Текст книги "The Golden City"
Автор книги: Kathleen Cheney
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER 25
Duilio walked along the quay, mulling over the death of Donato Mata. His gift lay quiet now, not a hint of concern for his safe journey back to the house, although it would be foolish to rely overmuch on that.
When he reached the road that wound behind the Customs House, he noticed a woman walking briskly some distance ahead of him. Miss Paredes.It wasn’t her plain black dress that identified her, or even the mantilla that covered her head, an unusual choice for a Friday afternoon. He’d recognized her 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 courtingtrouble?”
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 café 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 São Francisco Street to the café near the Church of São 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-risqué adventures, and then about Joaquim and Cristiano, neither of whom was risqué 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.”
Thiswas 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 thenshe 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 kill him. Most gentlewomen would be shocked and appalled. Oriana Paredes had jokedabout it.
Shocked and appalledwould sum up Joaquim’s reaction should Duilio confess he was considering Miss Paredes as a potential . . . What washe considering her as? He’d already dismissed the idea of asking her to be his mistress. There was very little left beyond that: lover or wife. Friend? Did women on the islands from which she came have male friends? It wasn’t usually done in Portuguese society, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with that anyway.
Duilio pressed his lips together. Joaquim would protest that Miss Paredes wasn’t a child of the Church. That didn’t matter to Duilio; he lacked Joaquim’s piety. And while Joaquim wouldn’t care that Miss Paredes wasn’t human, he would find it worrisome that she was a spy. That was probably why he hadn’t introduced her to Joaquim yet. Joaquim would immediately pick up on his interest in Miss Paredes, and Duilio didn’t need to be arguing with him. They had other things to worry about.
“Mr. Ferreira? Are you listening?” Miss Paredes lowered the lace veil over her face.
That made him want to snatch the thing off again. “I apologize, Miss Paredes. My mind was wandering.”
She leaned over the table toward him, and something about her posture told him she was spooked. “I think we should go, Mr. Ferreira. We’re being watched.”
Stupid of him to forget that. “Where?”
“There’s a woman over at the church, watching us.”
He wasn’t facing the proper direction to see that. “Do you recognize her?”
“I saw her the last time I was here,” she said. “She was watching me then. I don’t believe it was a coincidence.”
He left more than enough money to cover their fare and, offering Miss Paredes his arm, led her away from the café in the direction opposite the church, back down toward the quay. She occasionally cast glances back over her shoulder. “Is she following?” he asked when they walked around the corner onto the Street of Flowers.
“Not that I can see,” she said softly.
They crossed to the other side of the street, where the tram was beginning its trek up the steep hill. When it halted he drew her over and they both got on, which would spare her the climb. When they got near the house, she jumped down ahead of him. Once on the street, he offered her his arm again, but decided to go all the way up to the Gouveia house, then around to the alley and back down to his own. If someone was following them, it would provide a smokescreen, although not much of one.
Apparently Miss Paredes understood the ruse, as she didn’t argue when he passed the house. She kept walking at his side, her heels clicking on the cobbles. Most of the pedestrians were headed downhill, since it was the end of the workday, so they walked against the traffic. He leaned closer to shield her from a large group of schoolboys approaching them. “What does she look like?”
“Average,” she said, her voice barely audible above the boys’ chatter. “Brown hair. Brown eyes. I don’t know. Intense?”
They’d reached the Gouveia house. Duilio indicated that she should walk around to the side. “That’s very vague, Miss Paredes.”
Her head tilted in his direction. He could see her dry look even through the lace veil.
“I wondered if she might be this Maria Melo,” he said.
“I did too,” she said in return. Softly, as if it were a secret.
“Would this be related to your . . . master? Does she work for him?”
They had reached the back alleyway that housed the mews for the Street of Flowers, and she turned to go down that direction. He steered her around a pothole forming in the narrow cobbled road. “I don’t know if it’s her,” she finally said. “But . . .”
They passed the back of the Queirós house in silence and neared his own. Gustavo stood on the back steps, sharing a cigarette with Ana. The footman glanced up when they walked closer, stubbed out his cigarette, and started toward them, but Duilio waved the young man away. Gustavo took the hint and went inside, urging the housemaid along with him.
“I wish I could help in some way,” Duilio said.
Miss Paredes reached up and worked the mantilla’s comb out of her hair. “I don’t know whom I can trust any longer.”
Duilio led her up the back steps and paused to turn up the gaslight there. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it was already growing gloomy in the shadow of the house. He stood on the step, wrapped in the fading scent of cigarette smoke. “If there’s anything you need of me, Miss Paredes, you need only ask.”
Considering that she was a spy, the offer could be considered treasonous, but Duilio didn’t care. He’d been walking that line for days now.
She sighed softly. For a moment he could have sworn she wanted to tell him something, but then she shook her head. “I need more time to figure this all out. I’ll try to finish reading that journal this evening after your mother goes to sleep, sir. Given the way he writes, I don’t expect we’re going to learn more. But I’ll try.”
She wasn’t going to open up to him—not tonight at least. He opened the door for her. “I promised I would go see Joaquim,” Duilio said, “but perhaps we can discuss your findings tomorrow after breakfast?”
She nodded and headed upstairs to freshen up before dinner, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Duilio sighed. He needed to decide what he wanted of her. While the Open Hand threatened her life—and the lives of so many others—he didn’t think it fair to press her. He just needed to remember to keep his hands off her.
CHAPTER 26
Fortunately, Anjos had given Inspector Gaspar the address of Joaquim’s apartment in Massarelos. The Cabo Verdean man arrived there not long after Duilio and quickly eased their worries for the Lady’s safety. Joaquim poured a glass of Vinho Verdefor Gaspar, who settled in the leather chair near the window. It was the first time Duilio had seen the man sit down.
“She’s not a fool,” Gaspar said. “She didn’t tell Maraval anything about our group or your association with us. And Maraval informed her himself about being linked with the floating houses. That bears out Espinoza’s statement, as per your priest, that Maraval has been overseeing the installation.”
Joaquim leaned against the apartment door. “But he’s not the one behind the deaths?”
“I can’t say that. I didn’t get a look at him myself,” Gaspar said. “And I would only have been able to tell if he’s been practicing witchcraft himself. This entire thing stinks to me of an effort to keep someone’s hands free of actual killing.”
Duilio sat down across from Gaspar in his regular chair. “But she doesn’t think he’s behind it? Does she even have a name?”
Gaspar’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No.”
Duilio had a feeling Gaspar could talk circles around him. He didn’t think the inspector was more than five or six years older than him, but when he looked in Gaspar’s eyes, the man seemed ancient. As if he’d seen everything in the world twice. “No, she doesn’t think he’s involved?” Duilio asked. “Or no, she doesn’t have a name?”
Gaspar picked up his glass. “She does have a name but it’s not recorded anywhere. No record of her birth, and as far as I know only one man alive knows that name. No, she doesn’t believe Maraval could be involved. He’s an old family friend, her godfather, although not officially, of course. The Church has no record of her birth or baptism.” He took a sip of wine. “Speaking of which, what is your history with Silva?”
“He’s my father’s bastard brother,” Duilio admitted with a shrug.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a bastard,” Gaspar pointed out.
“I agree,” Duilio said. Joaquim had been born only six months after his parents’ marriage; some might question his legitimacy as well, so Duilio chose his words carefully. “If Silva and my father had grown up as equals, Silva might have made a charming uncle. But my grandfather cast him out when his mother died, and Silva never forgave him. He made an enemy of my father, he baited Alessio endlessly, and he’s spent the past year taunting me.”
Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Could he be involved in this floating-house business? Maraval dropped Silva’s name at one point and then quickly took it back.”
Duilio closed his eyes. Silva had the access. It was unclear how much money the man had, but with the Ministry of Culture doing the funding, that made the high cost of the installation less of a factor in who might be pulling the strings. And there had been that business with Mata getting notes similar to the one that had made Augustus Smithson back off the hunt for his mother’s pelt. Duilio felt certain that linked the two cases, even if Anjos had reason to think Silva didn’t have the pelt. Silva was on close terms with the prince, wasn’t he? His pet seer? Silva would surely rise in influence if the prince became a king. “It’s possible,” Duilio finally said.
Joaquim shook his head. “I don’t agree.”
“I don’t think it’s likely,” Duilio qualified. “If he was involved, he would have never let Miss Paredes go when he had her in his grasp. Nor would he have mentioned the Open Hand to me or told me about the prophecy. He knows I work with the police. Do you think Maraval was trying to deflect attention?”
Gaspar tilted his head to one side. “One reason that Anjos and I—and Miss Vladimirova—were brought in from outside the country was that we have no family ties here, no loyalties that might prompt us to false assumptions. So I’m inclined to reserve judgment on Silva and Maraval both.”
Duilio had to admit the man was correct. He disliked Silva for their shared past history. Then again, until recently he’d believed Espinoza complicit in the deaths of dozens, which now seemed wrong. There was a benefit to keeping an open mind. “I’ll try to do likewise.”
The inspector drank the last of his Vinho Verdeand rose. Evidently he’d said all he’d come to tell them. “Good.”
“Anjos claimed that if Maraval hurt the Lady,” Joaquim said, “you would kill him.”
Gaspar chuckled. “Anjos underestimates me. I wouldn’t do anything so obvious. Nor would it be that fast.”
After bidding both of them a good night, he let himself out. Joaquim took over the chair the inspector had abandoned, looking intent. “They are an odd bunch. Do you think they work for the infante?”
“That’s my best guess,” Duilio said with a shrug, “although if it’s true, then it’s borderline treason, putting the infante ahead of the prince.”
“But the infante is under house arrest up at the palace,” Joaquim pointed out. “How could he possibly be pulling their strings? Anjos came all the way from Brazil, and Gaspar from Cabo Verde.”
Duilio had been considering that. “I suspect there are ways of working around the infante’s house arrest. There must be someone who can get in to see him, someone who knows his views and is willing to act on his orders. The Lady seems able to slip about unnoticed. She might be able to get in to speak with him undetected. And I’d bet there are plenty of wealthy men in this city who’d be willing to bankroll their future prince’s whims.”
“Meaning that they expect Prince Fabricio to die,” Joaquim said. “Soon enough for their efforts to pay off.”
It was a cynical thing for Joaquim to say, but Duilio wasn’t surprised by his conclusion. “Yes.”
“And do we believe Anjos and his crew?” Joaquim asked, pouring another glass of wine for him. “That they’re who they say they are?”
Duilio picked up the glass, thinking he should make this one his last. “Do you see an alternative? The Lady clearly has more influence than we do. If nothing else, they might be able to get one of the houses pulled up, perhaps even get a newspaper to dare to write about it.”
“Not a very ambitious plan,” Joaquim said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“It’s more than we had a week ago,” Duilio pointed out.
Joaquim sighed and set his glass on the table. “And now we’re assigned to the Special Police. That’s a distinction I never wanted to have.”
“I know.” Duilio rubbed a weary hand over his face. “I don’t know that we’ve gotten anywhere for that price.”
“Well,” Joaquim said, “Mata died on the way to the police station, so Alessio’s killer is dead. The officers watching the tavern say Maria Melo hasn’t reappeared there, so the Open Hand either knows that we’re watching the place or they’ve figured out about the sabotage and gotten rid of her.”
“That’s probably the reason for two weeks between the houses appearing in the water,” Duilio said. “It takes her time to set up the next pair of victims and arrange for their ‘departure’ to their new employment.”
Joaquim nodded. “That occurred to me.”
Duilio shook his head. “I wantto believe Silva’s behind this, but it just doesn’t fit.”
“I know,” Joaquim said. “It’s getting late. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
Oriana turned over, pushing the heavy coverlet aside. The large bed, no matter how comfortable, couldn’t entice her to sleep. Her mind kept replaying Heriberto’s warning.
The Open Hand was, according to Mr. Ferreira’s source, trying to make the prince into the king of Portugal. Oriana wasn’t sure that made sense. Prince Dinis II of SouthernPortugal certainly wouldn’t agree to such a plan. After all, the two Portugals had been separate for well over a century, closer to two. Reuniting them would disrupt the politics of both countries.
And Maria Melo was trying to stop whatever the Open Hand was doing. That almostmade sense. One of the things that had kept Portugal from asserting any claim over the islands her people called home was that the two Portugals didn’t have the resources to manage warfare on a large scale individually. They’d relinquished most of their interests overseas, turned their colonies over to local governments, and kept only a small military presence in each one. A reunited Portugal might expand to exert influence on the international stage again. And while the Portuguese royalty didn’t know the location of the islands her people called home, the Portuguese Church did. They might be persuaded to give up that information should a king rise and pressure them.
But would that possibility be enough for her people’s government to opt for assassination? In Oriana’s mind, it didn’t quite fit. Her people had a long history of avoidance, not confrontation. Even their navy did so, using their magic to judiciously guide ships aroundthe island chain without those ships realizing they’d been redirected. Why suddenly choose a violent option for Portugal?
Oriana shoved the coverlet down and got out of the bed. She wasn’t going to sleep. Not now. The moon had risen, allowing her to see the minimal traffic on the Street of Flowers. Two inebriated young men walked toward the river, but otherwise the street was empty. She let the curtain fall.
She didn’t know what time it was, but since she was awake, she might as well try to finish off that journal. It was exceptionally dry. She would rather be reading one of those overblown novels Isabel had favored. That tongue-in-cheek thought made her smile; some of those novels had been awful. But it was the first time she’d thought of Isabel without pain since that night.
Oriana went into the dressing room and took down the dressing gown she’d been using for the past few days. A rich burgundy velvet lined in a paisley-patterned satin, it had to have belonged to Alessio. The hem brushed the ground, but she didn’t own anything comparable and didn’t think Alessio Ferreira would mind. So she drew it on over her nightdress and settled on the leather settee near the bedroom door. She lit the lamp and picked up the journal. With about thirty pages to go, she might be able to finish it before it put her to sleep again.
She picked up the letter opener and began searching through the last pages, gently separating the ones stuck together when Mr. Ferreira was doused. The outsides of the journal were the most affected, and the last ten pages had to be carefully eased apart. She was surprised to note that a few were blank, as if Espinoza had been forced to abandon the journal before he finished it out. Given what Mr. Ferreira had said about the artist fighting with someone in his flat, that seemed possible.
She slid the letter opener between the last two pages and slowly jiggled it to pry the pages apart, and stopped. She grabbed up the journal in both hands and forced it open, the paper crackling ominously but not tearing. On one leaf there was a diagram of three circles, the outer comprised of Roman letters, the middle containing what must be a series of runes, and the inner circle holding a group of lines that meant nothing to her at all.
It was the table. Espinoza had seenthe table, and it was the last thing he’d recorded in his journal. Was this what had spooked the artist, sending him fleeing to Matosinhos to escape his patron? Oriana licked her lips. The runes resembled the ones she’d seen that night, even if she didn’t remember them properly. And the rest of the words in Latin were there: Ego autem et domus mea serviemus regi.
Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest. Here was the missing half that her own death had been meant to illuminate. She closed her eyes. What can this do that makes it worth killing so many innocents?
Oriana pushed herself off the settee and, journal in hand, walked out into the hallway. There was only one lamp glowing there, but it was enough. She strode past Lady Ferreira’s room and stopped at the next door. Was this Mr. Ferreira’s bedroom? It didn’t matter; she would just try them all. She rapped on the door with the edge of the journal, sparing her webbing the worst of the vibration from knocking.
She heard movement within almost immediately. She stepped back, suddenly recalling that his selkie brother, Erdano, sometimes stayed at the house. For all she knew it might be him in that room. Oriana was relieved when, a moment later, the door opened slightly to reveal a disheveled-looking Duilio Ferreira. His hair was mussed, displaying a curl that he usually managed to keep tamed. Over a nightshirt he wore a dressing gown similar to the one she had on but without the paisley satin. He blinked at her, seemingly at a loss for words.
What was she thinking, coming to a man’s bedroom in the dark of the night?
“I need to show you something,” she blurted out before he mistook her intention. She held out the journal, opened to the diagram.
He took it, eyes fixed on the page. “They’ve altered the verse.”
“What?” She leaned closer to peer down at it over his arm.
He seemed to shake himself. He stepped out into the hallway, closed the door to his bedroom, and went and turned up the one light in the hall. “Come here.”
Oriana joined him under the hissing light fixture.
“That last word in the Latin verse,” he said, pointing. “See? It should be Domino, but they’ve exchanged that for regi.”
“King?” she guessed.
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s probably what gave Espinoza the idea that they wanted to make Prince Fabricio into a king. I guess the writing in the next ring is magic runes, but what in Hades’ name is this business in the center?”
Oriana flicked her braid back over her shoulder. “I hoped you might know.”
The center symbol was a grouping of perpendicular lines forming two Ts, one large, one small, with the tops parallel to each other. Between those were two parallel lines, one short, one long. And under one arm of one T there was a dash—or rather a minus sign, she suspected, since the other T had a plussign under one arm. She pointed at that. “Could it be . . . mathematical?”
He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it just a bit. “I don’t know. But I know someone who would. Do you mind if I take this? I’ll show it to him first thing in the morning.”
As if the journal is mine. “Not at all, sir.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. It was one thing for her to sneak out to report to Heriberto at night if needed. It was another thing to wake Duilio Ferreira in the middle of what must have been a sound sleep. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen lived by very specific codes of conduct. She’d had to study those rules before coming to Portugal. Meeting in the middle of the night with a woman not his wife—in his nightclothes—broke several of them. That was why he’d closed his bedroom door; he didn’t want to invite impropriety.
She glanced down and noted that his feet were bare. They were nice feet. His dressing gown covered him to midcalf, and given that she’d seen him shirtless a few days before, she’d now seen almost as much of him as would be bared should he wear a pareu—little more than a length of fabric wrapped about the waist—as most of the males on her islands did. She could almost picture him wearing one.
She felt her cheeks growing warm. What a strange thought!She wasn’t certain why that image had popped into her head.
“I couldn’t find my slippers,” he said in an apologetic voice, perhaps believing she was offended. “My valet has hidden them from me.”
Oriana almost laughed then, at the image of Duilio Ferreira henpecked by his own valet. Of course, the elderly Frenchman wasvery snooty. She drew up the hem of her borrowed dressing gown to show her own silver feet. “I cannot reproach you, sir. By the way, are they black felt slippers, rather worn ones, with gold embroidery on the uppers?”
