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—Duilio 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 s
niffled. “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.”
“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 selki
e 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 Golden City Page 19
