Masked by Moonlight. Allie Pleiter
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the blue to cover the oversight. The inky blue-black of stormy waters. They strayed back to her for a moment, and she quickly looked away.
“Who is this George Towers? A local writer?”
“I know many things about the way my brother does business, Mr. Covington.”
“But…”
“But I wouldn’t be privy to half of them if I didn’t know the value of a secret.” Georgia allowed herself to hold his eyes for a moment. “Especially one that is becoming rather sought after.” People wanted to know who George Towers was. The office had received numerous inquiries over the course of the day. Georgia was almost heady with pleasure at readers’ response to her story. Having it be a secret only intensified the effect. She imagined she had looked like the cat that swallowed the canary all day.
Stuart burst back into the room. “All is well—or at least until the next disaster. Thank you, Peach.” He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek.
“You’re welcome,” she said, preparing to return to the ladies in the salon.
“Stay just a moment.” Stuart took her hand. “I want you to hear what our guest thinks of the Black Bandit.”
“I’ve yet to finish the story, Waterhouse,” Covington protested. “You can’t very well ask me to comment when I’ve read only a handful of paragraphs.” He didn’t much care for the article. Georgia could tell. And she knew in a heartbeat what Stuart was going to do next. Covington didn’t stand a chance.
“Well, then, read the thing.” Her brother smoothed out the crumpled paper and motioned to one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. “Better yet, read it aloud to all of us.”
“Stuart…” Georgia began, thinking he was going a shade too far.
“No, really, Peach. The test of any good story is how it sounds aloud. Covington, you’ve a fine voice—that accent and all. Why don’t you read it to us?”
“I…”
Stuart was having fun with her, Georgia knew. Giving her a chance to secretly enjoy her talent. It was a dreadful thing to do to a guest, especially one who clearly didn’t relish the prospect, but she could help herself no more than Stuart could. The opportunity to sit and watch people listen to her words was far too enticing. She wanted to hear him read it. Very much.
“Please, Mr. Covington,” she found herself saying. “Indulge us.”
“Men who refuse Stuart Waterhouse live to regret it,” teased Oakman, “generally in the next day’s headlines!”
Covington knew he was cornered. Gathering his dignity, he sat down, took a deep breath and began to read the inaugural installment of the Black Bandit’s adventures.
His voice flowed on, deep and musical. But there was an odd note in it, whether of shock or of fascination, she couldn’t tell. And his whole body seemed to be reacting to the story, albeit subtly. His hands clenched the margins, and he shifted his weight two or three times. He stumbled on the paragraph that described the Black Bandit as tall and lithe, dark and powerful.
He put the issue down quickly as he finished, and Georgia thought, Well, here’s one reader not won over by the Black Bandit.
Chapter Five
Desperate for the sleep that continued to evade him, and determined not to set foot outside and risk any association whatsoever with any bandits, real or imagined, Matthew settled for swinging his fencing foil around the hotel room as quietly as possible that night. He tried to block and parry as softly as he could, since he’d already roused Thompson once by knocking over a water pitcher. Even so, Matthew’s final thrust skewered an item from the fruit basket on the sideboard.
He hoisted the fruit high, its weight making the foil wobble slightly as a sticky stream of juice began sliding down the blade.
Pathetic.
His San Francisco visit was not going well. And if he didn’t sleep soon, he wasn’t going to have a lick of business sense by the time he visited the shipping docks tomorrow. Matthew thought it a cruel irony that while he was forced to spend his day listening to the sleep-inducing rhetoric of Dexter Oakman, the combination of a silly newspaper story and a stunning woman made nocturnal sleep impossible.
He stared at the pair of Herald issues that lay on the table, taunting him. They were staring back, ganging up on him, their dark headlines glaring unblinkingly. No, he thought, nearly declaring it out loud, I will not read it again.
It wasn’t as if he needed to. He’d reread the piece enough times that he could practically recite it. Checking over and over for hints and similarities, for any sign that George Towers had been hiding in some dark corner of that alley. No, it was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Matthew took his handkerchief and wiped down the foil, licking sweet juice off one finger.
Georgia Waterhouse. What was it about her that intrigued him so? Some of it was obvious. Her relationship with her brother fascinated Matthew. He’d known sibling teasing from his younger brother, David, but there was far more competition than companionship between them. David was highly critical of Matthew, the principal heir. Entirely too eager, he suspected, to have the position for himself. David and his father seemed to agree on so much in life. Matthew had long felt that Covington Senior had never quite forgiven his wife for having their sons in the wrong order.
No, affection was a longtime stranger to the Covington household. In recent years the fighting had cooled to an impassionate, rigid tolerance.
Stuart and Georgia, on the other hand, had something unique, an obvious but indefinable bond. As if they knew a secret the rest of the world would never share. Matthew had seen such a look flash between his twin cousins. Something beyond language or gesture.
Then again, knowing Stuart Waterhouse’s social and professional prowess, chances were those two did know a few secrets the world might clamor for. Hadn’t she said she’d been “privy” to a few of Waterhouse’s “hidden assets”?
A beautiful woman with big secrets. Perfect.
The downstairs clock chimed three. Georgia adjusted her pillow for the thousandth time. Sleep rarely eluded her, and she found this fit of wakefulness annoying. Try as she might, even with the help of her favorite psalms, her mind refused to quiet itself for the night.
Granted, it had been a splendid day. Spending hours watching people carry the Herald to and fro, listening to visitors at the newspaper office gossip and wonder about George Towers and his captivating Bandit.
“My captivating bandit,” she declared to the curtain fringe, which offered soft, frilly nods in the breeze. She cast a sheepish glance heavenward. “Well, ours. Thank you, Father,” she sighed, “for using Stuart and me in such a…satisfying way. Even if Stuart doesn’t see it as such.”
Georgia rolled over and elected to take stock of the evening. Entertaining wasn’t really her gift, so perhaps analyzing the dinner and its guests might sufficiently bore her that she could sleep. She was a competent enough hostess—goodness knows Stuart invited people over constantly—but not the kind whose soirees made the papers. At least not without her brother’s direct intervention. He usually whipped up a dramatic paragraph or two when the mood struck him, more for the titillation of his dinner guests than any further need to see his name in print. Georgia knew full well it was Stuart’s power, and not her social prowess, that lured guests to the table. In truth, that suited her fine.
The Oakmans were dull but useful, present tonight because of their association with Covington Enterprises, Georgia guessed. No, it was clear Stuart had focused his attention on Matthew Covington. Aside from her brother’s passion for all things English, Georgia guessed he’d sought out Covington—and asked that she do the same—for far more than his accent. The name Covington was familiar to businessmen in San Francisco. Their import holdings were considerable; Stuart