Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  And then, as she turned and caught his eye, he added, God help me if it cannot be forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  She would know him.

  She wasn’t sure how, but the Bandit would come and she would know it was him. The knowledge steadied her steps as she descended the grand stairway into the crowd of Bandits and other revelers. He is here and I will find him.

  Stuart made a grandiose speech, but she didn’t hear a word of it. She was scanning the room, looking at the men, wondering which one had the deep, smooth voice from her terrace. Looking at the hands, wondering which ones held the whip and the sword.

  She danced with many of them, thinking that would provide the opportunity for him to reveal his identity. It proved a tiresome task—for she grew impatient with each dance, as it took only moments for her to decide this man could not be her Bandit.

  Her Bandit. She’d come to think of him that way, even though it was unwise to do so. Sister Charlotte’s words had pounded in her head all day—how she should look to the men in her real world and not dismiss them for a man of her imagination. It made perfect sense. It was sage advice. Georgia’s heart simply refused to comply. Once I see him, she thought, once I know who he is, perhaps I can settle my heart on someone else.

  She knew that for the lie it was.

  There was a moment, though, where her heart skipped. She walked into the front hallway with Mrs. Oakman and caught sight of a tall man. “My dear Miss Waterhouse,” he said, as his blue-black eyes danced from behind the oddly fashioned gray mask he wore. She knew at once from his accent that it was Matthew Covington. “You are the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.” He took her hand and kissed it, just as he had on her birthday, and the same spark danced up her arm.

  She had hoped he would come. He had dressed as the Bandit, too, which charmed her, for she wasn’t sure he would. He had made the best he could as a visitor, and he had crafted a slightly tattered but very authentic-looking costume. His trousers had so many odd pockets they looked almost military, and one sleeve sported a patch. The whip coiled at his waist certainly looked far more dangerous than any of the ones carried by other “Bandits”—heaven knows where he had been forced to shop to have ended up with one so large and fierce. Other Bandits looked dashing and pirate-like. Covington looked hard-edged and, well, a bit ragged. He was the only Bandit with both whip and sword. She could not deny that the overall effect was rather eye-catching. He was somehow all the more handsome for his rough-hewn attire. Truly, if any man could come close to what she felt the Bandit ought to be, it was Matthew. Given time, the two of them could have had something.

  But England would call him home soon, and so it was wise to ignore the tug she felt in her heart when he took off his hat and bowed deeply, saying, “You look stunning.”

  She smiled. “I see you have not quite yet fetched back your reserve.”

  “Tonight,” he said as he gestured around the ornate hall, “seems to be a night for excess rather than reserve.”

  “I do not believe there is a white ribbon left in San Francisco,” she mused.

  “I’ve a few in my pocket, but I am saving them for later.” He offered no further explanation when she raised her eyebrow at the comment. The orchestra started up a waltz. “I recall you are especially fond of waltzes. May I have this dance?”

  “Yes.” It delighted her that he remembered. “I would like that very much.”

  He danced well, sweeping her around the crowded floor with a fluid ease. His gaze blotted every detail out of the room until it felt as if the two of them were alone together. Which in some ways was true, for few could tell one of her Bandit partners from another for any given dance. It was a delightfully public sort of privacy.

  “Bauers will be busting his buttons. You’ve surely raised enormous funds for Grace House.”

  Did he pull her half an inch closer as they rounded that turn, or did she just imagine it? “I am sorry he missed it. He’d have enjoyed it, don’t you think?”

  “I’m certain.” Matthew continued to stare at her, hard and deliberate, as if memorizing her features. “Is it a hectic evening for you?” he inquired, and Georgia had the odd sense that it was not the question he’d intended to ask at all.

  “Not as much as one would think. Stuart knows how to get things done. The decorations, I’m afraid, are all his. I was able to wrest away some control of the other parts of the evening. I must say it took him a bit to adjust to my telling him what I wanted. You can imagine it usually goes the other way around.”

  Matthew grinned. “So, are you enjoying your ball?”

  “It is a most extraordinary evening,” she said, finding every other description too complex.

  “Miss Waterhouse—”

  “Please!” She interrupted on an impulse, realizing she and Matthew might never have such an occasion again. “Call me Georgia. Just for tonight.”

  His eyes did something she could not name, something that lit up the air between them. He let his face come near to her shoulder as he pulled her into a sweeping turn. “Georgia,” he said softly, and the tone of his voice nearly made her miss a step. “Georgia, I would—”

  “Peach! We’ve got to make an announcement of how much money has been raised. Come.” Stuart snatched her efficiently from the dance floor before Matthew could say a word in protest. She was beginning to despise her brother’s gift for interruption.

  “Thank you all for your generosity. The funds you’ve donated will help so many families and improve so many lives. Tonight, you are all heroes.”

  Georgia stepped down off the grand staircase and accepted the congratulations of several friends. How satisfying it was to have finally redirected one of Stuart’s schemes to a higher purpose. To have asserted herself at last. Months ago, she would have quietly but miserably endured the ball as Stuart’s misguided idea of a gift. Now, by standing up for what she valued, she had managed to turn affairs to something that truly pleased her. And, she hoped, pleased God.

  God had granted to her the one thing she most valued in her hero: courage. The most important kind—the courage to stand up for what was right. God had honored that courage, for Georgia knew that it was the first and only time many of these people had ever given money to Grace House. San Francisco was already famous for its vice. Perhaps now it could also be known for the virtue of philanthropy. She was, after all, a legendary—and now courageous—optimist.

  One of the house staff approached her. “This came for you,” the girl said, handing her a message. Georgia’s heart stopped when she saw the rolled paper was tied with a simple strip of white cloth. She ducked into an alcove and pulled at the ribbon with shaking hands.

  “George”ia—

  Terrace eleven o’clock

  —BB

  It was him. It had to be him. Only he and Stuart knew she was George Towers. He had come, just as she knew he would. She rushed to the library to check the clock. Ten-fifty. Ten minutes! It would seem like ten years.

  Foolishly, she checked her hair in the glass of the clock face. If she went through the back hallway and the kitchen, she could slip through the dining room to the terrace without having to see anyone. Georgia was quite sure she could not converse with a single soul at present. She was feeling light-headed as it was. It was best to just go now and wait on the terrace—praying the entire time, she decided.

  Oh, Father, thank You. I’ll accept whatever comes of this, but thank You!

  Matthew was pacing the terrace like a schoolboy. He’d planned this a dozen times in his head, and suddenly every plan seemed like rubbish. Words tangled on his tongue. He surely must be sweating despite the cool of the evening. Some part of him had hoped she would realize the truth earlier, when she saw him dressed as the Bandit. He’d harbored a silly fantasy that some sort of surreal spark would fly between them and she would know. But she didn’t.

  I saw this going so much differently, he thought to himself. Now who had written a ridiculous Ban
dit episode? He had envisioned them sweeping around the ballroom with their grand secret, just as they had done about the Bible he hid in his pocket. They’d share a secret the whole world wanted to know, just the two of them.

  He was about to give in and tell her when Stuart had plucked her from his grasp. Matthew had stood there, fuming on the dance floor for a few minutes, his great plan foiled. It was then that he came up with the idea of the note.

  Surely now she’d come. This was a private part of the house, and no one from the party would be here. She’d know why the Bandit wanted to meet her. And then he could tell her. Ten long minutes from now. Help me, Lord, he pleaded as he pulled off his hat. I’m twisted up enough as it is.

  He still had his hat in his hand when the French doors opened up and she came out onto the terrace. He gulped. So much for ten minutes.

  She looked even more surprised than he. “Matthew!” she blurted, sounding much less pleased than he would have liked. “I…I found I needed some air.” She put her hand behind her back. “I’ll be fine in a moment. Please, don’t let me keep you. Surely you ought to go and enjoy yourself at the party.”

  She was urging him to leave. Matthew’s resolve wobbled a bit when he realized she truly had no idea he was the Bandit. It stung, but not enough to stop him. “Georgia…”

  “I’ll be back inside momentarily,” she said, trying to look around casually. She was a charmingly poor liar. “It’s a grand evening. I wouldn’t want you to miss any of it.”

  The music of another waltz flooded out through the open doors. Matthew walked around her, noting how Georgia shifted her hand out of his view as he passed. She who kept many secrets was unskilled at deceit.

  Instead of leaving, as he suspected she thought he was doing, he gently shut the doors. “Were you expecting someone?”

  Her face twisted up just a bit, and the sight of it tied his heart in knots. “Well, I…” She was trying to lie, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  He laid his hat on the terrace table and pulled his mask off with the other hand. Somehow, as he removed it, every shred of doubt left him. He was, in every sense of the word, unmasking himself to her. “I was,” he said softly.

  She blinked, shaking her head just a bit. Her expression was so stunned, so transparent that he could watch her think. Watch the thoughts collide in her head. “No, really, I…”

  He altered his voice to the one he had used as the Bandit. “I was expecting George.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Georgia would have sworn an earthquake had just struck her back terrace. He? Expecting George? That could only mean…no. It couldn’t be. He had somehow discovered the truth and had the audacity to toy with her so. Something close to anger swept through her.

  She stared at him. “You couldn’t…George…” The pieces began to fall into place. It was, in fact, completely possible. He’d told her he was good with voices as a child. As a visitor, he could move unrecognized throughout many parts of the city. The first strips of cloth had always been bandages from his arm. She’d just not seen it because she was embroidering every detail with her own fantasy.

  “It is me,” Matthew said, his gaze so fierce she thought she’d keel over. “It has always been me.”

  A thousand questions, a thousand thoughts tumbled in her head. The two men who held her heart were one man. Matthew was the Bandit. The Bandit was Matthew.

  “H-how?” she stammered. “Why?”

  He took a step toward her. “Mostly because it pleased you so. I saved Quinn by accident—it was happenstance that I was there. Then, when it appeared in the papers, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know you’d written the story. That first time, at Grace House, it was mostly because I knew you wished the Bandit to be true. I thought Stuart wrote about him as a gift of sorts to you. And, somehow, I knew I could make that gift come alive for you.”

  At first, it pained her as yet another manipulation. But looking at him, hearing his words and seeing the emotion laid bare in his eyes, she knew it truly had been a gift. “I begged you to tell me.”

  “It will be only a matter of weeks before I am called home. I thought it would hurt less if you did not know. If he remained unreal.”

  “And now?” Her voice wavered with the threat of tears. From pain or happiness, she couldn’t yet say—they collided in the back of her throat.

  “It hurt too much to keep deceiving you. It came to the point where even if I sailed tomorrow, I would bear it to give you one day of knowing it was me.” He took another step toward her, his face suddenly dissolving into a look of vulnerability. “Can you not see it? How I care for you?” He swung his hands in a frustrated gesture. “I cannot bear to take you away from everything you love, and yet I cannot bear to stay away from you. I thought having the Bandit appear to you would solve it—that you could remain enamored of him in your mind and not suffer when I left.” He stepped closer still and touched her cheek.

  She brought her hand up to clasp his, and felt as if their joined hands were the only thing keeping them from spinning off the end of the world. She tried to say something, but couldn’t find words.

  “But I could not bear it,” he continued, the pain in his face slowly melting into a look of such tenderness that she was certain her knees would give way. “And, truth be told, I was jealous of your affection for him. I am your Bandit, Georgia. For as long as I can, I will do anything to save your world and make you happy.”

  The night careened around her. She could not draw in a breath deep enough.

  He put his other hand to her cheek, so that he held her face. He stared at her as if she were the most precious treasure in all the universe. “Please say something,” he whispered.

  Georgia thought of all she had wished, the hero she had dreamed of, and the man she had resisted. She thought of Sister Charlotte’s call to follow her heart, and God’s call to her newfound courage.

  Georgia Waterhouse became something she had never been: bold. And discovered that Sister Charlotte was indeed right—a wise woman did know a true kiss when it came her way.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “You,” Georgia said, when at last she pulled away. He nodded with a broad smile and sparkling eyes. “You,” she repeated, still trying to grasp the wild idea.

  “Do you find the concept so entirely implausible?” he teased. “I should like to think I am not entirely unheroic by daylight.” He had the look of a man who had shed a great weight.

  “I think you are a wonderful man, armed or unarmed.” She couldn’t resist. “But I must admit I did think your costume below par.” She ran her hand down his arm, feeling the strength of his muscle as he held her. Delighting in the fact that it was he who held her. She touched the fabric of his shirt with wonder, as if it would give up clues to the adventures it had seen. “How amazing to discover it is in fact the real thing.”

  Matthew smiled, his eyes alight. “My hat has no mere nick in it, you know. Signore Trivolatti’s meat hook is a most deadly weapon.” He nodded as Georgia’s fingers ran across the patch on his sleeve. “That came from those dreadful chickens.”

  “Oh,” said Georgia, her head falling against his chest as the memory of the pandemonium made her laugh. “The chickens! Even Stuart enjoyed that chaos.” She kept her head there, clinging just a bit tighter as the mention of her brother brought the world back into somber focus. “Does anyone know?” she asked, marveling when her cheek bumped up against a corner of what she knew to be Reverend Bauers’s Bible.

  “Bauers knows.” Matthew stroked his palm down her arm, and she thought it the most soothing sensation in all the world. “He’s been after me to tell you since Good Friday. He’s been an accomplice of sorts.” Matthew pulled back to look into her eyes. It seemed amazing to her that his could look so dark and so bright all at once. “My valet, Thompson,” he said, “worked it out weeks ago, but I’ve no idea how. The clothing was his doing. He’d be insulted to know you found my costume inferior.”


  “Perhaps I should revise my comment to say it is more ‘authentic.’”

  Matthew smiled. “Who knows you are George?” he asked softly.

  “Only Stuart. I believe most people suspect it has been Stuart all along.”

  “Oh, they do. I did.” He fingered a stray lock of her hair, his smile broadening at the feel of it. “I imagine quite a few of them would be slack-jawed to discover the author’s real identity. You would surprise quite a few people.”

  Which brought up the unwelcome subject of what to do now. The world had spun on its ear not half an hour ago. How would the new world turn from here? She pulled away from his embrace and walked to the edge of the terrace. “Matthew, what do we do?”

  He sat down on the short wall. “I am at a loss. Other than praying for legions of divine guidance, I hadn’t thought it through any further than that.”

  Georgia sat down on the wall beside him. “Surely, God must have some sort of reason for all this.”

  “I can only—”

  “Peach!” Stuart’s voice came from behind the French doors. “Are you out here?”

  Georgia’s heart leaped into her throat. She shot up off the wall and rushed to the doors as she heard a rustle behind her. “Stuart?” She kept her hands firmly on the door latch, prepared to block it from opening with her foot if need be. When she turned and looked behind her, she was alone on the terrace. Matthew had somehow disappeared, but had left his hat and mask. “I’m out here,” she said, as calmly as she knew how while she tossed the items over the wall into the bushes. “I needed some air.” Stuart came though the doors. “All those Bandits.”

  “There’s about a dozen you still haven’t met yet. Have you spotted him?”

  Georgia dreaded the prospect of having to lie to Stuart, so she was thankful when God gave her an answer that was indeed the truth. “I thought I would know him when I saw him.”