Masked by Moonlight. Allie Pleiter
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elder Covington had even been to dinner once, although a long time ago. Georgia didn’t remember him looking like the man who’d come to dinner tonight.
What she’d noticed most about Matthew Covington was the extraordinary command he had of his body, which was athletic and graceful. Stuart galloped around a room, Oakman toddled, but Matthew Covington strode. It seemed an odd thing to notice—not like hair or eyes or a smile or such—but it struck her in a way she couldn’t put a name to.
Georgia wondered how high those British eyebrows would go if he knew a woman had come up with the story of the Black Bandit. And penned it.
The clock chimed half past. No reasonable woman would be up at three-thirty in the morning considering her publishing strategies.
Well, then, she thought as she reached for her wrap, if Georgia Waterhouse oughtn’t to be up, perhaps George Towers can be awake.
She smiled as the opening sentence came to her. Why not?
Dipping her pen, she began:
“The Black Bandit finished cleaning his sword as the sun dawned over the mountains. Sleep had eluded him that night….”
“I had one hundred seventy-three reasons to decline your brother’s invitation,” Matthew said when he escorted Miss Waterhouse to an event a few days later.
Why he chose this to be the first thing out of his mouth when she entered the parlor, he couldn’t say. He’d meant it as a compliment, but as the words escaped his lips he realized how insulting they could be.
Fine opener, Covington. Did you leave your manners in England?
Thankfully, she seemed to guess his intent—and his instant regret—for a small grin played across her face. Her response pleased him.
“Yet, at the moment,” he continued in complete honesty, “I can’t recall a single one of them.”
“A clever save, Mr. Covington. Perhaps you might fare better if you told me why you said yes,” she countered, adjusting the ribbon on her hat.
“First off, it’s been made quite clear to me that one takes one’s life into one’s own hands when declining Stuart Waterhouse.”
“True.”
“And secondly, you make infinitely better company than sums and inventories.”
She scowled. “I’m afraid I don’t find that much of a compliment. In my opinion, most of the world makes better company than sums and inventories.”
“It depends on the sums,” replied Matthew, holding the door open for her as they stepped out into the afternoon light, “and very little of most of the world could convince me to endure a musicale.”
“Endure? But it’s Gilbert and Sullivan. At Tivoli Gardens, no less. Stuart’s favorite—and very British.”
Matthew grimaced and offered her his elbow. “My point exactly. I don’t like tea, either, you know.”
She laughed. A lovely, bright laugh. “Well, there will be some of that, but I expect Stuart might be able to find you a cider. He’ll be joining us a little while after the concert starts. Some paper emergency.” She sighed. “There’s always some paper emergency.”
It was a grand spring day. Matthew felt the crisp bay breeze—and the delightful company—lift his spirits. Admit it or not, he’d been wondering how he could see her again. He’d have said yes if Stuart had asked him to escort Georgia to a quilting bee. “I expect your brother thrives on crises, doesn’t he?”
“He seems to. Anything less would bore him.”
“Stuart Waterhouse bored. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.” Matthew gave a chuckle, thinking of how the man had sped around the room at the dinner party. How he seemed to everywhere at once, and hardly ever sat down.
Georgia suddenly stopped walking. She turned and looked up at Matthew with intensity, the sun playing across her hair and cheeks. “I spend a tremendous amount of time talking about Stuart, Mr. Covington.” She lowered her eyes, as if her own comment caught her by surprise. “I…I should like it if that were not the case with you.”
Matthew gazed at her, a sudden sympathy filling him. “I would like that very much.” Yes, very much.
She broke the spell, picking up the pace again, a bit flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me say that.”
“I do.” It was Matthew who stopped this time. “You’re much different than he. But people lump you together just the same. I’ve been lumped together with my father for ages, and we couldn’t be more different. Yet everyone assumes I’m just like him. I have to admit I don’t always enjoy the comparison.”
“So you understand,” she murmured quietly, but said no more.
Chapter Six
It seemed ages before the portly soprano and her equally portly tenor husband ended their first act. Matthew wondered how the usually fidgety Stuart could sit transfixed by such music, but he was clearly enjoying himself.
“Today’s edition, Peach,” he announced as he pulled a paper from under his arm at the intermission. “I’ll go fetch us drinks.”
Georgia folded the pages directly to the back cover. “Ah, here it is,” she said. She began to read.
Before he could stop himself, Matthew leaned over her shoulder to peer at the headline: Returning by Demand: Another Episode of the Black Bandit’s Adventures. He read on, drawn in despite himself.
“The Black Bandit finished cleaning his sword as the sun dawned over the mountains. Sleep had eluded him that night, as it had many nights of late. The exertion of his battles, the welcome partnership of arm and whip, the song of the sword as it sliced the night air—these things eased his spirits. But lately, even they had failed to give him rest.”
Matthew blinked and stared.
Blinked again. Read and reread, his throat tightening.
It was all there. Again. As if George Towers had somehow crept inside his life. How could someone he’d never met put words to his thoughts with such wrenching eloquence? Towers seemed to understand the solace sought in exertion—but the two of them had never met. Sleep surely eluded many men, but how many understood the art of weaponry such as swords and whips? Who was this man?
Matthew turned away. No, the connections weren’t there. The tension and the sleeplessness must have drawn his nerves too tight.
As he turned back, he saw that Georgia was still entranced by the story. He stared at her, sensing how completely opposite their reactions had been. Matthew wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and that confounding piece of newsprint. She, on the other hand, looked as if she would crawl into the story if she could.
She must have sensed his stare, for she glanced up. Her eyes had a soft quality, as if she’d been someplace faraway and wonderful. Matthew tried to soften his own expression, but it was too late. She had seen his reaction—the fact registered on her face.
“You’re not fond of the Bandit stories, are you, Mr. Covington?” Matthew swore there was disappointment in her voice.
“No, it’s not that.” He gulped almost instinctively, then groped for some reasonable explanation to give her, wanting to banish the gulf that had just stretched between them. “They’re a bit…overwrought…for my taste.”
“I see.” Her words were cool and clipped.
“I’m sure there are many people who enjoy such tales,” he stated, trying to salvage the conversation. But the damage had been done. Why did she seem to care so much about what he thought? Why did it bother him so to disappoint her? Matthew opened his mouth to say more, then shut it with a sigh, convinced that anything he added would only worsen the situation. Well, Covington, you’ve botched