“It seems to me,” Georgia said, “that we are dealing with a most extraordinary fellow.

Quite resourceful. Very noble, but a bit reckless.”

If God himself had asked Matthew how he would like to be remembered, those were very nearly the words Matthew would use. And here Georgia was using them about the Bandit—who was, and then was not, Matthew Covington. It was an oddly powerful sensation.

Made more so by what Matthew saw hiding behind Georgia’s eyes—an admiration for the recklessness that came close to affection for the dashing hero.

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

Still, 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. It was enough.

ALLIE PLEITER

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction. An avid knitter and non-reformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee, and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

Allie Pleiter
Masked by Moonlight

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For now we see in a mirror, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know fully even as also I was fully known. But now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

—1 Corinthians 13:12–13

For Georgia

Dream big dreams, little one

Contents

Acknowledgment

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Acknowledgment

I was blessed to have loads of great help on this book, and any blame for historical errors you find should lay squarely on my own shoulders, not with any of my fine sources. Eileen Keremitsis lent tireless and creative help in general research and fact finding. Howard Mutz and Gena Egelston dug up hotel details, while the Golden Gate Hotel served as my home away from home in San Francisco. Andrew John Conway taught me to wield a whip and made valuable book recommendations. It’s a given that I’d be sunk without the ongoing support of my family, my agent Karen Solem, my editor Krista Stroever, and the wonderfully supportive ranks of Windy City RWA, Chicago North RWA, and the local and national branches of American Christian Fiction Writers. As always, the highest credit goes to my God, who continues to take me on the most amazing journey of all.

Chapter One

San Francisco

1890

Set up, turn, release.

The whip sliced cleanly through the night. Without the expected crack.

Matthew Covington pulled the whip behind him again, blowing out an exasperated breath. That’s twice you’ve missed. The moonlight and shadows should have eased his overwrought spirit. He checked the last few inches of the whip, making sure they were intact. He knew they would be. His own frayed concentration was at fault here, not his whip. Come now, man. Gather your wits. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers around the hilt. Why still so tense? He’d doffed his collar and waistcoat. Fled that dark, fussy office where his duty to be the respectable guardian of the Covington family honor accosted him at every tight turn. Surely out here, in shirtsleeves, in the noisy darkness of unfamiliar San Francisco, Matthew could find the space he craved.

After a moment’s consideration, he put the whip down and flipped open the latch on a long wooden box at his feet. Moonlight caught the sword’s edge as he lifted it from the dark blue velvet. Whhhish. Matthew listened for the blade’s soothing whisper. Although a formidable opponent with any of his weapons, he cared little for combat. He was drawn to the marriage of tool and muscle, the form and stretch of putting the weapon through its courses. The exertion. The application of skill. Whoosh. Matthew’s whole body seemed to exhale as he sent the sword curving through the cool darkness.

He wasn’t satisfied. Fencing often eased his knotted shoulders, but he’d just had a long, excruciating day, and it simply wasn’t enough. Tonight, his tension needed the whip’s power more than the sword’s grace, and Matthew’s hand returned to the whip’s hilt seemingly on its own.

“I told you!” A sudden voice broke the quiet. Two figures burst into the end of the alley. Matthew froze, glad he’d replaced his white lawn shirt with a darker one as a last-minute precaution.

“It ain’t worth nothin’, I reckon,” one said.

“Lemme open it.” The larger man bumped his companion aside and reached into a small bag.

“I git half, remember.”

“You get a third. Aw, will you look at this?” The big one held up a handful of coins, obviously disappointed.

“You pick a runt to rob and expect to get gold? We ain’t gonna get anywhere if you keep—” A stack of boxes fell over as someone new ran into the alley.

Someone small.

“Gimme that back!” the thin voice panted. It was a boy—no more than ten years old, from the looks of him.

Matthew’s chest constricted. His fingers tightened around the whip. Covington, stay out of this. He backed up against the wall.

But not before taking a half-dozen silent steps toward the action.

“Aw, looky here, what followed us.” The pair flanked the boy, each man pushing up his sleeves.

Nothing needs saving, Covington. Certainly not by you.

“It’s mine. I want my money back!” The boy put up a pair of tiny, heroic fists.

Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t…

The large man dangled the bag out of the boy’s reach, taunting him. “Life ain’t fair, runt. Better learn it now. Unlessen you’re in a hurry to meet your maker.”

“Give it to me!” The lad lunged at the smaller of the men, who caught him easily. Matthew glimpsed the glint of a blade against the boy’s throat.

How could he not?

Matthew took four huge strides, readying the whip as he went. Silently, staying in the building’s shadow, he lifted his arm. Set up. Turn. He sent the long arc of leather hissing through the air, to crack angrily half a foot to the right of the boy’s captor. The knife was too close to the lad’s throat to chance it, but the crack had the effect needed. As the burly man yelped and flinched, Matthew sent his whip out again, this time around the small bag.

He gave a precise yank, sending the purse sailing into the air to land a few feet in front of him.

“What the…?” The other man spun in Matthew’s direction, his own blade raised. At least the lad knew enough to bolt out of his captor’s grasp the second he flinched.

Matthew drew a breath to hiss something threatening when his brain cautioned him to stay silent. His British accent would give him away in a heartbeat. Or at least make him easier to identify. Instead, he sank as far into the shadow as he could and pulled the whip back a third time. This time it wrapped around the legs of the second man and pulled him down on top of his companion.

Why didn’t the boy run to safety? Matthew remembered the bag. He considered throwing it to the lad, but that would force him to step into the light again, and the men were already scrambling to their feet. When Matthew noticed the pair lacked guns or holsters—a rare but fortunate circumstance—he calmly drew the revolver from his side. The unmistakable click of the hammer stopped them cold. He let the silver tip of the gun catch the moonlight, and the pair promptly fled, disappearing around the corner.

Exhaling, Matthew holstered the gun and picked up the bag. The boy stood gaping at him with wide eyes. Matthew tossed the bag to the lad, who was too busy straining to see into the shadows to catch it.

There was a long pause. Matthew held his tongue, but finally nudged the purse with his foot.

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Still staring, the boy crouched down and groped for it.

Matthew forced himself to focus on coiling his whip. When he looked up, the child was gone.

Then, just as he turned back toward his box, Matthew heard it—the long wail of a running boy calling, “Thanks, mister!”

If Georgia Waterhouse was going to save the world one child at a time, someone had beaten her to it.

At least as far as the scrappy newsboy before her was concerned. Snapped from the very jaws of death, to hear him tell it. And tell it he had. He was on his fourth rendition of the morning, the pertinent details growing with every repetition as they sat in the Grace House Mission hallway.

“I thought you said he had one whip last time, Quinn. Now he’s wielding two.” Georgia smiled and put down the package of clothes she was wrapping. She knelt in front of the boy, tight as they were for space as they moved packages from the hallway into the mission linen closet.

She handed the boy a shirt to hold. “You know, Quinn, this is a pretty tall tale. Men don’t just appear out of the shadows with whips and guns in the middle of the night to save boys.” She knit her brows together as she reached behind her for another garment. “And what was it you were doing out so late, in any case? Did anyone know where you were?”

He shot her a look that said she didn’t know anything. “Everyone knew,” he said, with the whine of someone who felt he was stating the obvious. “I always run back to Uncle Hugh with the coins from the newsstand.”

“At three in the morning?” Georgia pivoted around to pack up the shirts she held with the ones she took back from Quinn. The mission was running out of storage space. Again.

“No, most times it’s closer to two.”

She sighed. The fact that ten-year-old newsboys were ferrying money through back alleys at three in the morning was exactly why God had asked her to save the world—or at least San Francisco’s corner of it—here through Grace House Mission.

“You know, Quinn, it’d be easy to make up a tale that some man saved you and your money from those robbers, especially if you thought people might admire you if you did. God—and I—would rather you tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth. God knows that, anyhow!”

Georgia pointed to another pile of clothes and switched tactics. “Hand me those, will you, please? I’m simply saying that it’s all right to make up stories. I do it all the time. But passing them off as real is another thing altogether.”

Quinn’s eyes took on a nasty edge. “I knew no one’d believe me.” He threw the pile onto the hallway floor. “Prob’ly not even God, and He should know better.” Disgusted, he tore off around the corner, leaving the clothes scattered on the floor behind him.

Georgia heard Reverend Bauers call out down the hall as he dodged out of Quinn’s angry path. The clergyman appeared at Georgia’s side a second later, looking down the hall after Quinn’s exit.

“Told you the tale of his midnight hero, has he?”

Georgia gathered up the clothing. “Four times. It got more heroic with every telling.”

Bauers chuckled. “How many whips in your version?” He was a jovial soul of solid German stock, and Georgia was very fond of him and the work he’d done here at Grace House. The struggling “South of the Slot” neighborhood—named for its position south of the cable car line—was far better off for his efforts.

“I stopped him at two.”

“It got to the point where I thought our hero would resort to cannon fire in my set of renditions,” he grunted as he bent his considerable frame to gather the last of the shirts. “Oh well, I can’t say as I blame the boy.”

Georgia eyed him. “Telling lies?”

“More like exaggerating, I’d say. I believe someone got Quinn out of a scrape last night. Whether or not he wielded a trunkful of weaponry, I am not so sure. But boys need heroes, and San Francisco is in painfully short supply.”

Chapter Two

“Georgia, you always get these kinds of ideas after you’ve been to Grace House.”

Georgia stared at her brother. They sat talking over breakfast in the family dining room. The sun had overpowered the morning fog, to produce a victorious wash of bright light. Unlike the estate’s massive formal dining hall, this was a warm and comfortable room. Georgia had seen to its welcoming palette of honey-colored wood, gold and tan wallpaper, with a few hints of green and burgundy in various accents. She loved that the petit point chair cushions were their late mother’s needlework. That the impressive gold candlesticks and clock on the fireplace mantel had been a favorite of their late father’s. Even though they were long gone, this dining room was one of the places she most felt her parents’ presence. Perhaps that’s why she had chosen to launch her extraordinary plan over breakfast here.

“That place has cost me thousands of dollars in your brand of philanthropy. They’ve got you hoodwinked,” her brother was saying.

Georgia gathered strength from the room around her and silently held her ground. Or, as she liked to think of it, she held ground for God.

Stuart finally looked up from his paper. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” With one hand she instinctively gripped the cushioned arm of her chair, as if her mother’s needlework would support her cause.

“Peach, I can’t just run something like that in the Herald,” said her brother, who often called her Peach, especially when being difficult. “You know that.”

“You run whatever you please in that paper, Stuart. Facts or no facts.” Georgia knew she had him there. Stuart Waterhouse ran a highly successful but highly disreputable paper.

“Peach,” he moaned at her display of determination, “be reasonable. We’ve already had a Black Bandit Bart. People aren’t going to believe that some man with the same name as that stagecoach robber has suddenly sprung up to play the noble hero. They aren’t going to believe it at all. It’s fiction.”

Fiction. How funny of him to use such a term. She wondered what he called half of his paper’s contents, since Georgia knew the term “fact” hardly applied. Quite clearly, Stuart viewed fiction as something beyond his dealings, even though Georgia imagined half of San Francisco might think otherwise.

“I know very well what it is. And believe me, Stuart, if I had a set of good deeds for your reporters, I’d tell you. But, as you so often point out, this city seems steeped in bad news. And you gave Black Bandit Bart a lot of coverage, so why not a new Black Bandit?”

Stuart rolled his eyes. “Oh come now, Georgia, times aren’t as bad as all that.”

“Aren’t they? Have you visited Grace House? Seen what kind of people come there asking for help? Things are going from bad to worse lately. You know it. I worry that you thrive on it, for goodness’ sake.” She reached for the morning’s edition of the Herald, which lay on the table between them. The cool black-and-white newsprint stood out against the honey-toned wood that surrounded them.

Georgia unfolded the paper and held it up to her brother. “I don’t see a piece of good news in here, Stuart. Can you show me even one story?”

He evaded her challenge, as she knew he would. “I’m not going tit for tat with you on this.” He rose and walked to the window, slipping his hands inside the pockets of his crisp gray trousers. He was a fastidious dresser, her brother. He always looked sharp and strong, his meticulously tailored coat rarely unbuttoned. “Write all the stories you like, tell tales to your heart’s content,” he said, gazing out the window. “Just don’t ask me to run them in the Herald.”

The servants brought in breakfast, interrupting the exchange. The siblings ate in silence, he thinking he’d ended the conversation, she regrouping for another attempt.

When he’d finished the last of his eggs, Georgia slid the paper over to his side of the table once more. She would not back down. Not again. “We don’t have any good news, Stuart. We’re going to have to make our own. Fiction reminds people of what could be. Stories touch their hearts. This city isn’t suffering from a lack of facts. Folks already have more than enough facts to fill their heads. It’s suffering from a lack of heart. A lack of faith. Stories reach that part of us.”

Stuart’s expression told her she was speaking about things he neither understood nor valued. He ran his empire, and cared little for lingering over breakfast to discuss San Francisco’s moral failings.

He didn’t concern himself with the citizens’ hearts or souls.

Their wallets, however, commanded his full attention.

Georgia looked at the candlesticks, massive and ornate. Her father had brought them back from a trip because he’d felt they caught one’s eye. They were, in fact, the first thing anyone noticed when entering the room. She needed to catch her brother’s eye, then, and put this in terms he could appreciate. She altered the tone of her voice.

“If there’s one thing you know, Stuart, it’s how to give your readers what they want.” She handed him a small stack of handwritten pages. “Read this. Just read it once, that’s all I’m asking.” She sent up a prayer that he would do so. “See what those famous instincts of yours tell you about what people might think of this.”

Stuart reached for a piece of toast and glared at her.

She did her best to glare back. Lord, please let him read it. Only You can do this.

Slowly, Stuart’s hand moved toward the pages. She straightened her spine, trying to look as if she’d never leave the breakfast table until he granted her request. If the sun could conquer the fog this morning, she could stand up to Stuart.

He took hold of the pages while biting into his toast.

Georgia waited. Show him, Lord. Let him see it. See what I see.

She studied her brother’s face as he began to read. After a paragraph or two, Stuart stopped chewing. He let out a little humming sound as he turned the page.

“It’s fine work, but I…”

“You ought to have thought of this yourself, Stuart. You ought to have written it yourself. It would do you a world of good to pen something that might actually be categorized as…uplifting.”

Stuart dismissed the idea with a snort. “I haven’t any talent for this sort of thing.” He put down the toast, half-eaten, and emptied his coffee cup instead. “‘Uplifting’ doesn’t sell.”

Georgia tried out her newfound glare once more. “But you know this will sell. And don’t try to deny it—I see it on your face. Everyone needs a hero. And if they need one bad enough, he doesn’t even have to be real. That little boy at Grace House made up his own personal hero so he’d believe he had someone looking out for him. So he could believe that good might just conquer evil, after all. Hold up a little piece of good for once, Stuart. It won’t hurt you. And won’t cost you a dime.”

Her brother was right in one respect: he couldn’t have written it. There was nothing ideological about Stuart. He’d built a fortune on his keen grasp of the public’s insatiable hunger for news. His brand of news. Sharp, eye-catching, unabashedly partisan news. In all honesty, her brother’s outlandish character sold as many papers as his headlines. Stuart Waterhouse wasn’t exactly known for his respect of facts, but his opinions were the stuff of legend.

Well, she could be a legendary Waterhouse, too. And Georgia knew, just as God did, that the public’s appetite for something good was just as strong as its craving for slander.

“Run it, Stuart. One installment. As a favor to me.”

“Georgia, I’m not—”

“Please, Stuart. For me.”

A wry smile crept across his face, and she knew she had him. “Oh, very well, then, I’ll run it.”

Thank you, Father!

“On two conditions.”

Well, if she hadn’t known that was coming, it was her own fault. She should have guessed there’d be conditions.

Stuart held up one finger. “Pen name.”

“But…”

“Male pen name,” he asserted.

So the victory goes to a George, not a Georgia, hmm? She rolled the idea over in her mind and decided that the prospect might be acceptable. As unconventional as Stuart could be, even he knew that writing as a man was a safer idea. Still, would it be deceitful? Georgia looked at the Herald, lying crisp and bright on the table between them. Tomorrow’s paper would contain her story. Her story. Even “George” couldn’t dampen the thrill in that. She waited for some sense of a heavenly warning, but none came. Just the joy of seeing the story come to light. That was confirmation enough for now.

She nodded.

“And second, speaking of favors, I’m having someone over to dinner tomorrow night….”

That one Georgia had seen coming a mile off.

Chapter Three

“And in that instant, the Black Bandit flung himself onto his gleaming mount and rode off into the night. In his wake, he left his injured enemy slumped at the sheriff’s feet. And behind them, the huddled group of children, astounded and grateful. Justice had prevailed in the bravery of a soft-spoken man whom no one could name.”

“Well, hang me, Peach, you really can turn a phrase. Astounding.” Stuart had actually interrupted his breakfast to read her the Bandit’s debut installment. “How does it feel, Mr. George Towers, to have your dashing hero introduced to the world?”

Georgia couldn’t deny her joy. Nor could she deny the blatant admiration in Stuart’s voice as he read the piece. It was identical to the handwritten words he’d read yesterday, but the man’s love affair with ink and newsprint was overwhelming. It struck Georgia that her Bandit was her brother’s exact opposite: larger than life, just like him, but a man of impeccable heroic morals, where Stuart was a man of…Perhaps it was more polite to say his morals were rather in question.

Her Bandit was a shamelessly inspirational hero. A dark and brooding champion. Georgia had taken the seed of an idea planted by Quinn and his fantastic tale, woven in a touch of Robin Hood, and then spiced it with the distinct grandiosity of the American West. She envisioned him like King David in his glory: distant and handsome, strong, compelled by an unshakable code of justice. Like all good heroes, he had the knack of sweeping in just when all hope seemed lost.

“Here’s the way I see it, Peach. Do you notice where it’s placed? On the back page here? I’ve posted your story right where someone else can see it while a man reads the paper.” Stuart held up the issue in a classic pose, then peeked above it at Georgia. “You can read about your hero while I read the other pages. I see wives across San Francisco catching a glimpse of our Bandit while their husbands scan the business column. Brilliant, don’t you think? Our man George ought to be a hit by week’s end.”

Georgia eyed her brother. Why did it surprise her that he was managing to capitalize on this? Only Stuart could take something so noble and turn it into a way to sell more papers. Not to mention his sudden partnership in the idea. Our Bandit? Our man George?

“It’s how Dickens got his start, you know,” offered Stuart in response to her look. “Serialized in the dailies.”

Georgia was not Dickens. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about being George Towers. She’d prayed over it for hours after her agreement, waiting for God to put His foot down and end the charade. Instead, she continued to feel as though God had opened this window and wasn’t in any hurry to shut it. It was an idea born of good intentions, given directly to her by the Almighty—or so it felt. But it was still a deception of sorts. One couldn’t ignore Stuart’s manipulation of her, nor their partnered manipulation of the public’s imagination.

But oh, there it was. Sprung to life in the Herald’s wonderfully immortal ink. Sparking some hope in the troublesome world that was San Francisco these days. She thought of the spark in Quinn’s eyes.

“Peach? You’ve got that far-off look again. I always worry when you look like that. I’m not always fond of what shows up afterward.”

Georgia set her teacup down with a resolute clink and stared straight into Stuart’s inquiring eyes. “Stuart, thank you.”

“My pleasure. For what?”

“For being important.”

He merely returned her stare, and she could watch him resign himself to the oddities of his sister. And that’s precisely how Stuart viewed Georgia’s faith: as one of her oddities. “Speaking of my vast importance—not to mention that favor you owe me—Matthew Covington’s coming to dinner tonight.”

“Covington? The dry goods company?” Georgia surveyed the flowers brought in for tonight’s dinner table. They were almost right. Not enough bright colors. The gardener was forever forcing pastels on her.

“He’s that English fellow I was telling you about,” replied Stuart, plucking a blossom from the center of the cuttings for his own lapel. “The flesh-and-blood heir to that dry goods company. He’s here doing the family duty, showing up to play at keeping his eye on things.”

“And, of course, you asked him to dinner.”

Stuart launched into a chorus from Gilbert and Sullivan.

“Because he is an Englishman!

And he himself has said it, and it’s greatly to his credit, For he is an Englishman.

He i-i-i-i-s an E-e-e-ennn-glish-man!”

Just before he ducked around the corner, Stuart looked back at her. “He’s vastly important and very wealthy. I want him to have a grand time while he’s here. That’s where you come in. Fire up your charms, Peach, I want the man dazzled.”

Oh yes, with Stuart there was always a deal.

Matthew eyed his valet as the old man held up the remains of a newspaper. Pages had been sliced to ribbons. “You do know, sir,” said Thompson wearily, “that a large portion of Englishmen sleep at night?”

“Yes, Thompson,” he replied, finishing up his collar, “I’m well aware of that. But no one has yet expired from a bout of sleeplessness, so I gather I’m safe to live another day.” He shrugged into the coat Thompson held out, offering the most challenging look he could muster. The old man merely opened the door and handed Matthew a thick file, looking as if he might nap the minute Matthew left the room.

“Remember your dinner engagement at Stuart Waterhouse’s home this evening. Shall I order up a double set of tonight’s papers, sir, so you can read them and duel them?”

Try as he might, Matthew couldn’t think of a clever enough response. His valet was always getting the last word. Probably what kept him alive all these years.

As Matthew boarded the carriage bound for the Covington Enterprises offices, Matthew’s family duty spread before him like a dull column of orderly figures. He merely had to inspect what was presented and tally up the sum. There seemed so little art to it. Like the predictable shot of a rifle. None of the arc or parry he found in the foil or the whip. Pull. Aim. Shoot. Obey.

“How are you finding San Francisco, Mr. Covington?”

“Lovely, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying your stay.” Miss Waterhouse gave him a charming smile. “San Francisco is not…everyone’s taste,” she continued. “I’m afraid we’ve not quite grown into our big-city shoes.”

“What my sister means is that we’re still a bit rough around the edges, Covington,” interjected Stuart.

“Not at all, Waterhouse.” Matthew forced his gaze away from the man’s sister. “I find it refreshing to be someplace where everything isn’t hundreds of years old. Tell me, Miss Waterhouse, aside from the very formidable task of keeping an eye on your brother, how do you spend your days?”

She caught the jest, and smiled at him. Her eyes turned up just enough at the corners to give the impression that she was keeping a secret.

“Attending to Stuart’s conscience is only one of many interests, Mr. Covington. I play the harp, and I work a great deal with Grace House, our local mission. It serves the city’s many needy families. But you are correct—Stuart is my most pressing cause.”

“I spend hours trying to outwit my sister, Covington.” Stuart gave her a look that held both boundless annoyance and deep affection.

“All of San Francisco thanks you for your efforts, Georgia,” replied another of the evening’s dozen guests, Covington Enterprises’ local manager, Dexter Oakman.

“And what would you say to this new fascination of ours, Covington?” asked Stuart. “Have you got any such heroes in Britain?”

“Pardon?”

“Robin Hood!” Oakman chimed in behind a mouthful of potatoes. “He’s an English hero, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he was,” Matthew answered carefully. “The legend overshadows the real man, but often the best heroes are embellished, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Covington,” Miss Waterhouse replied. “I quite disagree. The very finest heroes are the ones that aren’t fictionalized.”

“Fine, perhaps, but exceedingly rare,” Matthew stated.

His hostess held an indefinable look in her eye as she murmured, “I would not argue with you there.”

Stuart lifted his glass. “To heroes, then.”

“Will we drink to all of them, or just this new fellow in your paper, Stuart?” inquired Oakman.

He rolled his eyes. “Drink to the Bandit if you must, but I’d much rather you drink to me.”

“One must first do something heroic, Stuart,” teased his sister.

He sighed dramatically. “To be so misunderstood.”

“Is the fate of most great men,” Matthew finished for him.

“Ah, Covington, I knew you’d come through for me. To our Bandit, then, and great—or should I say greatly misunderstood—heroes everywhere.”

“And what do you think of our Bandit?” asked Mrs. Oakman, a round, rather witless-looking woman who had been engrossed in the minute dissection of her pork for most of the meal.

“Bandit, Mrs. Oakman?”

Stuart made a gesture as though he’d been stabbed through the heart. “I’m wounded, Mr. Covington. You don’t read my paper?”

Well, that had been foolish. Thompson had truly seen to it that two copies came up to the room, but Matthew had fallen asleep over them, too exhausted to read the issue. And now Waterhouse knew. This trip was supposed to be Matthew’s declaration that he could carry the family name with respect and reserve. He didn’t need Georgia Waterhouse’s fascinating eyes spurring him on to what his father called “his fantastic talent for making a spectacle of himself.” Oh, the evening had taken a bad turn.

“Forgive me, Mr. Waterhouse. I pledge my loyal reader-ship for the rest of my visit.” It wasn’t a very good recovery, but it would have to do.

Evidently not one to miss an opportunity, Stuart handed him a copy of the Herald the minute dinner had ended. Folded over to a back page, where some sort of serialized story had been printed.

Matthew read the first four paragraphs.

What?!

He quickly read them again, squelching the urge to gasp aloud.

Chapter Four

No.

Impossible.

Matthew sat down, hoping he showed no sign of the storm going off in his gut. He read the rest of the story, willing himself to look casual. Evidently the other night had been a spectacularly bad idea.

Don’t jump to conclusions, he admonished himself. He knew who had witnessed the conflict in the alley that night, and none of them were reasonably able to document it. Several details were different.

Smile and leave it, Covington. Leave it alone. Leave it…“Who is this George Towers?”

“Fine storyteller, isn’t he? He’s one of my, shall we say, hidden assets. The tale’s been the talk of the town today. I hadn’t been eager to run fiction in my paper until now, but I must admit I’m insanely pleased.”

Talk of the town. Marvelous. Father would be so very…intent on killing him.

“I’d imagine you are.” Waterhouse had said fiction, hadn’t he?

“We haven’t got a bumper crop of real heroes in San Francisco these days, so this author came to me with the idea of making one up. Seems to have hit a nerve. We may give your man Dickens a run for the money, eh?”

“Indeed…” That was all Matthew could spit out.

“I’ll run one of these every week if the attention keeps up,” Stuart announced.

“If I know you, Stuart,” chimed in Dexter Oakman, “you’ll run two.”

Matthew made a mental note to never step out of his bedroom door after dinner ever again.

Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Yes, the Bandit used a whip, and he wore dark clothes. And he had saved a child—granted, it was a small girl in this story, but in other details the story was alarmingly similar to what had happened.

Stop it. This was pure coincidence. It had nothing to do with Matthew. He had nothing whatsoever to do with bandits, black or otherwise.

He had just gotten his doubts under control when Georgia Waterhouse walked into the room.

“There’s someone at the door to see you, Stuart. He’s being rather insistent. Something about the presses.”

She was slim and graceful. Her skin was the palest he’d ever seen, but it lacked the blue tint that lurked in so many of London’s pale complexions. No, hers was infused with rose and gold.

Oh, Covington, his brain cautioned, now’s hardly the time.

Stuart left the room barking instructions for Georgia to stay and seek Mr. Covington’s opinion of his paper. The Englishman had the newspaper in quite a grip and for some reason she noticed his thumb was lying across the “George” of her byline.

“It seems my brother’s not won the instant subscriber he was expecting, Mr. Covington.”

“Pardon?” their guest swallowed.

“I gather you’re not fond of the Herald?”

“Why would you say that?” he replied quickly.

“You’re holding it as if it were a goose you planned to behead for supper.”

It proved an effective metaphor. Covington made such a show of loosening his grasp on the paper that he nearly dropped it. Dexter Oakman laughed.

“Perhaps I should say I found it rather gripping reading,” Covington said wryly.

She smiled. “Stuart would like that.”

The Englishman raised the paper again with a far gentler touch. “What is your opinion of your brother’s venture into fiction, Miss Waterhouse?”

In all the hubbub about the story, Mr. Covington had been the first person to ask her opinion. And, perhaps most pleasing of all, he looked at though he really desired to know, and wasn’t just making polite conversation. Perhaps it would not be such a difficult favor to keep him entertained, as Stuart had asked.

“It is one of the rare things Stuart and I agree on.”

“I’ve no doubt,” he murmured, in such a way as to make Georgia wonder if he’d intended to say it aloud. There was something, a sort of puzzlement, coloring his words. He stared at her for the briefest of moments before shifting his attention to the fire. He had extraordinary eyes, Georgia thought. Dark blue, beyond indigo. As if God, forgetting that most dark-haired men had brown eyes, had given him blue eyes at birth, and then darkened 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 told her that Covington Dry Goods kept half the finer stores in San Francisco stocked with European products. Stuart deemed them important enough that he made sure any Covington representative who came to town appeared at the Waterhouse table. The 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 that one thoroughly. Where’s Stuart with those drinks?

Georgia’s hand tightened around the newsprint. She’d wanted him to like it. Which was nonsense, really. He hadn’t enjoyed the first episode, so why should he suddenly relish the second? It was even more effusive than the first.

But she wanted him to like it. Her disappointment was as sharp as it was surprising. She drank her tea in silence while the men found something acutely businesslike to discuss.

She had been sorry when her brother sat between her and Matthew Covington before, but now was grateful to have Stuart between them for the second act. Yet, sure enough, Stuart pleaded yet another crisis once the applause ended, and asked Matthew to see her home. In his usual obliviousness to other people’s feelings, her brother focused solely on his goal: ensuring that Georgia and Matthew saw a good deal of each other. She’d have to put a stop to that soon, favor or no favor.

They spent most of the walk home engaged in forced bursts of small talk, grasping for the close atmosphere they’d enjoyed earlier. It seemed just beyond their reach. By the time they turned the final corner to her house, the gaps of silence grew uncomfortable.

Ten steps farther he stopped. He fiddled with his pockets some more, then looked up at her and said, “Would you…would you like me to read you the episode? You said you enjoyed it so much the other night at dinner. There’s been so much rain, it seems a shame to go inside when the park looks so inviting.” She watched him fumble, trying to cover his all-too-obvious desire to set things right between them. “I suppose we don’t even need to discuss anything at all, just take in the view and…”

“Yes,” she agreed eagerly. “I’d like that very much.”

He smiled, a wonderful, warm smile. And when he pulled her hand into the crook of his elbow to cross the street, she felt the earlier glow come back.

He saw her seated on a wrought-iron bench under the shade of an enormous budding tree. He sat opposite her and made an amusing fuss of folding the paper to just the right spot. She sensed he was doing it purely to please her. What an appealing thing that was.

Clearing his throat so dramatically that it made her laugh, he began to read. Oh, gracious, his voice was wonderful when he read like that. Deep and refined, as if the words were both surprising and familiar at the same time. How can he dislike the story and yet read it like that?

“The night crept by, allowing him time to think of all he had done, and all he had lost. Justice seemed little comfort, and yet it was comfort enough. He could no more stand by and let evil run its course than he could quench his heartbeat.”

Covington stopped reading and glanced up at her with an almost baffled expression. He seemed as if he didn’t want to like her tale, but couldn’t help himself. The words—her words—were affecting him; she knew it. He began to read again, and his voice seemed to wrap around her in the crisp air.

Matthew Covington was an exceedingly handsome man.

Mighty nice.

Stuart congratulated himself again for having the foresight to build the Herald’s offices so near his home. He hadn’t realized until today what an advantageous view of the park the windows offered.

There was no mistaking the pair on the bench across from his front steps. Covington was reading the paper—his paper—to Georgia. And she was looking as if she enjoyed it immensely. Stuart smiled.

“Dex?”

“Yes, Stuart?” Dexter Oakman came up behind him, to stare out the windows.

“Will you look at that?”

“Seems your sister is playing hostess quite well. How’d you convince her to do it?”

Stuart turned. “My secret, Dex.”

Oakman smirked. “You and your secrets.”

“How far did Covington get in his audit this morning?”

“Halfway into last year’s first quarter.”

Stuart smiled with satisfaction. “I doubt it will be too difficult to see that he doesn’t get much further than that.”

“Sure looks like it.”

Stuart brandished his file like a banner as he sang,

“I am the very model of a modern Major-General, I’ve information vegetable, animal and mineral…”

Georgia set the paper down on the Grace House kitchen table and looked at Quinn. “Well, what do you think?”

The boy tore another large chunk of bread off the loaf she’d set in front of him before she began reading the original Herald installment aloud. He narrowed one eye as he pointed at her with the bread. “I knew somebody was watching.” He grabbed his mug of juice with the other hand. “But a girl? Who’s dumb enough to let a girl run the money home?” He took a gulp of milk large enough to make Georgia wonder if he was eating at all outside the meals she gave him at Grace House.

“That Bandit man’ll be busy if things like this keep happening,” Quinn said, raising his voice to be heard over the banging of pots and dishes in the mission’s kitchen. He thunked his mug down on the rough wooden table where Georgia had set a place for him after he’d missed lunch by turning up late for the second day this week. Georgia winced a bit at the lavishness of her own home compared to the squalor she saw South of the Slot. The more she got to know Quinn, the more desperate his situation seemed. And there were so many more like him.

“Really,” she said, still unable to find a way to convince him the Herald wasn’t reporting actual Bandit sightings. Quinn seemed to take such hope from the tale, she couldn’t find it in herself to try any harder to take it away from him. Not that she hadn’t attempted to. Quinn, it seemed, just wasn’t interested in being convinced. She gave in to his insistent belief, half because she couldn’t fight it, and half because she found she no longer wanted to.

“I hope Bandit Man gets to sleep during the day. If he’s out all night, he needs to keep his strength up.” The boy swiped his hunk of bread around the tin plate, picking up every last bit of food before he stuffed the bread in his mouth. “More egg?” he asked, his cheeks puffed out as he chewed.

Georgia rested her chin on her palm and raised an eyebrow at the grimy lad. He stared right back at her, until it apparently dawned on him what she was expecting.

“Fine.” He grumbled, swallowed, then sat up straight. “May I please have another egg?” A more reluctant show of manners could not have been conceived. He made a face, as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. The fact that he acquiesced to “please,” “thank you” and napkins at all was further proof of how truly hungry he must have been.

Georgia smiled. “Most certainly. As a matter of fact, why don’t we wrap up half a dozen so you can take them home.” She leaned toward the boy as the house cook slid another egg—Quinn’s third—onto his plate. “Does everyone have enough food at your house, Quinn?” While the answer seemed obvious, she wanted to hear his assessment of his own situation.

The lad looked at her as if she’d asked if the sky had recently fallen. “’Course not. Who does? I mean, ’cept for here.” Somewhere in the background, Reverend Bauers’s off-key baritone resounded as he worked. Georgia often felt God had never created a man more enthusiastic but less gifted in song. Still, San Francisco was a good place for him. The city’s faults and vices could easily overtake a more sensitive soul.

“Da was yelling about being hungry just last night. Something about still not getting paid, but I think it was mostly his leg again. I sure hope he goes back to the docks soon. He’s sour about having to sit around all the time.”

A fight two weeks ago had injured Quinn’s father’s leg. The wharves seemed less safe with each passing week. Reverend Bauers had been patching up too many victims of dock fights recently. Georgia had to ask half her women friends to donate old shifts to be cut up into bandages. She’d even seen the reverend resort to whiskey to tend to wounds, because the medicinal alcohol was running low. Reverend Bauers had no musical talents, but he excelled at making do with what he had.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Quinn. I hope things will get better for you soon,” she told him. “I’ll see if Reverend Bauers can stop by and take another look at that leg.” No matter how one viewed it, things seemed to be going from bad to worse in San Francisco lately. How long would Grace House be able to keep up with the load? What would happen when its small team buckled under the strain? Heavenly Father, she sighed, stretch out Your mighty hand over this city. Things feel so desperate. What can be done?

Georgia couldn’t shake the sensation that God was answering when Quinn poked at the paper she was still holding. “Miss Waterhouse, would you read it to me again? I like the part with the swords and all. I haven’t seen his swords yet.”

Again she felt the necessity of telling Quinn the stories were just made up by a man at Stuart’s paper. And again, pity stopped her. If the Bandit kept one boy coming to Grace House, then the hero really was saving lives.

And Georgia Waterhouse could live with that paradox—at least for a little while.

Chapter Seven

“You can’t be serious!” Matthew bellowed, trying not to let his splintered nerves get the best of him. One more sleepless night and he was going to become a threat to himself and others.

“I’m afraid I am, sir. I’m woefully sorry, but there it is.”

“How? Exactly how did my whip go missing? It’s not as if I leave the thing lying around, Thompson.”

The valet, ever calm, seemed only mildly repentant—but then, the man’s face was so professionally inexpressive that he could have been miserably guilty over the mishap and Matthew might never know. “It is hardly the type of thing to be left out in the open,” Thompson said.

Matthew began overturning chair cushions. “Which is why I keep it locked up.”

“Indeed, sir, you normally do.”

He froze, cushion held midair, and glared at the old man. “‘Normally’?”

“I must admit I was quite astounded to see it lying about. Not having the combination to your arms case, I thought it best to at least put it out of sight. Under your linens, to be precise.”

Matthew dropped the cushion back in place, heading for the bedroom, until logic stopped him. “But it’s not there, is it?”

“I cannot see why the hotel staff would have thought to replace the linens twice in one day, sir. The bed had already been made. A mistake, I suppose. Change in chambermaids.”

Matthew stood in the doorway between his bedroom and the sitting room, raking his fingers through his hair as he desperately analyzed the facts at hand. “So you put the whip in the sheets, and they took away the sheets, whip and all. Have I got it?”

Thompson folded his hands together, with just the mere hint of a wince. “I believe you do, sir.”

What to do now? One couldn’t go traipsing around a foreign city asking for a wayward whip. Matthew had visions of himself, crimson necked, trying to explain his odd choice of exercise to the hotel laundress. Then again, this was San Francisco. It might not prove to be the oddest thing she’d seen. He’d pay a discreet visit to the laundry, then, rather than have to deal with the hotel clerk or someone more likely to raise eyebrows.

Matthew pulled out his cuff links and offered them to Thompson. “I’ll just have to go hunt it down, then, won’t I?”

The valet looked at him askance. “Sir?”

Matthew dropped the links into the man’s outstretched hand and started undoing his necktie. “I can’t very well waltz into the hotel manager’s office and demand my missing whip, can I? It’s undoubtedly found its way to the laundry, and I’ll just go fetch it back.”

“Now?” As if to emphasize the lateness of the hour, Thompson produced his pocket watch and checked it.

“Better tonight than at breakfast tomorrow, don’t you think? I can slip down to the laundries and slip back unseen if I’m careful.”

In a rare show of disapproval, Thompson looked as if he found that a very bad idea.

Well, no, it wasn’t a stellar plan, but Matthew had to get that whip back, and he wasn’t swimming in good alternatives at the moment. “Have you a better solution, man?”

Thompson returned to a stone-faced silence.

“Very well, then. Don’t wait up.” Matthew rolled up his shirtsleeves in an attempt to look more common and less gossip worthy, should the laundry staff prove to have loose tongues. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t go hiding my belongings again, whatever you think may be the consequences.”

Are you laughing, Father? Snickering in your velvet smoking jacket at the vision of your son, the indubitable Covington heir, sneaking toward the hotel laundry like some kind of cornered culprit?

Matthew’s father had hated the whip from the moment his brother, Matthew’s uncle, had given him the unusual weapon. “Ridiculous and overdramatic,” Reginald Covington had declared with a frown when Matthew had showed him the first trick he had mastered. Here it was, the first accomplishment that was not just a mere shadow of his father’s strengths, and it was dismissed with scorn. The whip was, and had continued to be, something entirely Matthew’s own, which brought him a joy he couldn’t ever quite put into words. Maturity had not yet changed that fact.

What a lark you’d have with my current pickle, Matthew thought, the familiar slant of his father’s scowl coming to mind. ’Tis a good thing the Atlantic is as wide as it is.

Why couldn’t Thompson have misplaced the sword? It would prove so much less a problem, attract much less attention.

As he descended the third flight of stairs and caught the distinct scent of soapy water, Matthew thought of his valet’s amazing ability to disappear. Somehow, Thompson could stand in the back of a room and evaporate into the wallpaper. One hardly even remembered he was there, until he would materialize—with a startling sense of timing—just when he was needed. The man anticipated needs with such uncanny skill that the rest of the household staff often declared he could read minds.

When Matthew was a young boy, the mere threat of Thompson’s presence could stop him in his tracks. No matter how well Matthew hid his mischief, the man would always know.

Hesitating on the landing now, Matthew was struck by the irony that here he was, decades later, hiding mischievous deeds again. And Thompson still knew.

As he turned the last corner, the noise and scent told Matthew he’d found the laundry at last. He listened to the lilt of a woman’s voice as she gossiped with someone over her work.

If he was careful, he could imitate their speech enough to hide his accent and, hopefully, his status. That had been a favorite trick of his youth—mimicking others’ voices. It drove his father to distraction—which was, of course, its highest value. By the age of twelve Matthew could imitate relatives enough to fool even his sire momentarily. More than once Covington had threatened to ship his son off to the most vile form of punishment imaginable—the theater. Matthew knew, though, that the threats were hollow; the Covingtons would have endured anything before allowing an actor to taint the family name. Trouble was, young Matthew had more than once thought the stage might be a better life than one under his father’s constant glare.

“Ain’t it amazing what shows up in the laundry?” asked a gravelly old voice from the steamy room to his left. “Fine entertainment it is.” A fowl stench hit Matthew as he inched closer to the open door. “Most of the time. Nicky, my boy, what is you boiling up back there? Smells like six-day-old fish!”

A man snickered. “You ain’t so far off. Some old salt in one of the rooms done died, and nobody found him for two days. The manager got so mad he sent the entire staff back to change every bedsheet in the hotel all over again.”

“I told you that man ain’t got no more sense than I got eyesight,” the old woman snarled.

“I ain’t never fought you on that one, Neda. And him telling us to do somethin’ so useless. Like it’s our fault some girl missed a room, so’s now we got to do double loads of wash to keep up.”

The old woman grunted. Numerous piles of linens along the hallway confirmed that the laundry staff would be working through the night to catch up. Matthew poked his toe at one or two of the piles, hoping to detect the hilt of his whip among the soft folds. He wasn’t so fortunate—the bedding billowed gently.

“If we’re washing clean sheets all over again, then what’s that awful smell?”

“The dead man’s linens, Neda. Can you believe it? I said we should throw them out, but the manager says if we bleach ’em enough times they’ll be good as new. Not me—you’d never catch me sleeping in sheets some old coot died in.”

Matthew flattened himself against the wall and wrinkled his nose against the dreadful smell. Good thing no one had to come out into the hallway to do away with the questionable bundle.

“Well, whatever you think, take it outside, why don’t you? I’m too old to be smellin’ dead people’s things, you sniggering fool.”

“I was just hauling it outside, Neda. If you could see through those eyes of yours, you’d know that. Now stay where you are so you’re out of my way whiles I go past.”

So the laundress had bad eyesight. Matthew would never get another chance like this. He could be in and out with the whip—if she had it—by the time Nicky came back inside. Matthew let his head fall back against the wall. I must be daft. Reaching up, he mussed his hair and rolled his shirtsleeves higher.

“Hey,” he said brightly, raising his voice in pitch and adopting the rusty Southern drawl he’d heard from the woman. “You all found a big black whip, by any chance? I’d heard it was down here.”

“I told Nicky somebody’d come lookin’ fer it.” Neda was an enormous woman with dark, shiny skin and eyes that were a milky, unfocused gray. She sat precariously balanced on a small stool, surrounded by baskets of linens. A stack of perfectly folded facecloths rested in her lap. She swiveled her round head, with its knot of thick, braided hair, toward a shelf to Matthew’s left. “That it?”

“Sure is,” he said, wincing at his own comical effort to alter his voice.

“Well, fetch it on back to your master then, boy, ’fore Nicky decides to sell it, like he was plannin’ to.” She squinted at him, blinking repeatedly. “Big one, ain’t you?”

Matthew grabbed the whip, keeping his eye on the door through which Nicky might return at any second. He hid his relief as his hand wrapped around the familiar hilt. “Huge, Mama says. Thanks!” he called as he ducked out the doorway, feeling as though he’d just gotten away with far more than he deserved.

He heard Neda chuckle loudly as he crept back down the hallway. “Hey Nicky, guess what? The Black Bandit just came and got his whip back. And you missed him. What do you think of that, Nicky boy?”

Chapter Eight

“That’s servants’ gossip.” Georgia scowled. “Haven’t you better sources than that?”

Stuart broke a flower off the hall arrangement—from the center again, as he always seemed to do, no matter how many times the house staff had asked him not to—and slipped it into his lapel. “Better sources than servants? They’re the best sources there are, Peach. Now that our Bandit’s a public mystery, everyone wants in on the fun. Of course, the promise of a few coins for Bandit stories doesn’t hurt, either.”

Georgia planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve wasted your money. Really, a whip loose in the hotel laundry? That’s nonsense.” She took a step closer to him. “Honestly, Stuart, isn’t the Bandit selling enough of your papers? Now you pay people to invent collaborations?”

Stuart pouted. “You think so lowly of your own brother? Your own flesh and blood?”

“You are perfectly capable of such a thing.”

He snatched his hat from the hands of the waiting butler. “Loath as I am to disappoint your high moral standards, this tale just happens to be genuine. A black whip showed up in the laundry at the Palace Hotel last night, and some tall young lad snatched it back before anyone could get a good look at it or at him. Absolutely Bandit-worthy, in my humble opinion, and straight from the mouth of a highly respected source.”

Georgia frowned. “I’ve never known your opinion to be humble. Highly respected sources? In a hotel laundry?”

“On Mama’s grave, Peach,” Stuart said, leaning in and lowering his voice, “the whip’s for real.” He put on his gloves. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the talk of dinner tonight at the Hawkinses. Mrs. Hawkins has become one of the Bandit’s most ardent fans. Imagine that.”

Georgia winced. Stuart knew his strategy. Bedillia Hawkins was by far the most excitable woman Georgia had ever met. If by some remote chance the newspaper account of a Black Bandit whip sighting didn’t stir the public’s imagination, Bedillia Hawkins would surely finish the job. It would be the town’s juiciest gossip by sunrise. Stuart had probably made sure they would be dining at the Hawkinses tonight for just that reason.

“Don’t you think, Georgia, dear?” Bedillia inquired of her obviously distracted dinner guest.

“Mrs. Hawkins?” Miss Waterhouse blinked, pulling herself back to the topic at hand. Matthew couldn’t say he blamed her for her wandering thoughts. The conversation had been frightfully dull until the subject of the Bandit came up.

“I was saying, Georgia dear, how so much gossip seems to be coming out of the Palace Hotel these days,” repeated Mrs. Hawkins. “I was asking Mr. Covington if he finds it tiresome to be staying there, with so much going on. Bodies, thefts and whips—dear me, what will we see next?”

Matthew tried not to wince. He supposed he should be grateful they’d made it through the soup course before someone raised the dreaded subject.

The whip. Thompson’s expression had been unbearable when he’d held out the Herald’s account of the wayward whip. There, next to the latest installment of the Black Bandit’s adventures, was a tantalizing article about how a mysterious whip had surfaced in the laundry of the Palace Hotel. How a suspicious individual had stolen into the laundry and taken it back. Could the stealthy young man have been the Black Bandit himself? The text hinted at a variety of things that could set tongues and imaginations into motion all over the city. Based on Mrs. Hawkins’s fascination with the subject, it had been successful.

“Do you think he’s real, Miss Waterhouse? This bandit of your brother’s invention?” Mrs. Hawkins winked at Stuart while she asked the question. It made Matthew wonder just how often people used Georgia to get to her brother. Judging from her expression, it happened frequently, and she found it highly irritating.

“The bandit or the author?” Miss Waterhouse nearly succeeded in hiding the edge in her voice.

“Why, the Bandit, of course. Everyone knows who the author is, even if they aren’t saying.” Mr. Hawkins raised his glass in Stuart’s direction and let out a hearty laugh.

“Hawkins, you flatter me,” Stuart said, lifting his glass in turn. Matthew noted he neither denied nor confirmed the insinuation.

Miss Waterhouse had to work to raise her voice above the resulting hubbub. “I find myself wishing he were real,” she said, more sharply than he guessed she meant to. “I certainly would welcome him. San Francisco seems to be in dreadfully short supply of men with noble character—present company excepted, of course.”

Matthew wondered, by the way she said it, if she’d added the last remark out of sheer obligation rather than any genuine respect for the men in the room.

“Georgia doubts my sources, Mrs. Hawkins. She feels I manufactured the whip’s appearance to sell papers. That I’m printing shameless gossip rather than verifiable facts. As if I’d ever print anything but the honest truth.”

“Stuart Waterhouse,” laughed the rather besotted man next to him, “when have you ever printed the honest truth?”

“Miss Waterhouse, it seems to me that you endure much on your brother’s behalf,” Matthew offered, because it seemed that no one else in the room gave a thought to her obvious discomfort. “How do you find the strength?”

She smiled—just a bit, and only for a second, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Hours and hours of prayer, Mr. Covington. I have been known to take my frustrations out on the upper strings of my harp—I am forever breaking them—but mostly it requires endless prayer.” She kept her tone light and conversational, but he noted an edge of weariness in her glance.

Matthew looked around the table and thought Miss Waterhouse must have a penchant for lost causes. “That’s far too large a load for such delicate shoulders. Perhaps one ought to leave such a Herculean task to the likes of the Black Bandit.” The last remark jumped out of his mouth seemingly of its own accord, before he had one second to think better of it.

“Speaking of Herculean tasks, Mr. Covington,” declared Stuart, “I think it’s high time you visited Georgia’s precious Grace House. They’re always working to save the world over there. What do you say to a tour tomorrow?”

“Appealing as it sounds, I am expecting some documents to arrive from Sacramento in the morning. Perhaps another time?”

Dexter Oakman nearly jumped out of his seat, opposite Stuart. “Oh, gracious, I’d completely forgotten, Covington. Meant to tell you before dinner.” He put down his glass. “Those documents won’t be in until Tuesday, perhaps Wednesday. The wire came in this afternoon.”

“Well,” said Stuart, smiling broadly, “events are conspiring in your favor, aren’t they? Tour Grace House, then. Reverend Bauers and his high-minded companions will make excellent chaperones. I’ve even heard nuns work there.”

“I hardly think Reverend Bauers has time to conduct social outings,” said Georgia.

“Nonsense,” her brother replied. “You might even convince Covington to send over a spot of money to help the needy.” He turned to Matthew. “Mind your pockets, Covington. My sister can be most compelling when it comes to philanthropy.”

Of that, Matthew had little doubt.

Chapter Nine

The clock chimed quarter past the hour as Stuart refilled his glass and Oakman’s. “Did you have any trouble?”

Dexter winced. “Some. It took a bit more grease across the palm to get them diverted, but we’ll see those ledgers from Sacramento before Covington does. We’ll have to be careful.”

Stuart picked up the poker and stirred the fire. The gold-orange flames flickered, reflecting in amber liquid in his glass. “I’m always careful. Georgia’s just making my job that much easier. We practically waltzed into that tour of the mission this evening. I hadn’t yet worked out how I was going to get Covington out of the office for a few hours in order to switch things. Honestly, I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

“I did follow your line of thinking, Stuart.” Oakman groaned, rubbing his leg. “Was it really necessary to bash my shin under the table? You’ve left a mark.”

“Sorry about that, Dex.” Stuart replaced the poker and walked over to the chair where he sat. “I hadn’t time to be subtle. And speaking of marks…” He lowered his voice even though they were completely alone. “You’re sure of this fellow? They’ll be no trace of the alterations?”

Oakman drained his glass. “He’s the top man, they tell me.”

Stuart frowned. “Remind our friend that it won’t go at all well for him if anyone can notice his…handiwork.”

“Oh, I believe he knows.” Oakman smiled.

“Make sure,” Georgia’s brother said, sipping from his own glass. “Show him your shin if you think that will help. I want no slips on this. Not one.”

The man nodded, forcing a weak laugh. “Without a hitch, Stuart. It’ll come off without a hitch.”

Waterhouse began loosening the knot in his cravat. “Tell your wife there’ll be a lovely piece about her dress tonight in the social column this week. She looked stunning at dinner, and we haven’t run something about her yet this month. She deserves it.”

“She’ll be very pleased to hear that, Stuart. You’re always so good to her. And Caroline does love to see her name in the columns, you know.”

Everybody does, thought Stuart. Everybody always does.

“It’s not a grand cathedral, but I rather fancy God enjoys it here.” Georgia ran her hand across the adobe arch of the mission’s side doorway, and a piece of the facade crumbled under her touch. “She’s put up a grand fight over the years, and she’s still standing. Reverend Bauers excels at what he calls ‘making do at making do.’”

“That really means finding new sources for bandages, making food go three times as far, and squeezing yet one more use out of most any object,” explained the reverend as he led Georgia and Mr. Covington out into the gardens.

They’d not gone three steps when a noisy commotion started somewhere off to their left, by the kitchens. Within seconds a pair of youths burst through the door, bundles in their hands. It was clear they hadn’t expected to find anyone in the garden.

“Thief!” a voice cried from inside. “Stop them!”

Georgia gasped as she realized what the boys were carrying. Poking out of one of the bundles was a gold cross from the mission’s tiny chapel. After glancing quickly at each other, they split up, running around the garden fountain toward the gate. Without any discussion whatsoever, Mr. Covington and Reverend Bauers set upon them, Covington taking the larger of the pair.

Georgia backed up to the fountain rim as a brawl broke out around her. “Help! In the garden!” she called as arms and legs thrashed.

As large as they’d seemed coming through the door, the boys were still rather young, and it was only a minute—albeit a dreadfully long one—before each was subdued. Grunting, they struggled against the grip of Reverend Bauers and Mr. Covington.

“How dare you!” the reverend huffed at his captive, as angry as Georgia had ever seen him.

In that second, the larger boy managed to pull out of Covington’s grasp and slide something metal from his boot. It was a knife, which he quickly waved at Matthew.

No one moved. The mission cook burst through the door, only to freeze on the threshold as she saw the weapon in play. Mr. Covington, however, somehow used that momentary distraction to grab a long stick from a pile behind him. He planted his legs in a defiant stance. How could he hope to defend himself with just a stick? Oh, Lord, help him!

Both combatants brandished their weapons, and it was instantly obvious that Mr. Covington knew exactly how to wield his, whereas the boy had evidently just grabbed a kitchen knife. Slowly, the man angled his body sideways, his rear arm high while he swung the stick through the air, coolly meeting each of the lad’s angry thrusts.

The cook disappeared back through the door—going for help, Georgia hoped. She clutched the fountain rim, not caring if she soaked her sleeves, trying desperately to think of something she could do.

The smaller boy suddenly stomped on Reverend Bauers’s foot, sending the two of them doubling over. Immediately, the larger boy lunged at Covington, who tossed aside his stick, trying to wrestle the knife from his opponent’s hands. The lad only fought harder, slashing wildly at Covington’s chest.

Lord Jesus, save him! Georgia nearly fell into the fountain, and a scream left her throat. The smaller boy took off through the gate with no thought for his conspirator. Reverend Bauers yelled for help as Covington struggled with the larger lad and his knife.

Georgia stood frozen and shocked. In all her time here, in all she had seen, no one had ever had the audacity to steal from Grace House.

Three men finally came rushing out the kitchen door, just as the blade sank into Covington’s forearm. Georgia flinched at the sound of it ripping through the fabric of Mr. Covington’s jacket. The Englishman gave a roar of pain, at which the wiry lad squirmed out of his grasp and leaped through the gate his companion had left swinging.

“We draw no blood in Grace House!” Bauers bellowed after him, rushing to Covington’s aid.

Georgia was still clutching the fountain, unable to move as she watched scarlet ribbons creep out from between Mr. Covington’s clenched fingers. He’d been stabbed. She’d seen Cook cut herself with a kitchen knife, but had never witnessed anyone being purposely stabbed. Her brain seemed unable to accept the concept.

“Georgia!” the reverend called. “Come here.”

Covington’s eyes locked onto hers. She tried to breathe, but it was as if her corset had tightened into a vise. Dimly, she saw him force a smile.

“Shall we go find me a bandage and dry you off?” he asked.

A thick, red drop of blood fell from his clenched hand and splattered on the flagstone, snapping her out of her stupor. She let go of the fountain, and the breath she’d been trying to take rushed suddenly into her lungs.

Reverend Bauers took off his coat and wrapped it around Georgia’s shoulders. She really wasn’t that wet, but she shivered as the clergyman slipped Mr. Covington’s waistcoat off his good arm and bundled it around the injured one. “Since we’ve ruined your coat already, it might as well serve as a bandage until we get you inside. We might have to stitch you up, Covington. There are medical supplies in the next building—can you walk?”

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