Thief of Hearts (14 page)

Brodie sat down at the desk and opened his new book. A lady never drinks more than two glasses of champagne, he read. When reprimanding a waiter, never mention his nationality. Don't gnaw on bones in public, nor bite corn off the cob, nor nibble melon from the rind. Don't even bother trying to eat an orange at the table.

He skipped a few pages.

Ah, here it was. Conversation at table should be cheerful and pleasant. Avoid discussions of sicknesses, sores, surgical operations, dreadful accidents, shocking cruelties, and horrible punishments. All allusions to dyspepsia, indigestion, and the like are vulgar and disgusting. The word "stomach" should never be uttered to anyone but your physician.

He was still chuckling to himself when O'Dunne returned a few minutes later. At first he didn't speak, only paced back and forth beside the desk in agitated silence. Brodie turned a page. Servants should not be allowed to remain up after the heads of the house have retired. And one always speaks of "retiring," never of "going to bed."

"What did you say to her?"

Brodie looked up. "What's that, your honor?" He'd taken to calling the lawyer that lately because it annoyed him.

O'Dunne repeated the question. "And don't say 'nothing,' because I know she's upset about something."

"What did she say?" he asked, interested.

O'Dunne's lips tightened in frustration. "Nothing," he admitted angrily. "She wouldn't talk." He came closer. "Listen to me, Brodie. You're treading on very thin ice. I told you before and I meant it, if you insult Mrs. Balfour or try to harm her in any way, you'll find your prison reprieve ending a great deal sooner than you expected. Do you hear me?"

Brodie was tired of insults and harsh words. He was a peaceable man, but his temper was provoked. He stood up. "I hear you. I hear you lying. You won't send me back to prison early because you're too eager to draw Nick's killer out again. You want to get him even more than you want to protect the lily-white honor of your precious Mrs. Balfour. So take your threats and cram 'em, O'Dunne, and leave me the hell alone." He spun on his heel and walked out.

After a stunned second, O'Dunne said, "Flowers!" and jerked his head toward the door. Billy lumbered out after his charge.

"Hold still. Do you want me to cut your ear off?"

Brodie endeavored to hold still, despite the shorn hair inside his collar that was making his neck itch. But that wasn't the real reason he was squirming. The real reason was that Anna kept touching him. Turning his shoulder, holding his chin to move his head where she wanted it, folding his ear over so she could trim the hair behind it. And standing so close that he could see the pulse beating in her throat. Hear, sometimes even feel, her quiet breathing. Watch the shallow rise and fall of her breasts. Was this her way of paying him back for last night? If so, it was working. He was in an uncomfortable and embarrassing state of arousal, and if he hadn't known that such a cold-blooded, seductive ploy was beyond her, he'd have wagered she was doing it on purpose.

Yesterday she'd gotten a letter from someone named Mrs. Middaugh, an acquaintance in Liverpool, who would be passing through Florence with her family in a week and wanted to pay a visit. Since then, efforts to turn him into Nick had speeded up considerably.

"Is this short enough, Aiden?" she asked, glancing over at the lawyer, who was watching them from the sofa.

He grunted. "A little more in back."

She obeyed, sliding the sleek, reddish-brown hair through her fingers and trimming it carefully. The gentleness of her touch filled Brodie with a strange lassitude, enervating and urgent at the same time. When she finished, she bent near and blew the loose hairs from the back of his neck, bringing goosebumps to the skin on his arms. Damn it, she
had
to be doing it on purpose. He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally laid the scissors down and stood back to survey her handiwork.

Evidently it didn't please her. She frowned, arms folded, and regarded him first from one angle and then another. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Finally she shook her head. "No."

"No?" said Brodie.

She ignored him. "Look at him, Aiden."

O'Dunne rose and went to stand beside her. They studied him together. The lawyer shook his head and frowned. "No," he agreed.

"No?" said Brodie.

They shook their heads in unison. "No," they reiterated, in concert.

"Head has to come off, right?" he guessed, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's not Nick. It just isn't Nick, even with the new part on the right. I'm not sure why. Maybe the—"

"His eyes are lighter," Anna explained. "Not much but a little. His hair's lighter too. Just slightly."

"I think his skin's a little darker."

"He's thinner."

"The voice is the same, though."

"I think his hands are bigger."

"More muscular."

They stared at him with identical disappointed expressions, arms folded, and shook their heads again. Brodie stood it for as long as he could, then got to his feet.

"You're saying I don't look like my brother? After all this, after everything we've been through, you're telling me I don't look like Nick?"

"Of course you look like him," O'Dunne retorted. "You don't look exactly like him."

"There are subtle differences," Anna expanded. "Only someone who knew Nicholas very well would notice them."

"And even then, they'd never jump to the conclusion that this
isn't
Nick."

"No, no," she concurred, "they'd just think he looks funny."

Brodie glanced back and forth between them. "Funny? You give me a haircut and then tell me I look funny? Come on, Bill, let's go," he said abruptly to his bodyguard, who was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, playing with Domenico, the cat.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded O'Dunne.

"Upstairs!" he hollered from the hallway.

"Well, guy?" Billy asked, preparing to go after him. O'Dunne made a gesture of disgusted dismissal, and Billy trudged out.

"Well," said Anna faintly, staring at the empty doorway. "Well." She wasn't sure what had happened.

O'Dunne sat down again, unconcerned, and opened his newspaper. "Here's another piece on the Lancashire famine, Anna," he said presently. "It's getting worse."

"I read it. It frightens me." After a moment she went to sit beside him. "In what way?"

"So many people in England are just looking for a reason to jump into the war in America. The cotton crisis provides them with a truly
noble
excuse to send English ships to break the Southern blockade. They can say they did it to save the Lancashire cotton workers from starving, when what they really want is to put a stop to this dreadful experiment in democracy."

O'Dunne stroked his sidewhiskers. "I think you're right. With the South winning, at least for now, it would take very little to push the government into an alliance. That's why it's important right now that we do nothing to antagonize the Union."

"Such as supply the Confederacy with warships," she said grimly.

"Precisely."

They fell silent. It was midday; from down the hall came the faint sounds of a servant laying the table for lunch. "I had a letter from Milly," Anna mentioned after a few minutes.

"Indeed? How is Mrs. Pollinax?"

"She's… " She hesitated, not sure how to answer. "I guess she's fine. She sounded a little… under the weather, perhaps."

"She probably misses you."

She returned his smile noncommittally. Milly was more than under the weather, but Anna didn't feel at liberty to confide that news to Alden. When Milly had married George Pollinax five years ago, it had seemed a heaven-made match to everyone who knew the handsome, dashing couple. It still did, to all but a tiny handful of Milly's closest friends, among whom Anna counted herself. George Pollinax was rich, didn't drink, and never gambled. But Milly's life with him had not been happy. Anna knew this from inference, not anything her friend had ever said explicitly and her letter hinted that the situation had finally become intolerable.

This will come as a surprise to you, Anna, and I hope you will forgive me for being a great deal less than candid about my marriage for so many years. But you are the kind of person who sees nothing but good in everyone (except yourself), and I think I wanted to protect you from the truth about my life with George. Oh, how I wish you were here! There is so much I want to tell you, and I need your calm, sensible advice more than ever before. But how selfish of me to wish you were anywhere else except where you are. Has Prince Charming finally made you see the swan you really are, not the ugly duckling you've always thought you were? (I beg your pardon—I've mixed my fairy tale metaphors.) It's certainly time someone did. I am so very glad for you, Anna. No one in the world deserves happiness as much as you.

Ah, thought Anna, if only we were as good and worthy as our dearest friends believed us to be. She wanted to cry over Milly's letter. And she felt so helpless. There was nothing she could do for her friend in Italy. Almost worse was the knowledge that, each day, she was deceiving Milly by not telling her that Nicholas was dead. Bad enough that she was keeping the secret from her family; it seemed infinitely worse to keep it from Milly, her kindest friend, her closest confidante. When she'd agreed to the scheme she'd known it would be hard, but she hadn't reckoned on this awful guilt. Dishonesty in any form was not natural to her, and the longer she kept silent about Nicholas, the more she disliked herself. But she was trapped in the lie now. She could see no way out.

A few minutes later, a movement in the doorway caught her eye. She looked up to see Billy Flowers filling it with his massive frame, grinning from ear to ear. "Shut yer eyes," he ordered enigmatically.

"What's that?" said O'Dunne.

He recollected himself. "Shut yer eyes
please
."

The two on the sofa glanced at each other. After a second's hesitation they obeyed. Presently they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, in the hall, and now in the room.

"Right, then," said Billy; "open up
now
!"

They opened their eyes. Brodie stood a few feet in front of the sofa, legs spread, hands in his pockets in an attitude of aggressive nonchalance, pretending he wasn't staring intently at Anna. His beard was gone.

"Ha!" O'Dunne jumped to his feet and went closer. He narrowed his eyes, examining Brodie's bare face with minute attention. "Yes. Yes, good thinking. I see what you're about." He turned to Anna. "Do you see? It makes sense. Clean-shaven, he looks completely different. Everyone will think the facial dissimilarities between him and Nick are because of the beard. Or the lack of it, rather. Good show!" he exclaimed, patting Brodie's arm once and smiling approval. "Don't you think so, Anna? I think it's a stroke of genius."

Anna nodded slowly, unable to look away from Brodie's face, while some unfathomable emotion tied her tongue. He certainly did look different; she admired Aiden's flair for understatement. She'd always thought he... she'd always thought
Nicholas
was a handsome man, that his beard made him look distinguished, a little older than his years. But until now she'd never guessed at what an extraordinary face that beard had been hiding: hard-jawed and strong, with haughty, keen-edged cheekbones and a handsome, adamant chin; eloquent lips that seemed much more vulnerable now, though no less sensual, without whiskers to conceal them; and overall a vital, masculine symmetry that managed somehow to please and intimidate at the same time. She felt oddly comforted by the long, horizontal scar at the top of his left cheekbone: his solitary imperfection, it made him seem more human to her. Less godlike.