Masked by Moonlight. Allie Pleiter
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