The Golden City (12 page)

It wouldn’t take her that long to unpack her few garments and press them. “May I walk about the house, Mr. . . . ?”

“Cardenas, miss,” the butler supplied. He waited for Oriana to retrieve her bag and hat from the table next to the doorway, and then led her along the main hallway toward an elegant
st
airwell that led up to the second floor. “The lower floor is all public save for the library,” he said. “Teresa will show you around this evening after supper. I assume you’d prefer a tray in your room tonight. . . .”

The butler went on, assuming various things about what she wanted. Since it was a butler’s job to be cognizant of the needs of the house’s inhabitants, she decided to follow his lead. She didn’t want to cause trouble and end up without a position again.

The main second-floor hallway
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retched on for some di
st
ance, with doors leading off to either side. Bedrooms, she guessed. The
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airwell up to the servants’ floor would likely be in the back. Mr. Cardenas surprised her by
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opping at the fir
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door on the left. He opened it and ge
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ured for her to enter ahead of him. “Miss Paredes.”

Gripping the handles of her bag, Oriana
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epped into the room.

It was far too grand a room for a servant, even an upper servant such as herself. The colors of the room sugge
st
ed a man’s ta
st
e, all dark browns with occasional hints of burgundy. A
st
ately bed occupied the far end, fine ivory drapes hanging from the po
st
s. A small seating area lay to the right of the door, a leather settee and a low table hinting that the owner would have time to recline and read there. Two doors led off to the right, a dressing room, she supposed. “Um,” she began, “surely there’s some mi
st
ake, Mr. Cardenas.”

“No, miss. Mr. Duilio said to put you in here.”

“Thank you, then, Cardenas,” Oriana said, attempting to settle properly into her role in the household. If she became too familiar, it would be difficult to retreat later, and she might end up facing another footman who thought he could take advantage of her. Better to
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art off on the right foot. “Also, if it’s not too much trouble, could one of the maids bring up a tray? I didn’t have a chance for luncheon.”

The butler inclined his head. “Of course, Miss Paredes. Do you prefer tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” she told him. “With cream.”

He bowed and left Oriana there,
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aring at the opulence around her. She licked her lips nervously. She didn’t under
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and the reasoning behind this elegant room and the courteous treatment she was receiving. Ensconcing her in this bedroom increased the likelihood that Mr. Ferreira intended a sedu
ct
ion. She couldn’t imagine any other reason he might place her in what mu
st
be a family room. But she wasn’t attra
ct
ive enough to inspire some grand passion in a man she barely knew.

Worry made her empty
st
omach roil.
Surely this can’t be his bedroom
. No, the butler would not have treated her with anything approaching respe
ct
if his ma
st
er’s designs had been so blatant. Even so, the room smelled masculine, with a hint of bay rum in the air. It wasn’t a room normally used by a lady.

Shaking herself, Oriana gathered her wits. She would need to find the toilet
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and shortly, so she’d better
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art exploring. She set her bag and hat on the settee and went to inve
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igate the entry nearer to the dressing area. It opened onto a small room that smelled
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ill and unused.

The dressing room held a large armoire and a che
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of drawers in a dark wood that matched the bed. When she opened the armoire, she found a quantity of clothing, clearly a man’s. For a fleeting second her worry that this was Mr. Ferreira’s bedroom returned, but the clothing hadn’t been touched recently. This was someone else’s room—abandoned.

Oriana backed out of the dressing room and ca
st
a quick glance at that second door. It didn’t lead to the dressing area after all, so it mu
st
adjoin some other room, possibly Lady Ferreira’s. At lea
st
she hoped so. Bracing herself, she went and tried the handle. The door opened outward, revealing a
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unning vi
st
a of white porcelain and polished brass.

She laid one hand over her gaping mouth. It was a bathing room. A
private
bathing room.

A skylight overhead illuminated the large
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tub Oriana had ever seen, easily large enough for her to lie down in—almo
st
six feet long. It had to have been cu
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om made for this house. The brass fittings, for hot and cold running water, gleamed as if they’d been polished that afternoon. A soft rug in pale beige covered the tile floor, and thick ivory towels waited in a set of shelves again
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the far wall, next to another door that mu
st
conceal a water closet.

Amazed, Oriana leaned down and ran her fingertips along the cool lip of the tub. A colle
ct
ion of brass boxes and delicate bottles clu
st
ered on one side of the vanity caught her eye. She suspe
ct
ed the fragrances would be masculine, property of the room’s previous occupant. Looking about her at this rare creation, she felt an ache that was almo
st
physical. Her skin sorely needed a long bath after a week without in the boarding house, and she couldn’t imagine a better place for it. This room was beyond magnificent. It was perfe
ct
.

A sharp rapping at the bedroom door penetrated her reverie. Oriana forced herself to leave the bathing area and found a pretty young maid entering the room, a coffee tray in her hands. Oriana went to take the tray from her, an automatic response.

“Oh no, miss. I’ll ju
st
put it on the
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and here.” The maid set the tray next to the leather settee, ran brisk fingers over her tidy apron, and curtsied. “I’m Teresa, Miss Paredes. I’ll be taking care of your rooms, and anything else you need.”

“There mu
st
be a mi
st
ake,” Oriana said. “These rooms are too grand for a companion.”

The girl smiled and shook her head. “No, miss. Mr. Ferreira said it would be easie
st
to keep you in this end of the house rather than opening up something at the end of the hall. And you’re next to the lady here. Makes it easier for us, you know.”

That sounded more like an excuse than a reason. “Who usually has this room?”

“It was Mr. Alessio’s room,” Teresa said, ca
st
ing a glance at Oriana’s bag, where it
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ill re
st
ed on the settee. “Before he passed, I mean.”

Ah, the mourning
. “When was that?”

“Year and a half ago, miss, about. I didn’t work here then. I
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arted after the father died.”

Oriana puzzled at those
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atements and decided the girl was definitely talking about two different people. Alessio wasn’t the father, then. Perhaps a brother. “The father?”

The girl chewed her lower lip. “Mr. Ferreira, I meant. He died not long after his son. About a year ago, I think.”

Lady Ferreira had lo
st
a husband
and
a son within the la
st
year and a half.
How awful
. Oriana decided to try a different tack with her que
st
ions. “Do you like working here, Teresa?”

“Oh yes, miss. Mr. Ferreira is a good ma
st
er. Everyone likes him, even Miss Felis, who’s known him since he was born.”

Oriana didn’t think this girl was faking her enthusiasm; Teresa didn’t seem the sort who could lie well. She felt her worries about the man’s intentions fading. “That’s good to know.”

“Do you need anything else, miss? I could press something if you like.”

Oriana had always had to press her own garments at the Amaral household. It seemed
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range to have a servant do such a chore for her. But since ironing was terribly uncomfortable for her hands, she opened her bag and located her black serge skirt, the blue ve
st
, and her remaining shirtwai
st
. She surrendered them to the maid. “I thought I would take a bath, so there’s no need to hurry.”

The girl grinned. “Very well, miss. I’ll ju
st
leave these on the hooks in the dressing room. Mr. Cardenas said I should show you around the house later this evening, after the supper service. Mrs. Cardoza usually does that, but she’s got her hands full with dinner tonight since two of the girls are visiting family out in Madalena. Mr. Cardenas hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

It would probably be easier to get information out of this open-faced girl than out of a housekeeper anyway, so Oriana didn’t argue what some others might consider a slight to her consequence. In
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ead she sent the girl on her way.

She
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ripped off her silk mitts and jacket and left them lying over the curled arm of the settee. Determined not to be wa
st
eful, she forced herself to sit down and eat a couple of the ta
st
y sandwiches the cook had provided for her, enough to take away the edge of her hunger. And then deciding that everything left on the tray would be acceptable cold, she returned to the bathing room to consider that lovely oversized tub.

H
umming with the sound of moving water, the pipes on the second floor told Duilio his mother’s new companion had drawn a bath, which served his purposes well. He had que
st
ions that needed answering, and catching her in her bath would give him the leverage he needed. She wouldn’t be able to deny who she was.

It might be improper, but it was expedient. He could apologize later.

But he had to smooth his butler’s injured consequence fir
st
. “This has nothing to do with you, Cardenas. I merely suspe
ct
she would prefer to hold both copies.”

Cardenas wasn’t happy about surrendering one of his precious keys. “And if I should need to get in there to inspe
ct
the maids’ work, sir?”

“It’s only for a short time, Cardenas,” Duilio said soothingly. “I’ll give it two weeks. If she’s comfortable with the arrangement by then, I’ll ask her to return the key to you.”

“As you wish, Mr. Ferreira.” Cardenas frowned as he worked the brass key off his ring.

Duilio couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t the loss of a key that bothered the man, but the implied loss of control. Cardenas didn’t want to give up the ability to check on the other servants in the household, particularly not after the incident with the footman who’d robbed them. Fortunately, the butler wasn’t the sort to abuse his power. Duilio slipped the key inside his coat pocket, where it clinked again
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the ma
st
er copy he already held. “Thank you, Cardenas.”

The perturbed butler took his leave and headed down the
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airs to the fir
st
floor.

Duilio chewed on his lower lip.
Am I a
ct
ually going to do this
? He took a deep breath and knocked on the bedroom door. When he got no response, he li
st
ened carefully and then let himself in.

It was Alessio’s old room—too masculine for a lady’s companion, perhaps, but there hadn’t been time to make changes. It had a private bath, as did none of the other empty rooms; if he was right about her, she would appreciate that.

Duilio
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rode across the rug and pressed one ear again
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the door to the bathing room, but didn’t hear any movement within. He unlocked the bathroom door, and, once inside, gazed down into the oversized porcelain tub.

Miss Paredes lay under the surface of the water, her eyes closed. The jangling of the keys mu
st
have been muffled by the water, because she apparently hadn’t heard him enter.

Duilio
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ared down at her, mesmerized. A flush of heat surged through his body. She was . . .
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unning.

He’d admired her figure before, but unclothed she was as spe
ct
acular as he’d imagined. Her brea
st
s with their mauve-tipped nipples were rounded but not overlarge. Her wai
st
didn’t owe its trimness to corsetry, and her hips flared down to nicely curved thighs. His hands pra
ct
ically itched to touch her. He’d never been attra
ct
ed to small, delicate females. Oriana Paredes was the sort of woman he preferred to bed—tall and
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rong and able to keep up with him in . . .

Oh, good Lord!
What was he thinking? She was
employed in his household
. He turned partially away from her, mentally clamping down on his desire.

He was grateful she seemed unaware of his presence, that she hadn’t opened her eyes to catch him gaping at her like a schoolboy in a whorehouse. He mu
st
be flushed all the way to his hairline. He peeked at her again out of the corner of one eye, firmly reminding himself he was purportedly a gentleman.

Her hair spread about her head, the reddish tinge transmuted to a burgundy glow. Her skin looked different in the water as well, the paleness of her face becoming an opal-like iridescence. Below her brea
st
s, her skin changed to a shimmering silver, a perfe
ct
imitation of scales running all the way down to her toes—the reason sailors claimed sereia had fish tails.

Her hands moved slowly through the water, no longer obscured by an old woman’s mitts. Translucent webbing showed between her fingers, pearly skin
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retching between them up to the la
st
knuckle, so thin he might be able to see through it in the light.

The expression on her face reminded him of paintings of the saints enraptured in the presence of God. She was singing to herself, the notes muted by the water. On each side of her neck, pink-edged gills vibrated with the sound.

But that song could entrap him if she raised her head above the surface. It was said men would throw themselves into the sea on hearing it. And while he wouldn’t mind
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aring at that silver-gilded body for the re
st
of the afternoon, the la
st
thing he needed was to be enslaved to her, so he discreetly tapped on the side of the tub with one booted foot.

Still underwater, her dark eyes opened wide.

Miss Paredes sat up in a rush, setting the water sloshing about. She scooted back again
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the side of the tub and pressed her hands over her neck to hide her gills. That forced her brea
st
s together, unfortunately obscuring his view of them at the same time. “I locked the door,” she said, her shaky voice betraying alarm. “How did you get in here?”

Duilio spotted a towel on the table near the vanity
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and and retrieved it. He was
not
going to blush. “I have the keys, of course.”

Selkies rarely showed any discomfiture over nudity. That French book he’d once read, if he recalled corre
ct
ly, sugge
st
ed the sereia shared that view. Her choice of covering her gills—rather than anything else—reinforced the notion. Even so, it would be ungentlemanly to
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are at her bared body, no matter how lovely. He held out the towel, resolutely reminding himself to keep his eyes on her face.

“What are you doing in here?” She rose from the water, giving him a glimpse of golden
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ippling along the outside of her thighs. He couldn’t see her dorsal
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ripe, supposedly one of a sereia’s be
st
features, from that angle. She snatched the towel from his hand and wrapped it about her body, keeping her back turned away from him the whole time. Then she fixed him with a hard gaze, raising her brows to prompt an answer to her que
st
ion.

Duilio leaned back again
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the vanity
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and and crossed one ankle over the other, trying to present a nonchalant facade. “I suspe
ct
ed you were a sereia,” he said in a mild tone. “I needed to be sure.”

“You could have asked,” she said with asperity.

Her teeth barely showed when she spoke. Even though they looked like a human’s teeth, he’d heard they were razor sharp. He had the feeling she was considering biting him, so he kept his di
st
ance. “You would have lied.”

She twi
st
ed her dripping hair into a knot with one webbed hand. The movement gave him a better view of a yellowish discoloration encircling her forearms and wri
st
s, faded bruises that might have come from being bound. “It is unacceptable to take advantage of someone in your employ, sir,” she said primly.

He felt his cheeks burn again, but tried to ignore it. “I haven’t taken advantage of you,” he said, “nor do I have any intention of doing so. But we need to talk, and we can speak privately here without being interrupted.”

“And I expe
ct
ed that I could bathe privately here, sir,” she snapped. “Without being interrupted.”

Duilio found himself admiring her nerve. It made him like her better. He doubted he would have maintained such composure if their positions were reversed. “If you’re caught here,” he began, “the prince will have you imprisoned or killed.”

“I am aware of that,” she said, sounding as if she thought him dense.

He inclined his head. It had been a wa
st
e of his breath to say it. “But in this household, you are quite safe.”

One brow rose. “Even from you?”

“As I said, I needed to be sure. This is not a habit.”

She tucked the towel more firmly about herself. “How did you know?”

“I’ve watched you for some time.” He smiled, feeling oddly pleased that he was finally getting to tell
someone
how he’d figured out her secret. “Your eyes are large, dark, as one would need to see in deep water. You always seem to hide your hands. I’ve never seen you wear gloves, always mitts.”

“I see.” Miss Paredes regarded him warily. “So, what do you want of me?”

“You were pulled out of the river on the night of the twenty-fifth. What happened?”

•   •   •

O
riana
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ared at Mr. Ferreira, taken aback.
How does he know about that night?

“Miss Paredes?” he prompted.

And how could she answer his que
st
ion? She couldn’t tell him the truth. . . .

Then again, she had nothing to lose, did she? He already knew she was a sereia. Could she tru
st
this man? He wore a different face now, not the one she’d seen the day before. He’d unnerved her at fir
st
, but ultimately she’d taken him for a fop, silly and desperate for approval, prattling on about a
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upid coat. The man
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anding in front of her had dire
ct
, intelligent eyes—sharp eyes that she suspe
ct
ed many in the upper levels of society wouldn’t appreciate if they realized his frivolous manner hid them.

He’d been hunting her all along, she realized. Mr. Ferreira had to be the one who’d been inquiring about her by name on the
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reets, the one Heriberto had mentioned. She sat down on the edge of the full tub and tucked her overlarge feet behind its clawed foot, debating internally. Then she lifted her eyes to meet his. “Isabel Amaral died there.”

He didn’t flinch.

“She and I left her home disguised as housemaids, but we were apprehended in the
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reet. I was drugged. When I awoke, I was tied to a chair, upside down, inside a tiny dark room. Isabel was across from me, bound the same.”

He looked neither surprised nor horrified. “And then it was dropped into the river.”

“Yes.” She gazed down at the bruises that discolored her arms. If she kept to the fa
ct
s, she could keep the pain at bay. “I heard chains rattling. Then we hit the water and
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arted sinking. The water kept coming in. I chewed at the ropes, but Isabel was dead before I could get free.”

His expression remained solemn.

She took a
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eadying breath. “You knew.”

He pressed his lips together,
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alling perhaps. “I
suspe
ct
ed
. Can you tell me what happened then?”

Oriana told him everything—about trying to save Isabel, about the glowing letters on the table, and the ta
st
e of death in the water once she’d escaped. Her description of the two men in the rowboat drew a scowl from him. She quickly li
st
ed what she’d learned since, including Carlos’ revelation that Mr. Efisio’s coachman had searched for them, her research taken from the newspapers, and the sketch she’d made of the table. She left out only her meeting with Nela, as she was unwilling to endanger another sereia. Mr. Ferreira li
st
ened solemnly, asking pointed que
st
ions in places, but he never que
st
ioned her veracity. “So, this might be necromancy of some sort,” she said, “although I don’t know what purpose it serves.”

“Magic is not my forte. I know whom I would ask if we were in Paris, but here . . . here the Church holds more sway, so no one pra
ct
ices openly.” He shrugged ruefully. “In any case, you’re the fir
st
vi
ct
im to escape, so what you know far outweighs what the police know.”

She sat up
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raighter. “Are the police inve
st
igating this? How long have they known?”

“It took them some time to see the pattern,” he said. “A couple of servants would disappear from a household on the Street of Flowers and, a day or two later, that corresponding replica would be found in the river. The police only figured it out a few weeks ago. Mo
st
of the missing servants were never reported to the police, and those who were reported were treated as missing. No one believed they might be dead until Lady Pereira de Santos
st
arted pressing the police to find her two missing housemaids. Since the houses aren’t being placed in the river in an obvious order, the relationship between the two fa
ct
ors was difficult to discern.”

Oriana covered her face with her hands. Servants came and went, generally unimportant to their ma
st
ers, but she recalled Lady Pereira de Santos herself coming to the Amaral house to speak to the butler. Even if Oriana hadn’t known the girls, it made her
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omach turn to think that they and so many others had died the way Isabel had. She drew another calming breath and laid her hands in her lap again. “Espinoza has taken someone from each household?”

Mr. Ferreira nodded ruefully. “All of the houses have confirmed the abrupt ‘departure’ of a pair of servants.”

And she and Isabel had been disguised as
housemaids.
Oriana laid one hand over her mouth, suddenly wondering if Isabel’s silly whim had gotten her killed. She was
not
going to cry. She turned her eyes to the floor so he wouldn’t see. “How many have died?”