The Golden City

walk, the faint swing to her hips that he’d always considered enticing.

And then he spotted Gustavo lounging in one of the shop doorways, head down as Miss Paredes passed. Tomas must be somewhere nearby as well. He’d asked the two footmen to keep an eye on Miss Paredes. When he reached the spot where Gustavo waited, he nodded to the young footman and Gustavo headed back home. Duilio jogged to catch up with Miss Paredes’ quick steps.

“Miss,” he called when he got close enough.

She stopped and slowly turned, one hand clutching at the other wrist, preparing to draw her knife. She relaxed when she saw it was him. That damnable mantilla kept him from seeing her expression, but he was sure she was unnerved.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when he reached her.

“I could ask the same. Are you courting trouble?”

She frowned at him; this close, he could see that through the mantilla’s lace. He must have had a snap in his tone. Without answering, she turned and walked on toward the Street of Flowers.

Duilio caught up to her in a few strides; ladies’ shoes weren’t made for walking fast on cobbles. “I apologize. I’ve had a trying day and was concerned.”

“I thought a man was following me,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

She’d slowed, so he walked alongside her. She even laid her hand on his arm when he offered it. “It probably was Gustavo, actually. Or Tomas. I asked them to keep an eye on you if you left the house. They weren’t to interfere with you, only inform us if someone tried to grab you.” She didn’t protest that safeguard as he’d half expected she would, so he continued. “When I got off the tram near the Customs House, I saw you walking down the street. Sheer luck.”

The mantilla rippled over her face in the faint breeze. He would rather she remove it—he preferred to see her face—but it was better to keep her hidden out here on the street. Just because Mata was no longer a threat didn’t mean Miss Paredes was safe.

She walked on in silence for a moment. “I thought that if Maria Melo knew I’m a sereia, it had to have come from him. My master, I mean. So I went to talk to him.”

Duilio couldn’t fault her logic. “I see.”

“I wanted to know why he’d revealed my identity,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer. “Why he’d compromised me.”

“Did you accomplish your objective, then?”

“Yes.” Her dark eyes fixed on his face. “I didn’t like what I heard. I have never stepped out of line before, Mr. Ferreira, never truly defied my orders until Isabel’s death. I have not been perfect, but I have tried. I am . . . on uncertain ground now, and don’t know how far I dare go.”

Duilio had defied orders enough times to grasp what she meant. “Doing what one is told,” he said, “is far simpler than not doing so.”

She gave him a sad smile, visible through the veil. “So I’m learning.”

There were, at this time of day, far more pedestrians than last night. Even so, he thought they could speak safely without anyone overhearing anything important. He steered Miss Paredes out of the way of a group of tired- looking girls in maids’ garb, walking down the street.

“There’s a small cafe near the church,” he said, pointing discreetly. “I’m famished.”

She gazed at him through the veil, and he could almost make out her perplexed expression. “But it’s only a couple of hours until dinner.”

“Famished,” he insisted. He’d endured a jarring day thus far. He and Joaquim had been loaned to the Special Police, a rather dubious honor. He’d been shot at, although, admittedly, he’d set the stage for that himself. He’d faced the man who’d killed Alessio but learned nothing. His day had left him with too many questions. What he wanted to do now was just sit and talk.

Being honest with himself, he wanted to talk to her. He could stop and eat by himself. He was supposed to go over to Joaquim’s apartment later this evening and discuss the day’s developments with him. But right now he wanted to talk to Oriana Paredes.

So he led her up Sao Francisco Street to the cafe near the Church of Sao Francisco. He picked a table with a view of the church’s rose window, but far enough from any other patrons to allow them to talk freely. Miss Paredes finally lifted the damned veil when they were settled there, and he ordered a meal large enough to startle her, judging by her expression. She ordered creamed coffee.

“Did you not eat lunch while you were at the house?” she asked.

“Yes, but I seem to need more food,” he offered.

Her dark eyes regarded him appraisingly. “Is that inherited from your mother?”

“Yes,” he said, glad he didn’t have to explain further. “Alessio inherited it as well.”

“Ah. Your mother has a picture of you next to her bed,” Miss Paredes said then. “With both your brothers and your cousins. She said you were twelve then. I had only one sister, so I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in such a large family.”

He knew exactly the photograph she meant. His mother had it taken when his father was away so that he couldn’t argue with her inclusion of Erdano, Joaquim, and Cristiano. Over coffee Duilio told Miss Paredes the story of the taking of that photograph, including his mother’s epic struggle to keep a fifteen-year-old Erdano still long enough for the exposure to take. That led to a few stories about Alessio’s less-risque adventures, and then about Joaquim and Cristiano, neither of whom was risque at all. Miss Paredes imparted vexingly little about her own family. The topic seemed to pain her. She said only that she’d lost her sister and mother, and apparently her father had been exiled to parts unknown, so he let the topic drop.

Once the waiter brought the food, he managed to coax Miss Paredes into taking his croissant. She picked it apart with her fingertips while he finished his soup and fish. As she still wasn’t ready to talk about her discussion with her master, he told her instead about his trip to Matosinhos and his conversation with Father Barros.

“Maraval?” Her brow knit at his mention of the Minister of Culture. “He gave me his card. He asked me to come by his office if I had any idea where Isabel was. He’s a friend of her father’s and has been looking for her. To quell rumors about her, I mean. He said he’s been keeping her name out of the papers.”

Duilio tried to recall if he’d seen any recent mention of Isabel’s elopement in the newspapers. “He must be. I haven’t read a word about her since the first notice.”

Miss Paredes nodded pensively. When she didn’t speak, he went on to tell her about his misadventure at the construction yard, meeting Inspector Anjos, and the death of Donato Mata.

She seemed to be worried for him then. Her slender brows drew together, her large eyes shadowed. “Your day was busier than mine.”

Duilio laughed. He couldn’t help it. He rubbed one hand over his face and laughed again. “My apologies, Miss Paredes. You either have a gift for understatement or sarcasm. I’m not certain which.”

Her expression remained bland. “I have many talents, sir.”

Which just set him off laughing again. Duilio wiped his eyes with a finger, hoping he hadn’t attracted unwanted attention with his amusement. “Forgive me,” he managed. “I’m not mocking you.”

Her face was all seriousness, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “You wouldn’t dare, sir.”

This was why he’d wanted to talk to her, he realized. He’d known there was a hot temper buried under all that self-control. Now he’d discovered a sense of humor as well. How had she held her tongue all those months among Isabel’s society friends? Duilio strove for an equally serious expression. “Yes, it was a busy day.”

And then she smiled, her dark eyes turning toward the white tablecloth. Her hands curled around her cup of coffee, only the tips of her long fingers peeking out of the silk mitts with which she hid them.

Duilio suddenly decided she was lovelier by far than Isabel Amaral or Aga . . . or Genoveva Carvalho. Her full lips were surprisingly enticing, even when he knew there were sharp teeth behind them. Although she normally wore her hair down in the English style, she’d looked quite striking on the night of the ball with her hair pulled up to show off her delicate features and large, dark eyes. He would like to see her wearing something less stern.

It wasn’t just that he would like to bed her. He would. He hadn’t for a moment forgotten the vision of her in her bath. But he’d had lovers in the past and would never have dreamed of telling any of them of Mata’s attempt to