The Golden City (22 page)

“Of course,” Pimental continued, “no one wants to speak ill of another gentleman.”

“Of course not.” Duilio allowed sarcasm to creep into his voice. “What is it they say about not being lucky at cards? One has fortune in love? Alessio never had trouble in that field.” He took out his cigarette case and offered a cigarette to the man. “Then again, you knew that personally, didn’t you? Alessio mentioned you fondly in his journals.”

Pimental paused, match in midair. “You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered.

Duilio had skimmed through Alessio’s journals, seeking only information regarding the search for his mother’s pelt and the duel that took Alessio’s life, but he was sure he’d seen Pimental’s name somewhere. The man’s rea
ct
ion confirmed it. The journals’ contents had often put Duilio to the blush; he didn’t share his elder brother’s wild proclivities. Duilio might be a sinner when compared to Joaquim, but next to Alessio he was positively a saint.

He returned to watching Miss Paredes with her downca
st
eyes and prim po
st
ure, so much at odds with the woman he’d come to know in the pa
st
few days. Pimental might be hypocritical about his relu
ct
ance to have his amorous exploits exposed, but he and Miss Paredes weren’t any more hone
st
, both hiding what they were. Duilio turned back to him. “You’re right; I wouldn’t. We all have things we’d rather our friends—and wives—not know about us.”

“It was an aberration,” Pimental said quietly, his cheeks crimson. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”

Poor fellow, drawn in by Alessio’s selkie charm.
Alessio had been able to seduce almo
st
anyone he fancied into his bed, and had suffered from a selkie male’s need to maintain a harem. His desires had clashed horribly with the mores of Portuguese society, leading him into one impossible, doomed relationship after another. He’d taken to drink to console his wounded feelings, which in turn only made him less discerning about his partners.

“Alessio had that effe
ct
on people,” Duilio said, feeling a bit sorry for Pimental. “He could get them to do things they would never normally dream. If I’m to believe what he wrote, there were very many gentlemen and ladies who shared your situation.”

Pimental’s hand shook as he took a deep drag on his cigarette. “He was so . . . beautiful.”

Duilio shook his head. “Forget I mentioned Alessio. But remember this, Pimental: Miss Paredes is my mother’s companion and
only
her companion. I would never demean Miss Paredes by taking her as my mi
st
ress. Make sure you don’t make the mi
st
ake of calling her that.”

Pimental ca
st
a
st
artled glance in his dire
ct
ion, likely surprised that Duilio had be
st
ed him, and then
st
rolled away, looking rather like a cat whose tail had been trodden upon.

The next few days would surely generate some nervous personal inquiries, as he’d confessed that Alessio had left behind
written
evidence of his amorous exploits. Having been raised with a father who
st
ruggled to hide his own indiscretions—often unsuccessfully—from his wife and sons, Duilio had tried to live in a manner he wouldn’t have to conceal from a future wife or children. It baffled him that others failed to take such precautions. He shook his head, resolved not to worry about it for the time being, but a sharp warning prickled down his spine, his gift jolting awake again.

Duilio
st
epped deeper into the curtained alcove and scanned the room, wondering what had set off that warning. Then he spotted Paolo Silva framed in the entry archway. His uncle rubbed his chin with one hand as he surveyed the ballroom and its inhabitants with a jaded eye. Why had he not checked with Carvalho to see whether Silva was on the gue
st
li
st
? His mother would
not
take it well should she notice Silva’s presence. Duilio shot a quick glance at Miss Paredes to see if she’d noted the man’s arrival, but she appeared lo
st
in thought, her eyes on the dancers.

The musicians were in the middle of a set, so Duilio edged his way around the ballroom toward his mother’s side. He needed to get her out of here before the man came and bothered her. He wasn’t afraid for his mother, but that would not end well for Silva.

•   •   •

O
riana sat to one side of Lady Ferreira as the young folk danced to the reedy music of the quartet. The swirl of color of the young women’s gowns, the aromas of cigarette smoke and heady perfumes, the hushed patter of the gossip flowing around them all faded into the background. The waiting was proving irksome. She wanted to be
doing
something.

She’d caught sight of Mr. Ferreira as he
st
ood near one of the curtained doors that led onto the balcony. He’d been talking to an urbane gentleman whose expression appeared to alternate between embarrassment and avarice—Mr. Pimental, who had married the younge
st
daughter of the Marquis of Davila. After a time that man slipped away, leaving Mr. Ferreira momentarily alone. But now he moved, edging around the dancers and toward the matrons. When he reached their side of the dance floor, he nodded to the matrons and pressed a kiss to his mother’s gloved hand. Lady Ferreira smiled vaguely up at her son.

“Mother, would you like to take a walk on the veranda?” he asked, catching Oriana’s eye as he did so.

“Of course, Duilinho,” his mother said, rising gracefully.

Oriana rose with her, but Mr. Ferreira caught her hand. He leaned closer, the musky scent of his skin touching her nose. “Silva’s here,” he whispered. “I’ll send my mother home with the carriage and be back in a few minutes. Ju
st
tell everyone you’re waiting for her to come back. Will you be able to handle him if he acco
st
s you?”

His eyes met hers, worried, but she shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she told him.

“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.” He escorted his mother away.

Oriana settled into her chair again. She didn’t know if Silva was guilty of what Lady Ferreira believed, but her own pa
st
intera
ct
ion with him made her amply wary. She was not going to let him get the better of her.

T
he dancing went on, one set ending and another beginning, while Oriana sat among the gossiping matrons and pretended to wait for Lady Ferreira’s return. She watched the swirl of color and wondered how many of Isabel’s friends had seen her but chosen not to speak to her. How many mi
st
akenly believed Isabel was
st
ill alive?

Where
was
Silva? Oriana glanced about markedly as if anxious for her mi
st
ress to return, and finally caught sight of him. He
st
ood at the far side of the ballroom, bowing over a young woman’s hand. The pretty girl seemed flu
st
ered by his attentions. Silva tucked the young woman’s gloved hand into the crook of his arm and led her at a slow walk about the edge of the ballroom floor. It would take them around to this side of the room. Oriana mentally readied herself for the moment the man noticed her. He had said they would meet again, hadn’t he?

She could see a resemblance to Duilio Ferreira now that she knew to look. Not as tall as his nephew, Silva had run to
st
ockiness with age. He dressed wisely, though, in well-tailored garments that concealed his thickening wai
st
.

No sooner had he come within hearing di
st
ance of the gaggle of matrons about her than old Lady Beja swatted at his legs with her cane. “Let go of that young girl, you old miscreant,” she snapped. “Come sit with someone more your age, who can appreciate you properly. I’ll have Torres escort Miss Offley back to her mother.”

Silva complied with every appearance of graciousness. The old lady’s companion, a black-clad woman nearly as ancient as the lady herself, jumped up spryly, grabbed the girl’s arm, and hauled her toward the far side of the ballroom. The girl ca
st
a confused glance back at Silva but apparently never thought to prote
st
. Oriana was glad to know someone else found Silva’s pursuit of very young women inappropriate. Isabel certainly had.

“Now,” the lady continued, “you’ve been absent from our company too often recently. What have you been doing?”

“Whatever my prince bids me, madam,” Silva said in an obsequious tone. “If my duties take me from your presence, I can only mourn my loss.”

Relieved she was sitting behind them and not in their line of sight, Oriana rolled her eyes.

“So, what do you make of this year’s crop of girls, Silva?” the lady asked.

“Sadly, they all suffer again this year in comparison to Lady Isabel,” he returned smoothly. “Is she here tonight?”

“Surely you’ve heard? She’s eloped,” the lady said in a whisper that carried clearly to the ear of all but the deafe
st
matron. “Ran off with her cousin’s betrothed. Lady Amaral has taken to her bed, I’m told.”

Thank the gods,
Oriana thought. That meant Lady Amaral wasn’t likely to show here. Her presence on top of Silva’s would have been unbearable.

Silva gasped at Lady Beja’s gossip. “I’ve been so busy I hadn’t heard a word.”

The lady snapped her fan across his white-gloved knuckles, and then pointed at Oriana with it. “Miss Paredes there knows all, I suspe
ct
.”

Oriana sighed inwardly. Apparently Isabel’s disgrace meant that her own name was now known to every gossip in the city. Oriana turned in their dire
ct
ion, giving in to the inevitable.

The lady crooked an imperious finger. “Come here, Miss Paredes.”

She rose and obediently crossed to the lady’s other side, feeling Silva’s eyes on her. “Yes, Lady Beja. May I fetch something for you?”

The lady fa
st
ened a clawlike hand on Oriana’s arm and hauled her down into the seat her companion had left empty. “Sit here. Now, where has Lady Isabel gone?”

“I no longer work for the Amaral family, Lady Beja.”

“You did until then.” The old woman slapped her fan across Oriana’s right hand, sending uncomfortable reverberations through her webbing. “No point in keeping secrets for a family who threw you out, miss.”

Oriana clenched her jaw, ignoring the fading discomfort. “Isabel introduced me to Lady Ferreira before she left, lady. And if I had secrets about Lady Isabel, I would hold them for her sake alone.”

The old lady laughed. “A loyal companion? How unusual. Torres would sell my bed curtains in the market the very day I died.”

“I cannot believe that, my lady,” Oriana prote
st
ed.

“Wait and see, girl.” She waggled her fan in the dire
ct
ion of her returning companion. “That one’s mercenary through and through.”

“Tell me, Miss . . . Paredes, it is?” Silva inserted, leaning forward in his chair to favor her with his notice. “Do you know when Lady Isabel and her new husband will return from abroad, then? I would like to pay my respe
ct
s.”

He appeared completely earne
st
, filled with concern for an old and dear friend. But he was also a
ct
ing as if he’d never met her before, which set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t be mi
st
aken. He’d been in that boat that night. She was appalled at how easily the man lied. That increased the likelihood that Lady Ferreira was right about him.

“The Amaral girl won’t be any more receptive to you now that she’s a married woman than she was five years ago,” Lady Beja snapped.

Silva draped a hurt look across his mobile features. “Lady Isabel misunder
st
ood my intentions completely.”

“I doubt that,” Lady Beja said under her breath.

Ah, now Oriana knew why Isabel had disliked the man so. He mu
st
have tried to seduce Isabel, thinking her as foolish as any other girl of eighteen or nineteen.

He smiled fatuously at Oriana now. “Will you take a turn with me about the floor, Miss Paredes? Perhaps you can tell me something of this fanta
st
ical news . . . without betraying Lady Isabel’s confidence, of course.”

A gentleman didn’t parade around a ballroom with a mere companion without having some ulterior motive. “I had better not, sir,” she said quickly.

Silva rose smoothly and extended an elbow for her to take. “I insi
st
, Miss Paredes.”

Oriana tried to produce a plausible prote
st
, but nothing came to mind. So she laid her hand on his arm and let him lead her along the edge of the ballroom.

“Now, what a
ct
ually happened to Lady Isabel?” he asked.

Apparently he’d decided to
st
op oozing courtesy. Oriana licked her lips. “I told Lady Amaral. She was grabbed by the men who later threw me off one of the bridges.”

He gazed at her doubtfully. “And you floated all that way down the river?”

It
was
quite a way from the Dom Seba
st
ião Bridge to where
The City Under the Sea
was located. “I barely remember, sir,” she prote
st
ed. “That whole night is a blur for me now.”

They were behind another pair of gue
st
s who’d abruptly decided to
st
op and join in some gossip, forcing Oriana to
st
and there in place and wait. Silva eyed her narrowly. He didn’t believe her
st
ory.
What does he know?
She tucked her fingers in closer, trying to hide webbing that was already hidden by her mitts.

“Tell me, then, Miss Paredes—” he began, his voice taking on a menacing edge.

“Silva,” a dark-haired man interrupted. “I haven’t been introduced to your young friend.”

Oriana surreptitiously let out a pent breath, grateful that someone had come to her aid. She recognized the man as the Marquis of Maraval, although she hadn’t ever been introduced to him. The Mini
st
er of Culture, he was known for his civility. Apparently he had seen that she was uncomfortable in Silva’s company and had come to her rescue.

Silva smirked. “And you’re upset that I got to her fir
st
? How amusing. May I introduce to you Miss Paredes, who was once companion to Lady Isabel Amaral.”

When Silva told her the marquis’ name, Maraval bowed smoothly over her hand. “Miss Paredes,” he said, seemingly unruffled by Silva’s glare, “may I escort you back to your seat?”

“I would appreciate that, sir. I was concerned that Lady Ferreira might return while I was absent.” She should have used that obje
ct
ion to avoid Silva’s clutches in the fir
st
place.

Maraval settled her hand on his sleeve and turned her back the way she’d come,
st
riding away from Silva. Oriana could almo
st
feel Silva’s angry gaze following her. “I’m afraid my contemporary has a reputation for inappropriate behavior toward pretty young women,” Maraval said mildly.

If it were only that, Oriana wouldn’t have been so flu
st
ered by Silva’s attempt to drag her off. She had pra
ct
ice ridding herself of overly insi
st
ent males. “So I’ve heard,” she mumbled.

“Yes. He tried to entangle Lady Isabel some years ago,” Maraval continued as they drew closer to the seats where the matrons sat. “As I’m a close friend of her father’s, I took
st
eps to make certain Isabel didn’t fall into his clutches. Although I doubt she would have if left to her own devices. Isabel has always been a clever girl.”

Oriana nodded. Maraval hadn’t visited the Amaral household while she’d been in residence, but Isabel’s father rarely came into the city. Amaral preferred his quiet house in the country to his wife’s company.

“Unfortunately, I’ve never gotten along with Lady Amaral,” Maraval added, “but I went to speak with her Sunday after Mass.”

Oh, dear
. They had reached her chair, and Oriana nodded to him and sank down into her previous spot. She wasn’t surprised when Maraval sat next to her. “I didn’t know that, sir.”

Maraval settled his gloved hands on his knees. “Amaral has been ill, and can’t travel here at the moment, but he believes his wife is hiding the truth from him.” He sighed heavily, his features lined with worry. “I’m afraid that rumors are beginning to circulate concerning Isabel’s absence. That Mr. Efisio jilted his betrothed is shocking enough in itself, but that Isabel may have, in turn, jilted him for someone else is far more sensational. I have managed to suppress any further mention of her name in the papers so far, but if she doesn’t reappear soon, the talk might be irreversibly damaging to her reputation.”

Ah, Maraval believed she knew where Isabel was. She did, but she wasn’t going to tell this man that. Oriana closed her eyes briefly. “I haven’t seen Lady Isabel since Thursday night, sir. If she was involved with another man, I know nothing of it.”

“If you can think of anything that will help me find her, I would appreciate your help.” Maraval dug a card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. It gave the address of the Mini
st
ry of Culture in the old Bishop’s Palace. “Please come to my office if you remember anything. Her father is very worried.”

Oriana slid the card into her handbag. At lea
st
Isabel’s father was showing concern over his daughter’s absence. “I will, sir.”

“Miss Paredes?” Duilio Ferreira spoke at her shoulder,
st
artling her.

Oriana craned her neck to glance up at him. “Yes, sir?”

“I mu
st
apologize for
st
ealing you away from your conversation,” Mr. Ferreira said, “but I’m afraid my mother has decided she’d like to go home. She’s waiting in the carriage.”

Oriana picked up Lady Ferreira’s shawl and thanked Maraval, who rose along with her. Mr. Ferreira nodded to him, and then led Oriana from the ballroom.

When they were on the
st
airwell that led down to the ground floor, Oriana quietly asked, “Is your mother on her way home?”

“Yes,” he said. “Gu
st
avo and Tomas will get her there safely. What did Maraval want?”

“He rescued me from Silva,” she admitted, “but he did want to know if I could tell him where Isabel is. He’s a friend of her father’s. Are we late?”

“We have a couple of minutes to spare,” he said, showing her his watch as they reached the bottom of the
st
airwell. “Shall we?”

Oriana laid her fingers on his sleeve. She hadn’t thought to ask before how he knew where to find the library in this house. Perhaps he’d broken in to it at some point. The very thought made her smile.

They walked down the hallway, and he opened the door onto a library far larger than his own. The walls held bookshelves with glass doors—some locked—but otherwise there was no resemblance to the Ferreira library. This room was ta
st
elessly decorated with garishly overdone floral wallpaper in pinks and reds. Burgundy couches and chairs surrounded a huge Persian rug in the same shades as the loud wallpaper. Oriana
st
epped over the threshold into the room, relieved to see it was unoccupied. Fortunately, the gaslights were turned up.

“This will look improper if we’re caught here,” Mr. Ferreira said, closing the door behind them. He
st
alked across the room to check behind the couches, perhaps expe
ct
ing small children there. “Especially after I had to quash some gossip that you’re my mi
st
ress. So we’d be
st
not get caught.”

Oriana felt heat rising through her body. “Who said that?”

“Pimental,” Mr. Ferreira said without hesitation. “I have something on him, though, which will keep him from spreading lies about you.”

Good news, although she would rather people not talk about her at all. Especially in a way that might harm the Ferreira family. “What do you have on him?”

“Are you encouraging me to gossip, Miss Paredes?” He looked offended when he said those words, but his eyes laughed.

“It would be be
st
to save the gossip for later.”