Читать книгу Masked by Moonlight - Allie Pleiter - Страница 11

“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.