Masked by Moonlight. Allie Pleiter

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ