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
