“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 understood that sentiment. “Good night, then, miss.”
Pia walked past Oriana and into the ballroom, her shoulders drooping like a flower gone too long without water.
• • •
Duilio caught sight of Miss Paredes emerging from that doorway a few minutes later, directly 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 stately 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 stood. He sighed inwardly. Pimental was a few years older and not actually 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 ministry position, Duilio knew, likely bestowed by the prince for some favor his father-in-law had done. That kept Pimental’s well-born wife in silk stockings 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 plastered his most 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 mistress.”
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 still on the dancers. “Your mother didn’t even have a companion before, I’m told. Or are you killing two birds with one stone, so to speak?”
Duilio pressed his lips together. Most 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.
“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 reaction 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 downcast eyes and prim posture, so much at odds with the woman he’d come to know in the past few days. Pimental might be hypocritical about his reluctance to have his amorous exploits exposed, but he and Miss Paredes weren’t any more honest, 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 almost 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 effect 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 mistress. Make sure you don’t make the mistake of calling her that.”
Pimental cast a startled glance in his direction, likely surprised that Duilio had bested him, and then strolled 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 struggled 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 stepped 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 guest list? 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 lost 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.
• • •
Oriana 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 stood 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 youngest 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. Just tell everyone you’re waiting for her to come back. Will you be able to handle him if he accosts 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 past interaction with him made her amply wary. She was not going to let him get the better of her.
CHAPTER 19
The 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 mistakenly believed Isabel was still alive?
Where was Silva? Oriana glanced about markedly as if anxious for her mistress to return, and finally caught sight of him. He stood at the far side of the ballroom, bowing over a young woman’s hand. The pretty girl seemed flustered 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 stockiness with age. He dressed wisely, though, in well-tailored garments that concealed his thickening waist.
No sooner had he come within hearing distance 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 cast a confused glance back at Silva but apparently never thought to protest. 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 deafest 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 suspect.”
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 direction, 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 fastened 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 protested.
“Wait and see, girl.” She waggled her fan in the direction 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 respects.”
He appeared completely earnest, filled with concern for an old and dear friend. But he was also acting as if he’d never met her before, which set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t be mistaken. 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 misunderstood my intentions completely.”
“I doubt that,” Lady Beja said under her breath.
Ah, now Oriana knew why Isabel had disliked the man so. He must 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 fantastical 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 insist, Miss Paredes.”
Oriana tried to produce a plausible protest, 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 actually happened to Lady Isabel?” he asked.
Apparently he’d decided to stop 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 Sebastião Bridge to where The City Under the Sea was located. “I barely remember, sir,” she protested. “That whole night is a blur for me now.”
They were behind another pair of guests who’d abruptly decided to stop and join in some gossip, forcing Oriana to stand there in place and wait. Silva eyed her narrowly. He didn’t believe her story. 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 introduc
ed 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 Minister 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 first? 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 objection to avoid Silva’s clutches in the first place.
Maraval settled her hand on his sleeve and turned her back the way she’d come, striding away from Silva. Oriana could almost 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 flustered by Silva’s attempt to drag her off. She had practice ridding herself of overly insistent 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 steps 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.”
The Golden City Page 20