Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

  It was, in Matthew’s opinion, too perfect to be believed. He could not shake the nagging suspicion that things had been cleaned up for his viewing. Some of that was to be expected, of course, for no one hauled himself across the Atlantic by surprise. The staff had had several months’ notice of Matthew’s arrival. Surely they’d tidied up a bit. But this was altogether something else. Something he couldn’t quite yet name.

  How to report as much to his father? Should he communicate his hunch? No, Matthew preferred to delay his report until he had a better sense of Covington Enterprises’ true workings. And that would take time. It would take making friends, asking around and observing carefully. One could hide shady dealings for a handful of weeks, while the master was in town, but sooner or later “business as usual” would emerge. Not that Matthew minded extending his visit. The brisk air of San Francisco suited him far better than London’s cold, damp atmosphere. As did lots of other city amenities. And citizens.

  As if to underscore the city’s attractions, Thompson held out a sheet of paper Matthew recognized to be Stuart’s personal stationery. “You’ve received an invitation to dine at the Waterhouse estate tomorrow evening. Shall I send your acceptance?” A wry taunt underlay Thompson’s words.

  Matthew had thought through his response earlier, for he was sure he’d receive another invitation from the Waterhouses. Stuart was doing a masterful job of controlling their social interaction, but it was time Matthew took the upper hand.

  “No, Thompson, I’m afraid I’ll need to decline. I’ve a business engagement to attend to that evening.” He didn’t, but one could be easily arranged. “Would you send an invitation for both Mr. and Miss Waterhouse to join me at the hotel for tea on Monday afternoon? It’s high time I return their gracious hospitality, and I’ve found the Palace’s tea service quite up to snuff.”

  Thompson raised an eyebrow. Ha! thought Matthew to himself, surprised you, didn’t I? It gave him no small pleasure to foil Thompson’s assumptions every once in a while. The man was simply incorrigible when he was right all the time. And he was, most of the time.

  But the invitation had other advantages as well. Matthew had just read today’s newspaper. The Herald had reported the incident at Trivolatti’s grocery in glowing terms. And this week’s Bandit episode continued in the same vein—as a matter of fact, it simply begged to be brought to life. It would be so easy to arrange, it was nearly an invitation to do so. A dare, even. As such, Matthew and the reverend had a little work to do, and Sunday night was going to be a busy one. What better way to reward a hard night’s heroism than to discuss it with Stuart and Georgia the next day? To ensure a view to her reaction since he’d not seen her after the grocer’s event? It was too enticing to resist.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sister Charlotte was exactly the kind of person Georgia wished to seek out for her odd confidence. The tall, energetic nun had a personality—and a past—worthy of newspaper headlines. She’d enjoyed a very successful career on the stage until she had captured the heart of a theater patron, who’d married her and given her a social life nearly as grand and public as her stage career. For a few years, Charlotte had been the darling—and perhaps the target—of San Francisco society. Then her husband had taken ill suddenly and died, ending yet another distinctive chapter of her life. Jaws of people all across the city had dropped when she joined the Sisters of Notre Dame and became a nun.

  Her dramatic life made Sister Charlotte a unique woman. Highly independent for one having taken the vows. A sort of morally upright Stuart, Georgia thought, in that she had little concern for what others thought of her. She took care of people others would overlook or shun. Even before she’d joined the order, she’d engaged in what Stuart had called “taking in strays,” for Charlotte often had a surprising spectrum of characters come to live on her palatial estate. The list of entertainers, scoundrels, hard cases and celebrities who’d enjoyed her hospitality would fill a year’s worth of Stuart’s gossip columns.

  Charlotte cared about people, period. She had always been quite vocal about caring for God, too, which was why Georgia found it odd that people were suspicious of her “conversion.” Sister Charlotte hadn’t converted at all, merely formalized a strong faith into a holy office. Even in a stark black habit, she simply was what she was—a big-hearted woman who felt God gave her lots of things so she could share them with the world.

  As she walked down the street from Grace House toward the convent a few blocks away, Georgia decided some of the Bandit’s outlandish drama must have come from her image of Sister Charlotte. Were she male, Charlotte would have been a logical candidate for the Bandit, Georgia was certain. She wasn’t sure some of San Francisco society didn’t suspect Charlotte, anyway—she was just the kind of woman to dress as a man and run around saving the world.

  Hardly the kind of wise old sage one turned to for advice.

  Then again, it was hardly the normal kind of advice Georgia was seeking. To be truthful, she wasn’t at all sure of what she was doing, or why she was doing it. She only knew she had to talk to someone, and this was not a subject for Reverend Bauers’s ears. Or any other pastor’s, even though several churches supported Grace House, and she was a member of one of them. This was a female matter. Or more precisely, a matter of female faith, which, as Georgia saw it, made it suited to Sister Charlotte’s “unique” perspective.

  The nun offered Georgia tea in a corner of the convent gardens. Even now, without her legendary luxury, she was a delightful hostess. Despite a habit of repeating herself, she tended brilliantly to all the little details of a warm welcome.

  The tea was lovely, the setting peaceful, but never bringing up Stuart Waterhouse’s name was the most refreshing thing, as far as Georgia was concerned. Charlotte seemed to see her for the woman she was, not just as the sister of the city’s most prominent publisher. Charlotte was one of only a handful of people who did so, which made it a wonderful thing indeed.

  “It seems to me,” she said, leaning conspiratorially toward Georgia as she poured more tea, “that you’re not here to discuss the bandage supply or parish funding for Grace House. Oh, no. You’ve got more on your mind, if I daresay so, and I do always dare to say what I think, all the time.” She laid her hand gracefully on Georgia’s arm. “What can I do for you, Georgia?”

  “I…I have a problem of a most delicate nature.”

  Charlotte’s smile was as quick as it was warm. “I thought so. Tell me, is it a matter of the heart, or a matter of the soul? Those are the only things that really count, you know.”

  “I believe it to be a matter of the heart, Sister, but I must confess that I am not at all sure.”

  “Sure?” she said, picking up a small biscuit. “Who is certain about any such thing?” She took a bit of the biscuit, then folded her long slim fingers together across her lap. “So now, what is this matter which you suspect to be of the heart?”

  “I find myself enormously taken with a particular man.” She said it quietly, as if the trees might repeat the news if she spoke too loudly.

  “Goodness, that is a matter indeed.” The nun looked at her with serious eyes. “Are you in love?”

  “I don’t believe I can be,” Georgia said.

  “Nonsense,” countered Charlotte, sitting back in the bent-willow garden chair. “All of God’s creatures are capable of love.”

  “I cannot love this man,” Georgia explained, feeling her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, “because he does not exist.”

  That stopped Sister Charlotte dead in her tracks. “Not exist? Is this like something from one of those novels—all swashbuckling romance without a hint of how to get along in the real world?”

  Georgia gulped. The Bandit was a swashbuckling novel in Stuart’s eyes. She hadn’t counted on such an attitude from a veteran of the theater. She’d expected Sister Charlotte, despite her current austerity, to understand the power of imagination. “It is a fascination of a…literary sort…I suppose.”
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  Sister Charlotte took a drink of tea. “Robin Hood!” she declared, as if it solved everything.

  “Robin Hood?”

  “I was smitten with him when I was younger. Read everything I could get my hands on about him. Dreamed up a picture in my head, his voice, the way he walked. Suddenly, no man on earth could compare. There were men who looked like my Robin Hood. Men who walked like him, but no one who came close to being who I’d created in my mind.” She tapped the crisp white rim of her veil. “You’ve got a Robin Hood in your head, don’t you?”

  Georgia was quite sure her mouth was open. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose you are right.”

  “Of course I’m right. I could see it in your eyes the moment I said it. And you think you’re the only woman to do something so outlandish? Women with fine imaginations have found themselves in your slippers more times than I can count. And we all think we’re insane for doing it. You were smart to come to me, you know.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Not everyone understands these things. Especially here.”

  Now there was an understatement. Georgia was quite sure she didn’t understand a shred of her current emotional predicament. “But you understand?” she said, not caring how relieved she must sound.

  “Completely. But I doubt it’s Robin Hood who has your attention, my dear. I suspect he’s a little antiquated for your taste. What tale has captured you?”

  “Well…”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Wait! Say not another word! How could I not see it? How could I not have guessed? The Bandit. It’s the Bandit, isn’t it?”

  Georgia could only nod.

  “Yes,” the nun said, a knowing smile creeping into her violet eyes, “I read it. We are allowed newspapers, you know. And I might have smuggled it in if we didn’t.” She chuckled. “All the world wants to know where your brother got him, but I suspect even you wouldn’t divulge that now, even to me?”

  “No.” Georgia found it hard to choke out the single syllable. Charlotte seemed to find her strange delusion so ordinary, so completely understandable, that Georgia felt as if her ability to breathe had just this moment returned.

  “You have taste, I’ll grant you that much.” Charlotte sighed. “He’d be a rare find, our Bandit, if he walked into the real world.”

  “Yes…” Georgia kept waiting for more words to form, but she was stuck with single syllables for the moment.

  “Of course, he has now, hasn’t he? Shown up in a few dramatic encounters of late. That does complicate things. I can see where you’d be in a bit of a state. It’s not every day that the man of your daydreams appears in reality.” She tsked, pouring more tea. “Presents quite a challenge.” She stopped, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her. “Have you seen him? Our Bandit? Has he come to you? I couldn’t think of anything more romantic, really.”

  “No. He hasn’t.”

  The sister draped herself across the table, leaning on one elbow. She assessed Georgia with narrowed eyes—dramatic, violet eyes that Georgia imagined had sent more than one man’s heart into spasms. “That’s not the issue, really, is it? There’s more to this than our mysterious hero.”

  Again, Georgia felt herself blush. “An ordinary man,” she began, but then corrected herself. “Actually, he’s far from ordinary, but he’s not—”

  “Say no more,” interjected Charlotte, throwing her hands up in a melodramatic gesture. “Now I see your pickle. And why you came to me. How did I fall for Robert Brownstone when I had all of the stage’s handsome heroes fawning at my feet? How does one make a life in the real world when the fantasy is so very enticing?” She pointed a finger at Georgia. “You’re a sharp one, Miss Waterhouse. You know where to go for good advice, and that’s half the battle, I always say. Our real-world hero—is he sensible? Does he suit you?”

  “Not at all. In that I mean I see little hope for any future between us. I’m not even sure I want one.” Suddenly, Georgia found her tongue. “He has many wonderful qualities, and I do believe he is fond of me, but there are so many obstacles.”

  “Ha!” Charlotte exclaimed. “What would love be without obstacles? No fun at all, to hear my dear late Robert tell it. God is at His best overcoming obstacles. We’d know nothing of our Lord without the teaching of our own mistakes.” She settled herself in her chair. “Now let’s be practical for a moment. Have you kissed him?”

  Georgia nearly dropped her teaspoon.

  “Well, it’s a perfectly sensible question, given the circumstances. Have you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Don’t kiss him—or let him kiss you—unless you’re absolutely sure. Take it from a woman of the stage, young lady, a man’s kiss can be a distraction. It can hide far too much. You’ll always know a true kiss when you feel it, but a proper young lady such as yourself doesn’t always know a false kiss when it comes her way.” The woman drew up her chin with an authoritative air. “Only the stage can teach you that.”

  Georgia came away from her meeting with the sure impression that she had made a good choice in confiding in Sister Charlotte. And that the Sisters of Notre Dame didn’t know half of what they had in her. Odd as she was, Sister Charlotte was the perfect blessing. Perhaps the only sort of woman to understand the circumstance in which Georgia found herself.

  She was also quite sure that whatever advice she’d received on the perils of insincere kisses, she was in no danger—immediate or otherwise—of having such a challenge thrust upon her. Tea at the Palace Hotel, even if Stuart should pull another of his disappearing acts, was hardly the place where men ravished women. True, the hotel had a reputation for hosting all sorts of characters, but the more unsavory of the lot rarely showed up for tea.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Come now, you insufferable rascals, get on with it.” Matthew could hardly believe his present circumstances. The Covington heir was, at the moment, dangling a jar of camphor through a hole he’d recently cut in the top of a chicken crate.

  A crate of chickens. Does a proper English gentleman allow himself to be found standing among crates of chickens at two in the morning, engaged in the questionable act of drugging poultry?

  Well, thought Matthew, not if he can help it. I’d have a time explaining myself if I got caught, now wouldn’t I?

  Of course, Reverend Bauers’s pacing at the back of the stockyards wasn’t helping to maintain calm. Even in the dim moonlight, Matthew could see the sweat beading on the clergyman’s bald head. Not that he wasn’t sweating himself. He swung the rope holding the jar again, splashing a little of the liquid on the crate floor. How had he made it this many years without realizing how dreadful chickens smelled? “You all smell so lovely when roasted,” he crooned to the birds, “but I can’t say the same for your present state. Breathe deeply, ladies, I can’t stand here all night. Take lovely little deep chicken sighs, if you will. That’s it…”

  As one wobbly white hen sat down and settled her head, another brown-speckled hen followed suit. A third slumped in a corner. “There we go.”

  “You’re sure this will work?” Reverend Bauers’s agitated whisper came from somewhere behind him. “No one became suspicious when you bought so many chickens?”

  Of course he wasn’t sure it would work. Using the liquid on a handkerchief to drug the family cat so it could be locked in his father’s armoire was one thing. Buying six different crates of chickens at three different places, and arranging for them all to be delivered to a fourth location, was one thing. Drugging said cratefuls of chickens to quiet them for a stealthy journey to the center of town was proving quite another.

  He should have stuck with eggs.

  The eggs were easy. Supplying a neighborhood with eggs for their Easter breakfast simply meant arranging for baskets of them to be tied with white ribbons and delivered before Easter. He could have recreated the Bandit’s latest exploit without breaking a sweat—in fact, Matthew half worried someone else might try to play Bandit and beat him t
o it.

  Chickens to go along with the eggs, now that presented a challenge.

  More challenge than Matthew liked, to be honest. He’d thought the idea of drugging the chickens so that they could be quietly transported was brilliant. The chickens, however, weren’t feeling that cooperative. It was taking twice the time he’d calculated for the feathered little beasts to fall asleep. If he used stronger solution, the Bandit’s gift to the community might be crates of chicken carcasses. Which was why Matthew Covington found himself dashing among crates of chickens at two in the morning, waiting for them to fall asleep. His father would be in convulsions if he knew.

  To think this was the easiest part of the plan.

  Reverend Bauers was just beginning to beseech the Lord for sleeping chickens when the last of the plump little darlings slumped into a heap and Matthew reeled in the jar. “Got it!” For the next half hour, he and the reverend worked feverishly to tie white ribbons to one leg of each sleeping bird. It proved a ridiculously complicated task. Finally, they were ready. The Reverend then took off in the direction of a large cart happily lent by the Trivolatti store. They’d sent a note the night before, asking to have the cart waiting empty on a particular street corner. The Trivolattis had been told to leave the cart unmanned, but no one suspected that would be the case; a Bandit sighting presented far too great a temptation.

  Which was why Matthew’s new disguise proved such a blessing. As he leaped out of the shadows dressed in a gray shirt, dark trousers, black hat with a single white feather, and black mask—the Bandit’s known costume—Matthew simply nodded at the awestruck young man who handed over the reins.