Oriana suspected was more for decoration than for supporting himself. When the carriage rolled up to the side of the house, he helped his mother up first, and then Oriana. It wasn’t even a mile up the Street of Flowers to the Carvalho house, but Oriana didn’t fancy walking that distance, so she settled next to the lady and clutched her small handbag close.
In the flickering light of the little lanterns inside the carriage, Lady Ferreira looked stunning in a dress of dark brown that bared much of her shoulders and throat. Although brown, the black trim should allow it to pass as half mourning. It shouldn’t shock the aristocratic matrons overmuch. A jet parure completed the lady’s costume, and Felis had done an excellent job with the lady’s hair, pinning it up in a fashion that made her look youthful yet not daring. Some might interpret her dress and her appearance in society as a sign she’d decided to leave mourning behind, but Lady Ferreira’s persistently grief-stricken demeanor would surely convince everyone otherwise.
Mr. Ferreira joined them in the carriage. Once he’d settled in his seat, he drew a silver case out of an inside pocket—a cigarette case. It had to be an affectation on his part. She’d never once caught a whiff of smoke on him—except for today. He took out a cigarette and then offered the case to Oriana, one brow raised. She shook her head. Isabel might have taught her to drink coffee and brandy, but she drew the line at smoking. Her gills would never forgive her. “You’re not actually going to smoke that, are you?” she asked.
“I don’t allow it,” his mother said softly.
Duilio returned the silver case to his pocket. “Marcellin already complains enough about the scent of others’ smoke in my garments. I don’t want to displease
The lady sighed. “Yes. Only I don’t wish to stay too long, Duilinho. I’ve forgotten how to endure late nights.”
“Of course, Mother. A couple of the footmen will meet us at the Carvalho house. They’ll be able to escort you home should you grow tired.” He tapped on the wall of the carriage with his cane, and the vehicle lurched into motion. “Miss Paredes,” he said in a cheerful tone, “your hair is lovely in that style. You must wear it like that more often. Off your neck, I mean.”
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.
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 Luis 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
