The Golden City (21 page)

Teresa had left the blue dress, now freshly sponged and pressed, on the bed. When ten approached, Oriana donned it and tried to make her hair presentable. She usually wore it in the English
st
yle with tendrils down about her neck, but Felis had brought her a pair of jet earrings, a reminder that the household was
st
ill in half mourning. The dress had a high bati
st
e collar that would hide her gill slits, so Oriana drew all her hair up into a knot at the nape of her neck, better to let the earrings show. It wasn’t elegant, but it was the be
st
she could manage on her own. When a knock came at the door, she expe
ct
ed Teresa to enter with some item she’d forgotten, but it was Ana, the second housemaid, in
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ead. “Miss Paredes?”

Oriana quickly drew on her mitts. “Yes, Ana?”

“Teresa said I could come up and see if you needed help with your hair.” The young woman sounded uncertain, but she went on. “I’m not a proper ladies’ maid, but she’s been letting me help her, and we girls all fix each other’s hair below
st
airs.”

“I’d be grateful for your help pinning it up,” Oriana told her.

The housemaid came in and, once Oriana handed over the pins, brushed out Oriana’s hair, braided it again, and pinned it into a neat coil at the back of her head. Ana also produced a jar of du
st
ing powder that covered the fading bruise on Oriana’s temple. The girl chattered the whole while, repeating how excited the
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aff was that Lady Ferreira was going out again. When she’d finished, Oriana had to admire the job the young woman had done. Her hair looked more elegant than any coiffure she’d ever achieved on her own. She thanked Ana, gathered her handbag with the sketch secreted inside it, and went to wait at the side of the house for the carriage.

If she hadn’t known that Mr. Ferreira had been attacked twice in the la
st
two days, she wouldn’t have been able to spot it. He looked dashing in his black evening jacket and gray wai
st
coat. Yes,
dashing
was the right word. He carried a satin top hat and a silver-handled cane, which Oriana suspe
ct
ed was more for decoration than for supporting himself. When the carriage rolled up to the side of the house, he helped his mother up fir
st
, and then Oriana. It wasn’t even a mile up the Street of Flowers to the Carvalho house, but Oriana didn’t fancy walking that di
st
ance, so she settled next to the lady and clutched her small handbag close.

In the flickering light of the little lanterns inside the carriage, Lady Ferreira looked
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unning in a dress of dark brown that bared much of her shoulders and throat. Although brown, the black trim should allow it to pass as half mourning. It shouldn’t shock the ari
st
ocratic matrons overmuch. A jet parure completed the lady’s co
st
ume, and Felis had done an excellent job with the lady’s hair, pinning it up in a fashion that made her look youthful yet not daring. Some might interpret her dress and her appearance in society as a sign she’d decided to leave mourning behind, but Lady Ferreira’s persi
st
ently grief-
st
ricken demeanor would surely convince everyone otherwise.

Mr. Ferreira joined them in the carriage. Once he’d settled in his seat, he drew a silver case out of an inside pocket—a cigarette case. It had to be an affe
ct
ation on his part. She’d never once caught a whiff of smoke on him—except for today. He took out a cigarette and then offered the case to Oriana, one brow raised. She shook her head. Isabel might have taught her to drink coffee and brandy, but she drew the line at smoking. Her gills would never forgive her. “You’re not a
ct
ually going to smoke that, are you?” she asked.

“I don’t allow it,” his mother said softly.

Duilio returned the silver case to his pocket. “Marcellin already complains enough about the scent of others’ smoke in my garments. I don’t want to displease
him
more than necessary, much less my mother.” He turned to Lady Ferreira. “Are you
st
ill feeling up to this, Mother?”

The lady sighed. “Yes. Only I don’t wish to
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ay too long, Duilinho. I’ve forgotten how to endure late nights.”

“Of course, Mother. A couple of the footmen will meet us at the Carvalho house. They’ll be able to escort you home should you grow tired.” He tapped on the wall of the carriage with his cane, and the vehicle lurched into motion. “Miss Paredes,” he said in a cheerful tone, “your hair is lovely in that
st
yle. You mu
st
wear it like that more often. Off your neck, I mean.”

He continued to natter on, talking about the various merits of his mother’s dress, and after a moment Oriana’s bewilderment subsided. He’d become the inanely chattering Duilio Ferreira she’d met on the submersible, a
st
range transformation to behold. His voice even sounded different, higher in tone. The cigarette case had to be a prop meant to help him remember his role, much as her garments fixed her securely in her own disguise of a Portuguese gentlewoman.

He’d
st
opped talking and was regarding her with a que
st
ioning expression. Oriana realized she’d
st
opped li
st
ening at some point.
Does everyone do that to him?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferreira. I lo
st
track.”

His eyebrows crept upward. “I was asking whether you have a watch in your purse. I don’t recall if the Carvalho family has a clock in their ballroom. I will come fetch you in time to take you along to their library. Is that acceptable?”

She nodded mutely.

“Now,” he continued, “I think it would be easie
st
to claim that Lady Isabel introduced you to my mother a couple of weeks ago. Planning ahead, so to speak. It’s vague enough that no one can refute you. Of course, there will be those who think the arrangement was made with me rather than my mother, but ju
st
a
ct
shocked that anyone would sugge
st
my mother would allow such a decision to be made for her. . . .”

He went on as the carriage rattled up the
st
reet, making sugge
st
ions how to handle the many rumors that would be swirling about her. By the time they reached the se
ct
ion of the
st
reet where the Carvalho family lived, Oriana felt prepared to take on an army of gossips.

W
hen they
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epped into the foyer of the Carvalho home—a
st
ately neoclassical creation in the Pombaline
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yle so popular in Southern Portugal—Duilio passed his hat and cane to the footman waiting there at the entryway. Then he escorted his mother up the grand
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aircase and through a marble arch to the main ballroom, where they would have to endure the greeting line. Miss Paredes trailed mute behind them, his mother’s shawl draped over her hands.

Duilio made his bow to Lady Carvalho and was introduced again to her younge
st
daughter, Con
st
ancia, a round-faced young lady who appeared overwhelmed by the number of people to whom she was being introduced. His mother drifted through the introdu
ct
ions with a fair approximation of attention. She kissed Lady Carvalho’s plump cheeks and walked on. Head lowered, Miss Paredes followed his mother around the side of the ballroom.

Duilio paused near the entry arch to scan the room. It wasn’t overcrowded. At lea
st
, not yet. The sounds of a small group of musicians could be heard over the din of conversation, and in the center of the ballroom a gavotte was in process. Duilio cringed inwardly. He’d never enjoyed dancing and didn’t want to end up swinging the three Carvalho daughters about. His knees ached from his hard landing on the cobbles that afternoon. Of course, it would be a different matter should Miss Paredes consent to dance with him—preferably a waltz, where he might get away with holding her closer than propriety di
ct
ated. Unfortunately, singling out his mother’s companion would only fo
st
er gossip, and Miss Paredes didn’t need that sort of attention.

Duilio sighed. He checked his watch and saw that he had a good half hour before he needed to escort Miss Paredes from the ballroom. He spotted a clu
st
er of gentlemen to one side of the room near the arches that led out to the balcony. A couple he knew from Coimbra, but mo
st
of this set were older than him, and possibly displaying their own daughters tonight. As he approached the group, he could tell they were speaking of a recent scandal, all their eyes on Luís Taveira, who mu
st
have the freshe
st
gossip.

“He waited for her in Paris,” Taveira was saying, “but she never arrived.”

Duilio hadn’t been to any social fun
ct
ion for a week now, so he hadn’t heard whispers yet of the absence of Marianus Efisio and Isabel Amaral.

A few of the young men ca
st
glances about the room, perhaps concerned Lady Isabel might be
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anding behind one of the potted orange trees. “Where did she go?” a spot-faced young
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er asked, nearly splashing his champagne onto his neighbor’s patent shoes in his enthusiasm. “Was there another gentleman involved?”

“Efisio doesn’t know,” Taveira said. “All he would tell me is that his heart is broken and he can never forgive her.”

“She made a fool of him,” another gentleman said with a sage nod.

“She’s gone to the country, no doubt,” a third added. “Surely her parents have taken her out of the city.”

“No, they’re
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ill here packing,” another inserted.

Duilio
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epped back from that group, not wanting to be there when the suppositions about Lady Isabel turned ugly, as they undoubtedly would. He was relieved when the Marquis of Maraval, the Mini
st
er of Culture,
st
epped in, remon
st
rating with the younger ones for their gossiping tongues. Maraval was a genial older man who’d always treated Duilio kindly. Careful grooming and application of dye to his hair made him seem younger, but Duilio guessed that the man was close in age to his own father . . . or Silva, even. Relieved that Lady Isabel had a defender, Duilio slipped away.

He found a spot again
st
one of the walls where he could see mo
st
of the room. Leaning back again
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the wall half-obscured by a heavy velvet curtain, he watched the spot across from the musicians where the matrons had settled to observe and pass judgment regarding behavior on the dance floor. His mother was seated among them, looking as if she were half li
st
ening to the conversation. Miss Paredes sat slightly behind her in a spot suitable for a companion, out of the way and inconspicuous.

While he watched, Lady Pereira de Santos—a longtime widow in
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ark black—approached his mother and greeted her. The lady turned toward Miss Paredes next and began to speak, but Miss Paredes looked away. The lady’s attention seemed to make her uncomfortable. Since the Pereira de Santos mansion
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ood next to the Amaral home, Miss Paredes had probably met the lady before. No doubt Lady Amaral had spewed her slander again
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her former employee to her neighbor. Duilio found himself contemplating a way to remove Miss Paredes from that situation.

It
would
seem odd if he singled out his mother’s companion. Then again . . .

It wasn’t as if he’d attempted to fix the intere
st
of any of the daughters who’d been thrown at him in the la
st
year. He’d avoided female companionship, not wanting to worry about a woman he might not be able to tru
st
with the truth about his family. But Miss Paredes was different from both the society girls he might be expe
ct
ed to wed and the Spanish girls he would be expe
ct
ed to bed. He liked her better than the women he’d met of either category.

He
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arted to make his way over to where the matrons sat chattering. Unfortunately a blond-haired young woman approached Miss Paredes fir
st
, smoothing a hand down the front of her pale lavender satin dress. It was Pia Sequeira, the betrothed of Marianus Efisio—or she had been until he’d attempted to elope with Lady Isabel, her cousin.

Miss Paredes nodded and rose, and together the two walked to a door to one side of the ballroom, under the curious eyes of half the revelers. Duilio had no doubt the other half would hear about it within minutes.

•   •   •

O
riana couldn’t think of a graceful way to get out of an audience with Isabel’s cousin. Outside the ballroom, they emerged into an open foyer where a young footman waited, giving the appearance that he was no more than a
st
atue.

Miss Sequeira clutched at Oriana’s arm. “Miss Paredes, I’ve heard you’ve gone to work for Lady Ferreira. Is that true?”

Pia was delicate and petite and, although nothing alike in coloration, she otherwise reminded Oriana very much of her own younger si
st
er, Marina. “Yes.”

“Aunt claimed you trumped up some tale about Isabel being spirited away by bandits to cover her elopement. That she’d been taken by someone other than Mr. Efisio.”

“Not a tale, miss, but Lady Amaral didn’t believe me,” Oriana volunteered, since otherwise it would take Pia hours to get to her point.

“Mr. Efisio wrote to me, making it plain Isabel isn’t with him.” Pia touched the back of one gloved hand to her lips and sniffled. “If Isabel hasn’t run off, then she mu
st
be . . . dead . . . or kidnapped. Aunt
mu
st
go to the police.”

When Oriana didn’t argue the point, Pia looked up at her again. “Have you . . . ?”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with a representative of the police,” Oriana said truthfully. “But as Isabel’s parents have said nothing, they have no reason to pursue the inquiry.”

“Oh.” Pia chewed her lower lip. “Will the police suspe
ct
Mr. Efisio of harming her, do you think?”

So the girl was
st
ill concerned about him, even though he’d jilted her. “I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Pia said softly, her blue eyes shining. “I would hate for him to be accused.”

Oriana didn’t know how deep the girl’s feelings for her er
st
while betrothed went, but Pia was a kindhearted girl. She would probably forgive him anything.

“He’s very angry with Isabel,” Pia added. “He said some unkind things about her in his letter, that she was toying with him and only wanted his money. Did she intend to go through with the wedding at all?”

“Yes,” Oriana admitted. “She told me she loved him,” she added relu
ct
antly.

“His feelings are wounded, then,” Pia said, nodding as if that made sense of what she’d read in his letter. “He begged my forgiveness. He said his infatuation with Isabel was a fleeting thing, and asked if he might take up our betrothal again.”

Technically, their betrothal never had been terminated. As Oriana under
st
ood it, Pia was
st
ill betrothed to Marianus Efisio. “Do you intend to take him back?”

Pia lifted her hand to her nose again to cover another sniffle. Then her expression firmed. “No. I won’t. I’ve written to him to end our betrothal. I’d prefer a husband who won’t be drawn away by every pretty, clever woman who comes along.”

“Good,” Oriana said, even though she had no right to comment on Pia’s a
ct
ions.

Pia sniffed wetly, opened her handbag, and began hunting through it. “I heard you, you know, a few months ago when you thought I was
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ill in the water closet.” She produced a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eye. “I was in the hallway, and I heard you tell Isabel it was dishonorable to try to
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eal her own cousin’s betrothed. I didn’t believe you then, but that’s how I know how long it was going on. At lea
st
four months, so it wasn’t ju
st
a passing fancy on his part.”

“No, I didn’t think it was,” Oriana agreed. “They should have told you the truth. If he didn’t wish to marry you, he should have spoken to you.”

“A man doesn’t break off his betrothal,” Pia said with a helpless shrug, her eyes lowered. “I suppose he thought if he ignored me long enough I would do it for him.”

The coward’s way out
. Oriana wished she had some comfort to offer the young woman. “I’m sorry I couldn’t sway her.”

“No one could sway Isabel once she’d set her mind to something.” Pia took Oriana’s right hand in hers again and met Oriana’s eyes. “Thank you, Miss Paredes. I hope your current situation is easier than your la
st
.”

“It’s a good household,” Oriana said hone
st
ly. “Isabel introduced me to Lady Ferreira a couple of weeks ago. I was fortunate that she needed a companion.”

“Especially since Aunt turned you out without a reference. Isabel’s maid told me that Aunt accused you of
st
ealing, and kept all your clothing, even. If you need, I can ask
my
mother to give you a letter.”

“Thank you,” Oriana said, genuinely touched. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I should go now,” Pia said, dropping Oriana’s hand. “I’m going to tell Mother I want to go home. I don’t feel like smiling at anyone any longer.”

Oriana under
st
ood that sentiment. “Good night, then, miss.”

Pia walked pa
st
Oriana and into the ballroom, her shoulders drooping like a flower gone too long without water.

•   •   •

D
uilio caught sight of Miss Paredes emerging from that doorway a few minutes later, dire
ct
ly after the pallid Miss Sequeira came forth. Miss Paredes scanned the room and then began to edge her way around the dance floor.

She crossed, her head lowered, to where the matrons sat, and settled in her seat again. Miss Sequeira spoke with her own mother, and they made a
st
ately exit from the ballroom under the eyes of every gossip in town. Word of Pia Sequeira’s mournful retreat following that talk with Miss Paredes would be aired all over the city by morning. Duilio could spot eyes here and there watching Miss Paredes afterward, but no one approached her to speak with her.

Duilio caught movement in the corner of one eye and spotted Rodrigo Pimental drifting over to the balcony doorway where he
st
ood. He sighed inwardly. Pimental was a few years older and not a
ct
ually a friend. Well, not a friend by any measure. Always well dressed and careful of his grooming, Pimental presented an image of wealth and success. He held some sort of decorative mini
st
ry position, Duilio knew, likely be
st
owed by the prince for some favor his father-in-law had done. That kept Pimental’s well-born wife in silk
st
ockings and furs, but the man was always short on funds. He had an annoying tendency to sponge off others. What Pimental did have was a keen ear and a sharp tongue that could cause no end of trouble if one didn’t watch one’s words around him.

“Well, Ferreira,” Pimental said, “is it true, the whispers I’ve heard about town?” He held a glass of watered sherry in his hand.

Duilio pla
st
ered his mo
st
vacant smile on his face. “That would depend entirely upon the whispers, Pimental.”

Pimental smiled tightly, his eyes on a pair of dancers on the floor. “That you hired away Lady Isabel Amaral’s companion—Miss Paraíso, or something. She has a fine figure, I admit, but there are younger and prettier girls out there. I can recommend a couple if you’re hunting a mi
st
ress.”

Duilio chose his words carefully, suppressing the urge to hit the man. “What a silly notion, Pimental. Miss Paredes is my mother’s companion.”

“I think not. I saw you watching her.” Rodrigo leaned closer, his eyes
st
ill on the dancers. “Your mother didn’t even have a companion before, I’m told. Or are you killing two birds with one
st
one, so to speak?”

Duilio pressed his lips together. Mo
st
gentlemen would let it go after a simple denial. No, Pimental intended to blackmail him, assuming he would be desperate enough to pay to keep society’s approval, yet not outraged enough to challenge him to a duel.