The Golden City

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 selkie 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 musicians were in the middle of a set, so Duilio edged his way around the ballroom toward his mother’s side. He needed to get her out of here before the man came and bothered her. He wasn’t afraid for his mother, but that would not end well for Silva.

* * *

Oriana sat to one side of Lady Ferreira as the young folk danced to the reedy music of the quartet. The swirl of color of the young women’s gowns, the aromas of cigarette smoke and heady perfumes, the hushed patter of the gossip flowing around them all faded into the background. The waiting was proving irksome. She wanted to be doing something.

She’d caught sight of Mr. Ferreira as he stood near one of the curtained doors that led onto the balcony. He’d been talking to an urbane gentleman whose expression appeared to alternate between embarrassment and avarice—Mr. Pimental, who had married the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Davila. After a time that man slipped away, leaving Mr. Ferreira momentarily alone. But now he moved, edging around the dancers and toward the matrons. When he reached their side of the dance floor, he nodded to the matrons and pressed a kiss to his mother’s gloved hand. Lady Ferreira smiled vaguely up at her son.

“Mother, would you like to take a walk on the veranda?” he asked, catching Oriana’s eye as he did so.

“Of course, Duilinho,” his mother said, rising gracefully.

Oriana rose with her, but Mr. Ferreira caught her hand. He leaned closer, the musky scent of his skin touching her nose. “Silva’s here,” he whispered. “I’ll send my mother home with the carriage and be back in a few minutes. Just tell everyone you’re waiting for her to come back. Will you be able to handle him if he accosts you?”

His eyes met hers, worried, but she shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she told him.

“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.” He escorted his mother away.

Oriana settled into her chair again. She didn’t know if Silva was guilty of what Lady Ferreira believed, but her own past interaction with him made her amply wary. She was not going to let him get the better of her.

CHAPTER 19

The dancing went on, one set ending and another beginning, while Oriana sat among the gossiping matrons and pretended to wait for Lady Ferreira’s return. She watched the swirl of color and wondered how many of Isabel’s friends had seen her but chosen not to speak to her. How many mistakenly believed Isabel was still alive?

Where was Silva? Oriana glanced about markedly as if anxious for her mistress to return, and finally caught sight of him. He stood at the far side of the ballroom, bowing over a young woman’s hand. The pretty girl seemed flustered by his attentions. Silva tucked the young woman’s gloved hand into the crook of his arm and led her at a slow walk about the edge of the ballroom floor. It would take them around to this side of the room. Oriana mentally readied herself for the moment the man noticed her. He had said they would meet again, hadn’t he?

She could see a resemblance to Duilio Ferreira now that she knew to look. Not as tall as his nephew, Silva had run to stockiness with age. He dressed wisely, though, in well-tailored garments that concealed his thickening waist.

No sooner had he come within hearing distance of the gaggle of matrons about her than old Lady Beja swatted at his legs with her cane. “Let go of that young girl, you old miscreant,” she snapped. “Come sit with someone more your age, who can appreciate you properly. I’ll have Torres escort Miss Offley back to her mother.”

Silva complied with every appearance of graciousness. The old lady’s companion, a black-clad woman nearly as ancient as the lady herself, jumped up spryly, grabbed the girl’s arm, and hauled her toward the far side of the ballroom. The girl cast a confused glance back at Silva but apparently never thought to protest. Oriana was glad to know someone else found Silva’s pursuit of very young women inappropriate. Isabel certainly had.

“Now,” the lady continued, “you’ve been absent from our company too often recently. What have you been doing?”