LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Chapter Four

      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

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