CHAPTER 21
Walking might not be the fashionable choice, but it was faster than sending for the carriage and waiting for it to come back. So she and Mr. Ferreira slipped out the servants’ door in the back and walked down the street in silence, the unknown African man following them at a distance. Oriana hadn’t caught who he was, although he was likely one of the Lady’s special associates. Mr. Ferreira seemed inclined to trust him. For now that was enough for her.
Oriana drew the shawl up over her head to cover her hair. It was chilly out, although not nearly so much as this time last week. Her thoughts swirled. She didn’t think she would sleep at all tonight, despite feeling worn to the bone.
Until tonight, she’d believed that ending up in that house with Isabel had been an accident. Not that those who put them there were unaware of their actions, but that the selection of Isabel Amaral and Oriana Paredes as victims had been an accident. Hearing that her placement there might have been intentional—that hurt. That Isabel had been killed merely for being with her. For befriending her.
If true, it also implied that the saboteur was aware of Oriana’s identity. The killer hadn’t been, although he might have guessed by now how she’d escaped. Would the killer even know that something was missing from the artwork yet? How would he know that?
And Silva, that . . . bottom-feeder. She hadn’t believed for a moment that his rescue of her had been beneficent. But he clearly had ugly designs within designs. If that was what one used a seer’s gift for, it was a crime.
The Lady had said it very clearly, though. Silva was a seer, not a particularly strong one, but stronger than Mr. Ferreira. The moon was almost full, allowing Oriana to see Mr. Ferreira’s face. He was watching the pedestrians on the street. Not overtly, but she could tell from the way his eyes flicked from group to group, evaluating the danger each posed.
“I owe you an apology,” she told him.
He didn’t look her way, eyes still busy. “Why do you think that?”
“Because of what I said about seers being frauds.”
He laughed softly. “No offense taken, Miss Paredes.”
A carriage rattled by and she tensed, unable to quell the irrational fear that someone would jump out and grab her. It was foolish. She knew that.
Mr. Ferreira took her hand and laid it on his sleeve. “We will get home safely, Miss Paredes. That’s about all my gift’s good for, but it does tell me that.”
Her tension slipped away like water rolling past. She wouldn’t have believed those words if they’d come from Silva, seer or not. But she trusted Duilio Ferreira. They walked on for a moment in silence, and then she said, “So, you and Miss Carvalho are betrothed?”
“No, she and I are not betrothed,” he said firmly. “Her father suggested that it would be a good match, but I refused his proposition. I wonder how Silva learned about it.”
A good question. “She’s a nice girl, although she and Isabel didn’t associate much.”
It was prying, she knew. She didn’t have any business asking into his personal plans.
“Yes, Genoveva Carvalho is a perfectly nice young lady. When she was her young sister’s age or so, she fell head over heels in love with Alessio. He never led her on. He was always very clear with women that he had no intention to marry, ever. But he was friendly to her, and that was enough. I would hate to marry a woman for whom I’m the second choice.”
Like Pia, Oriana thought. Pia would have been Mr. Efisio’s second choice. Oriana wholeheartedly agreed with the girl’s decision to cut her ties with him. They stopped for a carriage to cross Clérigos Street, and then continued on. “Why did your brother not intend to marry?”
Mr. Ferreira let out a long breath, sounding almost vexed. “His scruples. He didn’t believe he could be faithful to a wife and refused to take vows he couldn’t uphold.”
“Is that what he and your father argued over so much?” Pressuring a young man to marry and produce a legitimate heir was common in aristocratic families.
“They argued over everything possible, Miss Paredes. They would argue over whether the color of an invitation card was ivory or bone,” he said with a sigh. “Alessio adored our mother, and it infuriated him that Father was unfaithful to her. Alessio took every opportunity to fling that in his face. Father actually threw him out of the house a few years ago. It took the theft of my mother’s pelt to get them to work together on anything.”
Oriana pressed her lips together. She had bickered endlessly with her own father. It didn’t mean she hadn’t adored him. But she’d always thought she knew better than he did, particularly where her younger sister was concerned. It had taken her years on her own to realize how often she’d been wrong as a girl.
She could see the front gate of the Ferreira house now, a reassuring sight, but in the moonlight the house looked Gothic, its dark stone haunted by the memories of angry quarrels and bitterness. “Your mother doesn’t mention that about your father—that he was unfaithful.”
“No,” he said, “her people expect males to be promiscuous. She found it more troublesome that he lied about it and treated women like they were . . . I don’t know . . . whores. Throw some money at them and his responsibility ends there. Just like his father before him.”
Oriana felt the corners of her lips lifting. He definitely wouldn’t have said that to Genoveva Carvalho. His irritated tone hinted that the lying must have irked him as well. And his grandfather’s actions had to be part of what made Silva such a twisted man. “Do you have any other siblings?” she asked cautiously. “Like Silva, I mean?”
He paused at the gate before his house. “There’s a reason I didn’t refute Silva’s claims about the nature of our relationship, Miss Paredes, despite the fact that I did so earlier when speaking to Rodrigo Pimental. Any scrap of information Silva picks up, he’ll twist into a weapon. He has, in the past, hinted that I have two bastard brothers. He says he kept a closer eye on our father than Mother did. I have no way to know if it’s true. But he used that to distract me, which was all he was after, I suspect.”
Somehow she didn’t think another member of the Ferreira family would be a bad thing. “Could it be true?”
“Of course it could,” he said with a sigh.
He swung the gate open, and Oriana saw that Cardenas already stood in the doorway, as if he’d been waiting for them. Oriana went up the flagstone walkway to the house. He stopped at the front door of the house, nodded in the direction of their distant escort, and then led her inside while Cardenas locked up behind them. They silently made their way up the stairs, but when she stopped at her own door, he paused, laying one hand on her arm.
Oriana turned back to look at him in the glow of the gaslight at the head of the hallway. She couldn’t read the expression on his features. He did look tired now, perhaps because he no longer needed to keep up the pretense. He opened his mouth to speak and then apparently thought better of it. She wanted to hear it, she realized, whatever it was he had to say. “Mr. Ferreira?”
He tugged off his gloves and brusquely said, “It isn’t your fault.”
She found herself staring at his patent shoes, surprised by his cross tone. “I . . .”
His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You survived,” he said, speaking more gently now. “That doesn’t make you complicit. You are not responsible for Isabel’s death.”
“If they wanted me,” she said, “then Isabel—”
“No,” he interrupted. “It doesn’t matter why she ended up there. Neither of you deserved to die. You were both victims that night. You can’t blame yourself.”
She could. If she’d never come to Northern Portugal, Isabel wouldn’t be dead. If she’d not taken a job in Isabel’s home, if she’d refused to go with Isabel to Paris, if she had chosen . . . well, there were a thousand other paths her life could have taken, most of which wouldn�
�t have tied Isabel Amaral’s fate to hers. Life would be easier if she knew all the ramifications of each choice before she made it, but it seemed she had to make each one blind. And apparently Mr. Ferreira’s gift hadn’t made his life proof against that, either. On the other hand, they had gotten back to the house safely, as he’d promised.
His fingers still cupped her chin, forcing him to stand close. She breathed in and caught that scent he had, the smell she’d mistaken for cologne before. How long had she been standing there silent? His warm eyes weren’t on hers any longer, fixed on her lips instead.
Footsteps on the stairwell made her jerk away, and Mr. Ferreira stepped back. Cardenas came up onto the landing only a second later, the keys to the house dangling in his hand. He nodded blandly and bid them both a good evening, no reproach in his expression. Oriana felt it anyway. “Good night, Cardenas,” she answered quickly. “And to you too, Mr. Ferreira.”
Mr. Ferreira tipped his head toward her. “Miss Paredes, try to get some sleep.”
Oriana slipped inside her bedroom without answering. Once she’d closed the door, she pressed her warm cheek against the wood. What had she been thinking?
She’d had to fend off enough attempts at seduction in the past two years. Duilio Ferreira had been considering kissing her. She was almost certain of that. Almost.
And she had been about to let him.
CHAPTER 22
FRIDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1902
Duilio liked to believe that he made his own destiny. He walked along Clérigos Street, heading toward Joaquim’s office in Massarelos, frustrated at the tangle his mind was in. He suspected that Inspector Gaspar was somewhere nearby. He had that feeling of being watched again, but his sense of it was benign, so he doubted it was the man who’d murdered Alessio, Donato Mata. He had his favorite revolver clipped to his waistband, though, just in case.
At the moment, though, his main worry was himself. When he’d first laid eyes on Oriana Paredes, he’d felt she would be a pivotal factor in his life. Otherwise he might not have done any more than glance at her that spring day on the banks of the Douro. Instead he had watched her, bribed servants to learn her name, and sought her out when Isabel Amaral disappeared. He’d brought her into his household because she was a witness who might have valuable information, but also because he simply wanted her safe.
He liked her. He enjoyed talking to her. She was . . . challenging.
Last night he’d nearly kissed her. He had stood there in the hallway, his fingers cradling her chin, and the desire to kiss her—no, in all honesty, the desire to bed her—had almost overwhelmed his good sense. Part of that was simply the stress of the previous few days. Sex would have been a release, more than just literally. But somewhere in his mind had been a wish to simply lie in his bed with her afterward and discuss the confusing evening they’d had.
He could ask her to become his mistress, but he’d meant what he’d said to Rodrigo Pimental. He would never demean her that way. Beyond the impropriety of such a notion, he simply liked her too much. And given their talk the previous morning, he suspected her response to such a proposition would involve her sharp teeth.
Her people had always had a tense relationship with the Portuguese, one balanced on the edge of a sword. The violent introduction by rape—no matter how Camões had interpreted the event, it wasn’t logical to believe that women who ran away were inviting courtship—had wrought terrible changes on their society. Several decades later, King Sebastião I had sent ships to help the sereia keep the Spanish from invading their islands. It had saved them from the slavery reportedly suffered by the sereia on the Canary Islands, but that hadn’t been enough to wipe away the stain. The current banishment of her people from the Golden City had likely spoiled any progress in relations made since then. Duilio could well understand the antipathy Miss Paredes showed toward his people.
But yesterday Duilio had held her long-fingered hand in his. Staring down at that delicate, veined webbing, he had thought of more than tracking down one more killer. He had wanted all of this over with, because he wanted to take up his own life again. He wanted to see what destiny he could make for himself. Holding her hand, he’d asked himself if Oriana Paredes might play a part in it.
Surely that was impossible. She would be gone soon, returned to her own life on the islands . . . or maybe to some new assignment spying in the city. Unlike most of the noblemen’s daughters and well-bred city girls he met at soirees and balls, Oriana Paredes—Is that even her name? Duilio wondered—had some purpose in her life other than waiting about for a man to claim her. He had no idea if her future plans included a man at all.
Yet standing in the dim hallway outside her bedroom, his fingers touching the softness of her throat, he’d believed she felt the same yearning he did. This morning he’d left the house before either she or his mother had risen, hoping to trade information with Joaquim before Joaquim’s side investigation was shut down. If he’d gotten the chance to talk to Miss Paredes, he might have a better idea of her expectations. Now he could only wonder. There was someone out there who might want to kill her, which would render everything else moot.
He’d spent too much time stewing over this. He was at the Massarelos station already, so he worked his way back to Joaquim’s office and installed himself in his regular chair, inordinately grumpy about everything.
“Silva showed up at the ball last night,” he said before Joaquim could even manage a greeting. “He was unusually forthcoming.”
Joaquim groaned. “Odd that you should start with that. You know better than to dwell on anything he says.”
Duilio stretched out his legs and kicked at the desk. He didn’t need Joaquim to remind him of that. “Fine. Did the Amaral servants have anything pertinent to tell you?”
“Did you enjoy nearly being burned to death?” Joaquim asked. “If I were picking, I would have started with that, Duilio. For God’s sake . . .”
“What?” Duilio snapped. “Did you come by and have dinner with Cardenas?”
“No, I stopped by and chatted with Gustavo Mendes this morning.” Joaquim peered at him narrowly. “Have you had breakfast? You’re normally only this cranky if you haven’t eaten.”
Duilio sighed. Cranky wasn’t the image he wished to portray. “No, I left before Mother and Miss Paredes woke, and I didn’t want Mrs. Cardoza to prepare breakfast twice.”
Joaquim shook his head, pushed a notebook over to Duilio, and rose. “Read. I’ll ask one of the officers to go get you some food.”
He suited actions to words, shutting the door behind him as he went off to procure food. Duilio picked up the notebook and found the marked page. Joaquim’s notes were tidy, with a conclusion at the end of each interview of the Amaral servants. He’d spent the most time with the first footman, Carlos, and the lady’s maid, Adela, shared by Lady Isabel and her mother. Then Joaquim’s notes took a sidestep, moving to interviews with a few of the workers at a tavern frequented by servants up and down the Street of Flowers, The White Rose. Both Carlos and Adela, when asked if anyone had been inquiring about the activities of the Amaral staff, mentioned a woman who’d approached them at the tavern, offering positions in a more lucrative household. When Joaquim returned to his office a few minutes later, Duilio snatched one of the egg-custard pastries his cousin offered and asked, “What led you to ask these two—Carlos and Adela, I mean—about this woman at the tavern?”
Joaquim left the remaining pair of pastries on the desk near the notebook and went back to his side. “Both of them volunteered that information. They wanted to talk. The maid was genuinely distressed over her mistress’ absence. She believed Miss Paredes’ story about the bandits grabbing Miss Amaral, and said the bandits must have taken the missing jewelry—that Miss Paredes was above such things. She tried to think of anything that might have been related to the girl’s disappearance, which took me to that point. Now, the footman is not grief
-stricken over Miss Amaral’s absence, but he seems to feel guilty over something regarding Miss Paredes and wanted to help clear her name. He might be responsible for the missing jewelry himself.”
Duilio scowled down at the notes. According to the tavern keeper, the woman who had spoken with both Adela and Carlos—named Maria Melo, a name so commonplace that it meant nothing—had been visiting the tavern for almost a year, befriending servants from various households along the Street of Flowers. When pressed, the tavern keeper said he suspected she was hiring them away to Espinho or some other nearby town, as many of them stopped frequenting his tavern afterward. Duilio had a different interpretation of that coincidence. “She’s been selecting the victims, hasn’t she? So, Carlos and Adela might have been the two members of the Amaral household originally targeted,” he told Joaquim. “But our killers changed their minds at the last moment and picked Lady Isabel instead.”
Joaquim sat back and propped his feet up on his desk. “I don’t think so. Both servants said Mrs. Melo first approached them about a month ago, and specifically asked about Miss Paredes. The maid had an impression that they were cousins, although this Mrs. Melo was much older than your Miss Paredes. Just checking up on a younger kinswoman, so to speak.”
Duilio finished off the second pastry. This much sugar was going to sit heavily in his stomach later, even if that revelation didn’t make his gut twist on its own. Miss Paredes felt guilty enough while only suspecting she’d been the target of the abduction. This confirmed that suspicion, and increased the likelihood that she was still being hunted.
“Gustavo told me you’d already asked him to keep an eye on Miss Paredes,” Joaquim continued, “so you must believe she’s not out of danger.”
Duilio sighed and launched into as concise a retelling of the previous evening’s revelations as he could manage, as well as outlining what he’d found at the apartment that had belonged to the artist Espinoza, and his first meeting with Inspector Gaspar afterward. “Miss Paredes might have some time this morning to start reading the journal,” he added, “since Mother was very tired last night, from what Felis tells me.”
The Golden City Page 23
