The Golden City

quizzically as he regarded her. “Miss Paredes?”

She abruptly recalled the pins in her mouth and carefully removed them, keeping the webbing between her fingers hidden the entire time. “Mr. Ferreira.”

“Please don’t rise,” he told her. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Alterations, sir.” She calmly set the two pins into a small pillow that rested on the table and reset the needle in the fabric. “For the ball tonight. Is your shoulder better?”

“Is that one of my mother’s old gowns?” he asked, disregarding her query.

Did he think she’d misappropriated it? “Miss Felis assured me your mother wouldn’t mind my wearing one of her old gowns. In fact, Miss Felis insisted. She didn’t want me being a discredit to Lady Ferreira due to lack of proper garb.”

Mr. Ferreira sat down in the chair next to the sofa, saving her from craning her neck to look up at him. He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I doubt my mother would even notice, Miss Paredes,” he finally said. “But I recall your wearing several attractive gowns over the past few months. Why do you not . . . ?” When Oriana didn’t clarify, he said, “Ah. Lady Amaral didn’t allow you to take anything with you when you left. Did she?”

Oriana shook her head. “No, sir. Only the clothes I was wearing that night.”

“People continually surprise me with their pettiness,” he said. “Although in her case I shouldn’t be surprised. She is, unfortunately, the reason I stopped back by here.”

That sounded ominous. “Sir?”

“Lady Amaral has gone to the police with the claim that you stole some of Lady Isabel’s property when she threw you out. Jewelry was mentioned.”

Oriana couldn’t help her initial reaction—one of disbelief and rage—but she quickly schooled her features to neutrality. “That is not true, Mr. Ferreira.”

One of his dark brows rose. “It never occurred to me it might be, Miss Paredes.”

She could breathe more easily then. “Thank you, sir.”

“I wanted you to be aware of the charge,” he said. “That’s all. The police don’t credit the idea either. After all, Lady Isabel could have taken the missing pieces with her to Paris. However, if Lady Amaral learns you’re living here, she may demand that the police arrest you on suspicion of theft. She’s influential enough that they might comply without evidence.”

Oriana had learned enough about influence in society here that she knew he was right. She’d stood next to the coal room steps that chilly morning and decided not to take the second bag, the one that held whatever Isabel couldn’t cram into her traveling chest. No matter how pragmatic it would have been, she’d refused to become a thief. Yet Lady Amaral had cast that slur on her character anyway. “She had the butler escort me out, Mr. Ferreira. He would have seen anything I touched. Although I doubt he’d vouch for me to the police,” she added with unfortunate honesty. “He has his position to think of.”

“I expected as much.” Mr. Ferreira smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry, Miss Paredes. The police do know what sort of person they’re dealing with. She has a history of bringing charges against servants that generally prove to be no more than an excuse to let them go without pay.”

Oriana felt her brows draw together in annoyance. Lady Amaral hadn’t paid her when she’d cast her forth. “I see, sir.”

“Yes,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m sure you do. I’ve already talked to Cardenas and told him that if he hears anything about a theft, he’s to ignore it.”

* * *

Amaid came in then carrying a tray with a small pot of coffee and a pair of cups. Miss Paredes tucked her hands back into her mending, her vexed expression fading into polite placidity. Duilio rather liked the vexed Miss Paredes, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say so. “Thank you, Ana,” Duilio told the maid instead. “You may go, but leave the door half-ajar, please.”

The girl curtsied and swept her way out of the room, pulling the door almost all the way closed. He should go and open it wider to protect Miss Paredes’ reputation, but didn’t bother. He appreciated the privacy for now. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please,” Miss Paredes said after a brief hesitation.

He added cream to hers, having seen her do so that morning, and set the cup on the small table near her elbow.

“You’re not supposed to serve me,” Miss Paredes protested.

Duilio didn’t laugh at her wry tone. He broke societal rules regularly enough that this tiny slip in etiquette didn’t merit any twinge of insulted propriety on his part. “I don’t mind serving, Miss Paredes, particularly as your hands are occupied. Do you enjoy sewing?”

She regarded him warily, as if she feared a trap. “Yes. It’s calming.”

Well, now he’d learned something. Miss Paredes liked to sew; it wasn’t merely a part of her disguise. He smiled down into his coffee. “I believe there’s a sewing machine down in the workroom. Did you know that?”

“Yes, but once you’ve accidentally sewn through your webbing, you tend to stay away from machines. I prefer to work by hand.”

Duilio cringed. “I see. The next time you need a gown, it might be simpler to have one made up. I didn’t mean for you to spend your hours here mending.”

She pushed the rumpled blue mound on her lap into order and then picked up her own cup. “Mending is honest work, sir.”

He crossed his legs and peered at her lowered features. Their relationship wasn’t a normal one, caused by circumstances to vacillate between that of master and servant . . . and something else. But his remarks about the mending had caused her to revert to servant again, which irritated him. He wanted to talk to her, not just exchange pleasantries.

Duilio decided she had the same sort of pridefulness about money that afflicted Joaquim. She didn’t want anything given to her, perhaps because that often came with a price.

He’d hit on the simplest way to handle Lady Amaral before he’d even left Joaquim’s office: simply have Joaquim take a statement about the value of the missing articles, and Duilio would have his man of business pay the woman that sum. It wouldn’t pinch his pocket, and the funds might entice Lady Amaral to leave Miss Paredes alone. Duilio wasn’t going to mention the transaction to Miss Paredes; he didn’t want her scowling at him more than necessary. He fished about for another topic.

“I have often wondered about your people’s culture,” he said then, hoping to draw out the woman behind the mask of servility. “It’s a shame tourism isn’t allowed on your islands.”

“Given our history with your people, are you surprised?” she asked tartly.

His people’s relationship with hers had not gotten off on the right foot, a story recorded in Camoes’ epic poem. The islands had been discovered on one of Vasco da Gama’s voyages. The sailors, spotting the lovely “sea nymphs” bathing there, decided they were a gift from Venus . . . and took advantage. The poet chose to cast the incident in a heroic light. He wrote of the sereia running away into the woods, depicting their flight as an attempt to further entice the men—as if sailors long at sea required enticement at all. Duilio had always suspected that interpretation of those events; if a sereia wished to attract a man, she could call him, could she not? “That incident was some four hundred years ago, Miss Paredes. I would hope my people are a little more civilized by now.”

“And yet your Camoes is still heralded as a great poet. Did any of those sailors bring their so-called sereia brides back to Portugal? Did they attempt to right the wrong perpetrated against those women?” Her dark eyes turned toward the dress in her lap. She fiddled with the fabric, giving him an occasional glimpse of the webbing between her long fingers. “We have our own history of that incident—The Rape of Amado, it’s called.”

“I am not surprised,” he admitted. “What happened afterward is shrouded in mystery. What do your people say?”

“Amado became a prison of sorts,” she told him. “It had once been a game reserve, just for hunting, but along with the dozen or so human men who’d stayed behind, all the sereia who were caught up in that incident were sequestered there by their own people. They weren’t allowed to return to their home islands, as if they were contaminated. For long afterward, any humans who ended up on the islands, whether by shipwreck or capture—or