this afternoon wedged its way into her thoughts. He is fond of me, I think, but for such unusual, rewarding reasons. He sees me. I know You see me Father, and that You know me. But to be seen, be recognized by him in such a way, was so pleasing. Thank You for that blessing. A birthday present from You, it almost felt like.

  Matthew Covington, for all his attributes, was a most unwise prospect. She could recognize this, even if she kept rubbing the top of her palm where he’d touched her. No, she’d be wise to direct her energies into something else.

  Perhaps in a week or two the contentment would return. She did, after all, have another man to consider. One who depended heavily upon her affections. Who existed by virtue of the fine imagination God had given her.

  She had the Bandit, and he was a most excellent place to channel all those energies.

  When would the Bandit have his birthday? Would he be the kind of man to celebrate the passing of his years, or ignore them? Yes, this was a much better place to focus her thoughts. Georgia let her head fall against the glass as she wondered. Her hero needed a birthday of his own. How to give him one? The scene came to her in an instant, as if it had dropped from heaven in complete form. It was perfect; dark and brooding, just like her hero. Tragic and yet deeply poignant. She heaved a sigh of thanks toward heaven and nearly ran to the desk, flipping open the top of her inkwell with such vigor that it sent a small shower of droplets over the page.

  “Black gloves laid a single white lily across the roughly hewn gravestone. Rain fell softly, darkening the granite with streaks that seemed to weep down its engraved face. She lay here, never to know the joy of flowers or spring—or her son—again. Each year the Bandit made his pilgrimage to the lonely site of his mother’s grave, the woman who’d given her life in the granting of his.”

  “Easter is over this weekend, isn’t it?” Stuart asked with annoyance. The eggs had been fine—charming even—but when the real-life Bandit had upped the ante to all those chickens, things got a little more complicated than Stuart would have wished. He didn’t like someone trying to outdo him. Stuart wanted to have his hands on the reins. He wanted to know he could orchestrate events to his liking. He didn’t much care for a loose cannon like this Bandit impersonator roaming his city unsupervised. He’d need to find him somehow, so he could keep him under control.

  “Yes, sir,” Oakman replied.

  Stuart looked at him. “Who is this man impersonating my Bandit, anyway? Do we have any idea? Not that I want to stop him, mind you, but I want to know where to put the pressure if he goes too far.”

  Oakman leaned back, resting his hands across his belly. “There are loads of theories. But no one knows anything definite, that I can find.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “Oh, you can count on that, sir. I’m looking.”

  Stuart leaned against his desk and lowered his voice. “We’re a month away. Are we ready?”

  That brought Oakman to attention. “Near as I can tell. There are a few loose ends to tie up. One contact on the docks I’m not quite sure about, yet. I need to take a few steps to ensure his loyalty, but I don’t think there’ll be any problem.”

  A few steps. Stuart was relatively certain what kind of persuasion bought loyalty on the docks. It was a jungle down there, a predatory landscape if ever there was one. Which was just fine by him. He preferred the open food chain of the docks to the gilded treachery of Nob Hill any day.

  “What about our friend Mr. Covington? Has he found anything?”

  Oakman paused for a second, running his hands down his face. “He asked for a second set of ledgers yesterday. That worried me a bit. But I’m not sure it’s a problem.”

  Stuart blew out an exasperated breath. Covington was presenting more of a challenge than he’d anticipated. Why couldn’t the Brit just give in to his obvious infatuation with Georgia and stop being so studious? A healthy young man shouldn’t be so hard to distract. Stuart checked his watch. “Well, I’ve got to meet Georgia for lunch. It’s her birthday.”

  Oakman looked up. “Didn’t you take her to lunch for her birthday yesterday?”

  “No.” Stuart shook his head, not hiding his exasperation. “Covington had us over to the Palace for tea. I gave her an early piece of birthday cake when you sent over the message to call me back.”

  “But you told me to send over the message to call you back, sir.”

  “I’m aware of that, Dex. She just didn’t take it very well, that’s all. Something’s put a bee in her bonnet lately. She’s all up in arms over little things. Told me in no uncertain terms
last night at dinner that I was to take her back to the Palace today for her birthday, and that if I was to leave for any reason at all, heads would roll.”

  “Georgia? Said that?”

  Stuart glared at his colleague. “She did. Emphatically. I don’t know what’s gotten her all riled up.”

  “What?” said Oakman, with the most ridiculous look on his face, “or whom?”

  “But I’ve just come from cake.” Georgia tried to resist as Quinn pulled her down the Grace House hallway toward the dining room.

  The boy spun on his heels. “Don’t you tell anyone that. This cake is your cake.” He tugged on her sleeve. “Act happy to have it.”

  “But I am happy to have cake,” Georgia replied, her heart warming at the boy’s concern. “Just not so much of it.”

  “We made you this cake,” he said, as if that should be argument enough. “Is icing supposed to be green?”

  Georgia tried not to consider the possibilities. “Some is. Icing comes in lots of colors.”

  “We only got green. So pretend you like it.” He seemed to consider it his job to manage her participation. Just what I need, she thought for a moment, another male telling me what to do. When she noticed a large splotch of something greenish on Quinn’s elbow, she decided perhaps it was not as bad as all that.

  Quinn halted in front of the closed dining room door. “Come in here for a moment, Miss Georgia,” he shouted in a rehearsed tone, evidently providing the “cue” needed by those within. “We’ve got something to show you,” he bellowed.

  Quinn pushed open the door to a room filled with smiling faces. A pack of recently scrubbed, smeary-aproned “bakers” yelled “happy birthday” around a lopsided green cake. It wasn’t a happy green, more brackish than lime-colored, with a frightening collection of black bits, but the cheery expressions couldn’t help but make Georgia chuckle. Reverend Bauers had a “we did the best we could” expression that only deepened her laugh.

  The exquisite lemon cake at the Palace Hotel might have delighted her palate, but this questionable confection delighted her heart. She clasped her hands theatrically. “My goodness,” she exclaimed, “I’m absolutely surprised.”

  “We made it!” a small child to her left boasted, pointing with pudgy green-tinted fingers as one corner of the top layer slid slightly off its base. “Can you tell?”

  “Not at all,” Georgia said. “It looks like you just brought this from the finest bakery in the city.”

  Reverend Bauers extracted himself from the sticky crowd and came around to pull out a chair at the head of the table. “Miss Waterhouse, will you share your cake with us and celebrate your birthday?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  As he pushed in the chair, the children scattered to their own seats, eager for a piece of their creation.

  “There’s room for one more, I trust?” Matthew Covington’s voice came from behind her. “I missed the earlier birthday cake.” Obviously, he’d not seen the cake in front of her, or she doubted he’d ask.

  Georgia whirled to face him, giving him an exaggerated wink. “Oh, but Mr. Covington, I’ve had no cake yet today.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Matthew seemed confused. “Have you not just come from—”

  Georgia raised both eyebrows, hoping to cue him to follow her lead. “No,” she said, overenunciating and nodding almost imperceptibly to the crowd behind her, “I’ve been hoping for cake all day and had none.”

  Matthew glanced at her, cast his gaze to the baked atrocity on the table, then looked back at her. She gave him her most blatant “play along” expression.

  “Of course,” he finally said, only barely hiding a laugh. “And here you were saying to me just yesterday how much you liked…” he chose his description carefully “…green cake. How very fortunate for you.”

  “Fortunate for you, you’ve come in time to join us,” she said, nearly laughing at the situation. She was certain he was no more enamored with the idea of eating such a cake than she. She was also certain he’d play along in heroic proportions rather than disappoint such an endearing audience.

  “Indeed,” he said, his eyes darkening to mean any of a thousand things. “And how very…green…a cake it is. I must have a piece before Reverend Bauers and I attend to urgent business.”

  Did he have urgent business with Reverend Bauers? Or was that merely a strategic improvisation? He was holding something behind his back. Either way, she envied his alibi, for she had nothing more urgent than a role of uncut bandages to save her from so green a cake.

  “But no business more urgent than this,” he declared, producing a lovely bouquet of lilies. Delicate yellow lilies the color of lemon cake. “Since I missed our earlier…appointment. Happy birthday, Miss Waterhouse.”

  She took the flowers from him. Two of the older girls cooed and poked gentle fingers at the blooms. “They are delightful, Mr. Covington. Thank you so very much.” As she said his full name, his request to call him otherwise echoed like a vibration through her chest. “Do sit down.”

  “From the look on your face—” Reverend Bauers put the book he was holding back on the shelf “—you’re up to something. And I daresay it’s more than providing Miss Waterhouse with a birthday bouquet.”

  Matthew pretended surprise. “Me? However could you say something like that?”

  The clergyman leaned forward and whispered, “Oh, a recent event involving agitated chickens.”

  He stepped back with an elaborate bow. “Well, my good Reverend, you have me there. But poultry aside, we have a bit of work to do if a certain hero is to give another Easter gift to his fair city.”

  Bauers’s expression grew serious. “I’ve given thought to that, Covington. I don’t think it would be proper to do anything else near Easter. It is a holy season, and given to contemplation and sacrifice, not theatrics. I’d much rather see you at our Good Friday service than out conducting heroics. Very much rather.”

  Matthew should have known it would come to this. Sooner or later, the good reverend would try and drag him into a church service, especially at Easter. After all the man had done to aid him, did Matthew really have grounds to refuse? “I’m not at all sure,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, mostly because he couldn’t think of a stronger retort.

  “No one needs you to be sure. We just need you to be here.” The clergyman raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have other plans?”

  Other plans. He had no holiday plans. While he had somehow expected the Waterhouses to extend an Easter invitation, he really had no basis to expect such a thing. At the moment, it looked as if he would be spending his Easter with Thompson in his room. Or eating alone in the Palace dining room.

  “Come now, Matthew,” the reverend said, using his Christian name for the first time—intentionally, Matthew guessed. “Unless Stuart Waterhouse is planning to spirit you elsewhere, everyone you could call friend will be at the service here—including Miss Waterhouse. And me. And, if you must know, a couple of young men who skewered you not too long ago and have since repented.”

  Reverend Bauers was pulling out all stops and brooking no refusal. What had Matthew’s father once said to him? It does you no good to start a fight you can’t win. Matthew sighed. “Very well then, what time should I be here?”

  Reverend Bauers clasped both of Matthew’s shoulders. “I knew you’d come round.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  With a wink, the reverend nodded toward the heavens.

  Egad, thought Matthew, that’s the first time I’ve been in a room with one other person and been outnumbered.

  Matthew was delighted to discover Georgia was still at Grace House when he finished—if one ever truly finished—with Reverend Bauers. He’d planned to give her the flowers in relative privacy, not amidst the giggling pack of children. Still, it had been pleasant enough to catch her eye here and there in the chaotic conversation, to sneak a glimpse of her admiring the flowers as she showed th
em to the girls around the table. He had pleased her, and he liked that.

  Which was, of course, not helpful. He must return home to England when his business was completed, and he knew in his bones that England would never suit her. Still, Matthew seemed unable to squelch the impulse to make her happy. To, when he was honest with himself, “rescue” her from the apathy of her surroundings. And that had always been Matthew’s vice: rescuing even when no rescue was needed.

  Even if it meant ingesting the strangest concoction to ever be called “cake.” As he recalled the green-gray dessert they’d shared, he wondered if Georgia’s stomach had turned over as many times in the last hour as his had. She did look a little peaked when he found her putting away the last of the bandages in the storeroom. It did not escape his notice that the lilies lay on the table beside her.

  “Have you fully recovered from your party?” he asked as he leaned in the storeroom doorway.

  She gave a lopsided grin and put her hand to her stomach. “I’m not quite sure. They did a most…enthusiastic…job, didn’t they? I’m worried that our poor cook may never recover from the experience.”

  Endearing. That was the word he’d give to her expression. She looked so full of affection for this place and these people that she’d gladly have swallowed frogs. For the first time he admitted to himself how envious he was of that affection. “I’m worried myself,” he said, trying not to wonder if she would put her tender hand to his forehead if he pleaded ill. “I hope you won’t be offended if I admit to preferring the cake at the Palace.”

  “No,” she said with a laugh. “Not at all.”

  Matthew came into the room and nodded at the bandages. “Still working? Haven’t you celebrations to attend to? Ones involving actual food?” He regretted the question the moment it left his lips. What if she had no celebrations planned? What if lunch with Stuart was the most she received on her birthday? It stung him that he’d asked so pointed a question without thinking.