what he did? He's impossible. A pagan!"
"I've spent some time with Mr. Brodie, and I say it can work. But not without your help."
She threw up her hands and resumed pacing. She was angry with Aiden, angry with Brodie, and angry with herself for agreeing to play any part at all in this absurd charade.
"I don't only mean teaching him the rudiments of shipbuilding or describing the
Morning Star
to him and that sort of thing," he went on mildly. "I mean the subtler details of impersonation. Things like… how Nick wore his hair or tied his cravat. Gestures he made, his walk, figures of speech he used. The sort of cologne he" He broke off when Anna made a soft sound of pure frustration.
"But I don't
want
to teach him those things, those personal habits." She faced him earnestly. "Have you thought about what this means? Have you considered what it will be like for me? Not just if something goes wrong and it becomes known, but how hard it will be, how painful?" She swallowed the lump in her throat and kept talking. "Aiden, I don't think you really understand. I can hardly bear to look at him," she admitted thickly. "He looks so much like him. Just now, when he laughed, I couldn't—" Her throat closed and she had to stop. She kept her face averted, not wanting him to see.
"Anna, my dear. It hurts me to see you this way. I don't know what to say." He patted her shoulder clumsily.
She had a sudden idea. "Why can't we say he's sick? Cancel the trip to Rome entirely and say he's too ill to travel. That way we wouldn't have to meet anyone at all. We could wait in Florence until it's time to go to Naples for your rendezvous with the nonexistent Mr. Greeley. Even if there is such a person, we don't know he and Nicholas ever met. In fact, for all we know, Brodie's not necessary at all
, you
could impersonate Nicholas."
"You're right, as far as that goes. We don't know for certain that Greeley and Nick ever met. But as for me pretending to be Nick—I'm sorry, I'm not willing to take that chance."
She looked away, privately admitting that the risk was too great but unwilling to acknowledge it.
"Besides, Anna, you're forgetting one fact. Somewhere there's a man who believes Nick is dead because he thinks he killed him. We can't hope to draw him out if Brodie stays in Florence and Rome incognito."
"Draw him out?" she repeated stupidly.
"Of course. Brodie's a target. If he stays out of sight, the killer will make the natural assumption that we're only pretending he's alive, and won't bother to show his face. But if Brodie's out and about, looking, talking, and behaving exactly like Nick, the murderer will believe because no other explanation will occur to him that somehow Nick survived. Then, with any luck, he'll try again."
"With any luck?" She blinked in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? He could be killed. What are you thinking of? Does he know?"
"Does who know what?"
"Does Mr. Brodie know he's a 'target'?"
"Yes, of course."
She tried to absorb it. It made sense in a horrible way. Nicholas's brother was trading certain death by hanging for the possibility of it by assassination. But it seemed so ghastly, so cold-blooded, it made her shiver.
"Our dilemma," O'Dunne pursued, oblivious to her distress, "is that we don't know for certain that it was Union agents who killed Nick. But since no other possibility comes to mind, he had no enemies that we know of, at least none that hated him enough to kill him, there's no alternative."
"It couldn't have been. I will not believe it."
"Who, then?"
Her mouth opened, then closed. She scowled.
O'Dunne smiled tolerantly. "I understand your feelings about Mr. Lincoln, my dear, and your views on slavery and the war, but don't let your idealism blind you to the facts. War and idealism rarely exist simultaneously. That's hard for you to understand, I know, because you're a woman. Your temperament is too gentle to comprehend it."
Anna was so used to the condescension in his tone and his
"I've spent some time with Mr. Brodie, and I say it can work. But not without your help."
She threw up her hands and resumed pacing. She was angry with Aiden, angry with Brodie, and angry with herself for agreeing to play any part at all in this absurd charade.
"I don't only mean teaching him the rudiments of shipbuilding or describing the
Morning Star
to him and that sort of thing," he went on mildly. "I mean the subtler details of impersonation. Things like… how Nick wore his hair or tied his cravat. Gestures he made, his walk, figures of speech he used. The sort of cologne he" He broke off when Anna made a soft sound of pure frustration.
"But I don't
want
to teach him those things, those personal habits." She faced him earnestly. "Have you thought about what this means? Have you considered what it will be like for me? Not just if something goes wrong and it becomes known, but how hard it will be, how painful?" She swallowed the lump in her throat and kept talking. "Aiden, I don't think you really understand. I can hardly bear to look at him," she admitted thickly. "He looks so much like him. Just now, when he laughed, I couldn't—" Her throat closed and she had to stop. She kept her face averted, not wanting him to see.
"Anna, my dear. It hurts me to see you this way. I don't know what to say." He patted her shoulder clumsily.
She had a sudden idea. "Why can't we say he's sick? Cancel the trip to Rome entirely and say he's too ill to travel. That way we wouldn't have to meet anyone at all. We could wait in Florence until it's time to go to Naples for your rendezvous with the nonexistent Mr. Greeley. Even if there is such a person, we don't know he and Nicholas ever met. In fact, for all we know, Brodie's not necessary at all
, you
could impersonate Nicholas."
"You're right, as far as that goes. We don't know for certain that Greeley and Nick ever met. But as for me pretending to be Nick—I'm sorry, I'm not willing to take that chance."
She looked away, privately admitting that the risk was too great but unwilling to acknowledge it.
"Besides, Anna, you're forgetting one fact. Somewhere there's a man who believes Nick is dead because he thinks he killed him. We can't hope to draw him out if Brodie stays in Florence and Rome incognito."
"Draw him out?" she repeated stupidly.
"Of course. Brodie's a target. If he stays out of sight, the killer will make the natural assumption that we're only pretending he's alive, and won't bother to show his face. But if Brodie's out and about, looking, talking, and behaving exactly like Nick, the murderer will believe because no other explanation will occur to him that somehow Nick survived. Then, with any luck, he'll try again."
"With any luck?" She blinked in disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? He could be killed. What are you thinking of? Does he know?"
"Does who know what?"
"Does Mr. Brodie know he's a 'target'?"
"Yes, of course."
She tried to absorb it. It made sense in a horrible way. Nicholas's brother was trading certain death by hanging for the possibility of it by assassination. But it seemed so ghastly, so cold-blooded, it made her shiver.
"Our dilemma," O'Dunne pursued, oblivious to her distress, "is that we don't know for certain that it was Union agents who killed Nick. But since no other possibility comes to mind, he had no enemies that we know of, at least none that hated him enough to kill him, there's no alternative."
"It couldn't have been. I will not believe it."
"Who, then?"
Her mouth opened, then closed. She scowled.
O'Dunne smiled tolerantly. "I understand your feelings about Mr. Lincoln, my dear, and your views on slavery and the war, but don't let your idealism blind you to the facts. War and idealism rarely exist simultaneously. That's hard for you to understand, I know, because you're a woman. Your temperament is too gentle to comprehend it."
Anna was so used to the condescension in his tone and his
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