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 co
usin 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.”
“You gave it to her to read?”
“She has time to do so,” Duilio pointed out.
“And I don’t?” Joaquim shook his head and pointed to the pastry still on his desk. “Eat that last one before I give in to temptation. You must trust your Miss Paredes a great deal.”
Duilio picked up the last tart. How could he respond to that? His instincts told him to trust her. And he wanted to trust her. Neither was actual proof that she was trustworthy.
“Are you bedding her?” Joaquim asked when he didn’t respond immediately.
“Excuse me?” Duilio found it hard to believe that Joaquim had asked such a thing. He expected that sort of question from Erdano. Erdano didn’t often think of females in terms other than bedding them. But Joaquim? “She’s Mother’s companion, for heaven’s sake, Joaquim.”
Joaquim shrugged. “Just asking. Gustavo thinks you’re sweet on her, to use his phrase.”
This would be a good moment to say something snide about Gustavo’s deductive abilities, but Duilio didn’t want to defame him unfairly. “She needs protection,” Duilio said. “That doesn’t extend to her bed.”
Is she even sleeping in that bed? He hadn’t heard any more scandalized whispers from his valet, so, if not, Miss Paredes must be dutifully rumpling her covers.
Joaquim nodded slowly. “I see.”
Now he’d protested too much over the matter. Duilio sighed and took a bite of the last pastry.
“I prepared a list of the missing items,” Joaquim added, “and I sent it over to your man of business so he can negotiate with Lady Amaral about compensation. . . .” A brisk knock at the office door prompted Joaquim to go open it.
“Are you going to let us in?” a now-familiar voice asked.
Duilio craned his neck about to see Inspector Gaspar standing in the doorway, Captain Santiago behind him. He stuffed the remainder of the pastry into his mouth and swallowed it with unseemly haste as he rose, brushing some pastry flakes off his frock coat as he did so. “Captain Santiago,” Joaquim said, stepping back to allow the newcomers in. “What can I do for you?”
The two newcomers came inside, making it crowded once Gaspar shut the door.
“You’re being reassigned, Inspector Tavares,” the captain said. “I’ve received an official request for use of your services by the Special Police, signed by Commissioner Burgos himself. “That includes you too, Mr. Ferreira. I do understand this is temporary, though,” he added with a glance at the silent Gaspar, who nodded once. “Good, then. Carry on.”
And with that said, Captain Santiago let himself out of the office and shut the door.
Gaspar regarded Joaquim with that piercing gaze of his, then turned back to Duilio. “Well, gentlemen, where do we begin?”
* * *
Oriana woke far later than she’d expected. She quickly dressed and made her way down to the kitchens, only to discover that the staff had been given orders to allow her to sleep as late as she wished. Lady Ferreira was still abed, she was told, and Felis thought the lady wouldn’t rise for hours yet.
After asking Cardenas to inform her when the lady needed her, Oriana made her way back up to her bedroom and stared at the rumpled covers of her bed. She’d actually slept in the bed the previous night, since her skin seemed recovered enough that she no longer needed to sleep in the tub. The temptation to crawl back under those sheets and stay there a while longer was strong, but she turned her back on the silk-draped bed and went into the dressing room instead.
The journal Mr. Ferreira had given her had dried overnight. Many of the pages were stuck together and a great deal of the ink had smeared, but most of it was legible. She located a letter opener in a desk drawer and settled on the leather settee near her bedroom door. She flipped through several pages, using the letter opener to pry apart pages that were stuck together. In the interest of thoroughness, she decided to start at the beginning.
After describing his original idea for the artwork—apparently provoked by a conversation he’d had, although he didn’t specify with whom—Espinoza recorded his research. He listed his reasons for choosing that very spot in the river to locate his masterpiece: an easy depth and calmer tides, since it was on the Gaia side of the river, protected by the breakwater and out of the regular path of commercial shipping. He talked about taking measurements for the lengths of chain, calculating the approximate weight and buoyancy of the planned wooden houses, and then drawing the sketches of the houses he intended to replicate. Oriana hadn’t given much thought to the technical aspects of building such a creation before, but she was beginning to understand the vastness of such an undertaking, even without its murderous aspects.
It wasn’t long before she discovered that the charms on the tops of the houses weren’t responsible for their buoyancy after filling. Espinoza hadn’t trusted in the efficacy of the buoyancy charms, and had built the houses out of cork over a lightweight frame. The wooden exteriors were merely facades. Hadn’t she tasted cork when she was inside the house? She was certain she remembered that correctly. That helped explain why she’d been able to so easily pry open the corner of the house.
At the beginning of the journal, there’d been no actual purchasing, building, or sinking. Then she hit u
pon the word that changed everything from planning to actualization: patron. The artist had found a patron whose funding had allowed him to rent an apartment and the vacant floor below to use as a shop. Only after that had he started building the first house.
The journal didn’t tell her the patron’s identity. The artist never used anyone’s name in his writings, not even his own, guarding them as if they were state secrets. But as she continued to read, she began to spot hints that the patron was of the aristocracy.
And Espinoza didn’t mention his victims at all. There was nothing about the chairs or the table, nor could she find anything about the kidnapping of the victims. It was as if Espinoza hadn’t added that aspect until later. Or perhaps someone else added it. His mysterious patron might have made that change.
Oriana caught her lower lip between her teeth. The Lady had indicated that the Open Hand had members in the Special Police. Could the prince himself be directing them? After all, the mandate of the Special Police was to carry out the orders of the prince. They were known for hunting nonhumans and Sympathizers, but that didn’t mean that was all they did.
Hadn’t they been guarding the artwork? It was under the guise of patrolling the mouth of the river, but they still kept boats away, save for the scheduled visits by the submersible captains. The orders for the regular police to shut down the investigation of the artwork could have come from someone in the Special Police. And the newspapers hadn’t questioned the artwork’s presence at all, citing the guidelines that came down from the Ministry of Culture. But that body also answered directly to the prince.
What would happen if they could prove the prince himself was behind the deaths? Would that force him to abdicate, perhaps, if it became public? Would his younger brother, the infante, assume the throne and possibly overturn the ban? The journal in her hands took on new significance. She stroked the water-damaged cover with a fresh respect.
Then again, those with power and money had a tendency to stay in power, the worst of their sins swept under the rug. That was as true here in Portugal as it was back on the islands.
The Golden City Page 23
