Читать книгу Masked by Moonlight - Allie Pleiter - Страница 12

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.