The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  He could have given this to his cousin in the police instead, but he’d handed it over to her. It was a gesture of trust. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Were you injured again? Or is that the other wound reopened?”

  “The old one,” he said, glancing back at his blood-smudged shirt. “Nothing that requires an application of brandy, Miss Paredes, I assure you. I’ll get my man to bandage it after I get cleaned off. If you see Marcellin downstairs, could you mention to him that I’m here? I need to get cleaned up before dinner.”

  A vast understatement. “I’ll do so, sir. Will we still go to the ball?”

  “Absolutely, Miss Paredes. If there’s one thing we could use more of, it’s information. Especially if it helps make sense out of all the other information we have.”

  • • •

  Oriana did her best to salvage the journal. Some pages were wetter than others, so she took a towel and carefully dabbed at them, trying hard not to smear any ink. The book had been tightly wedged into Mr. Ferreira’s pocket, so the water hadn’t crept too far into the pages. He’d been lucky.

  She skimmed a couple of pages, most describing building one house or another, along with a few others that contained arcane mathematical calculations. Deciding that she could read it the next day, she laid the journal atop the chest of drawers in the dressing room. She weighed down each side of the cover with what appeared to be unused snuffboxes, trinkets that must have belonged to Alessio, and the pages fanned open. She hoped they would dry by the morning.

  They were to leave the house at ten, so Oriana stewed in her room for a couple of hours. If Nela’s Lady did show up in the Carvalho’s library, what should she ask? Unfortunately she understood what Mr. Ferreira had meant when he’d given her the journal. They had a great deal of information already. They simply didn’t know how it tied together. Too many aspects of this didn’t make sense. If only she could ask the right question tonight and get the right answer, perhaps everything would become clear.

  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 style with tendrils down about her neck, but Felis had brought her a pair of jet earrings, a reminder that the household was still in half mourning. The dress had a high batiste 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 best she could manage on her own. When a knock came at the door, she expected Teresa to enter with some item she’d forgotten, but it was Ana, the second housemaid, instead. “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 stairs.”

  “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 dusting powder that covered the fading bruise on Oriana’s temple. The girl chattered the whole while, repeating how excited the staff 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 last two days, she wouldn’t have been able to spot it. He looked dashing in his black evening jacket and gray waistcoat. Yes, dashing was the right word. He carried a satin top hat and a silver-handled cane, which Oriana suspected was more for decoration than for supporting himself. When the carriage rolled up to the side of the house, he helped his mother up first, 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 distance, 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 stunning 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 aristocratic matrons overmuch. A jet parure completed the lady’s costume, 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 persistently grief-stricken 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 affectation 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 actually 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 still feeling up to this, Mother?”

  The lady sighed. “Yes. Only I don’t wish to stay 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 style. You must 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 strange 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 stopped talking and was regarding her with a questioning expression. Oriana realized she’d stopped listening at some point. Does everyone do that to him? “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferreira. I lost 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 easiest 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 just act shocked that anyone would suggest my mother would allow such a decision to be made for her. . . .”

  He went on as the carriage rattled up the street, making suggestions how to handle the many rumors that would be swirling about her. By the time they reached the section of the street where the Carvalho family lived, Oriana felt prepared to take on an army of gossips.

  CHAPTER 18

  When they stepped into the foyer of the Carvalho home—a stately neoclassical creation in the Pombaline style so popular in Southern Portugal—D
uilio passed his hat and cane to the footman waiting there at the entryway. Then he escorted his mother up the grand staircase 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 youngest daughter, Constancia, a round-faced young lady who appeared overwhelmed by the number of people to whom she was being introduced. His mother drifted through the introductions 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 least, 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 dictated. Unfortunately, singling out his mother’s companion would only foster 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 cluster of gentlemen to one side of the room near the arches that led out to the balcony. A couple he knew from Coimbra, but most 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 must have the freshest gossip.

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

  Duilio hadn’t been to any social function 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 cast glances about the room, perhaps concerned Lady Isabel might be standing behind one of the potted orange trees. “Where did she go?” a spot-faced youngster 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 still here packing,” another inserted.

  Duilio stepped 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 Minister of Culture, stepped in, remonstrating 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 against one of the walls where he could see most of the room. Leaning back against 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 listening 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 stark 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 stood next to the Amaral home, Miss Paredes had probably met the lady before. No doubt Lady Amaral had spewed her slander against 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 interest of any of the daughters who’d been thrown at him in the last year. He’d avoided female companionship, not wanting to worry about a woman he might not be able to trust with the truth about his family. But Miss Paredes was different from both the society girls he might be expected to wed and the Spanish girls he would be expected to bed. He liked her better than the women he’d met of either category.

  He started to make his way over to where the matrons sat chattering. Unfortunately a blond-haired young woman approached Miss Paredes first, 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.

  • • •

  Oriana 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 statue.

  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 sister, 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 must be . . . dead . . . or kidnapped. Aunt must 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 suspect Mr. Efisio of harming her, do you think?”

  So the girl was still 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 erstwhile 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 reluctantly.

  “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 understood it, Pia was still 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 actions.

  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 still 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 steal her own cousin’s betrothed. I didn’t believe you then, but that’s how I know how long it was going on. At least four months, so it wasn’t just 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 last.”

  “It’s a good household,” Oriana said honestly. “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 stealing, and kept all your clothing, even. If you need, I can ask my mother to give you a letter.”