“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 against the master copy he already held. “Thank you, Cardenas.”

The perturbed butler took his leave and headed down the stairs to the first floor.

Duilio chewed on his lower lip. Am I actually going to do this? He took a deep breath and knocked on the bedroom door. When he got no response, he listened 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 strode across the rug and pressed one ear against 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 must have been muffled by the water, because she apparently hadn’t heard him enter.

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

He’d admired her figure before, but unclothed she was as spectacular as he’d imagined. Her breasts with their mauve-tipped nipples were rounded but not overlarge. Her waist didn’t owe its trimness to corsetry, and her hips flared down to nicely curved thighs. His hands practically itched to touch her. He’d never been attracted to small, delicate females. Oriana Paredes was the sort of woman he preferred to bed—tall and strong 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 must 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 breasts, her skin changed to a shimmering silver, a perfect 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 stretching between them up to the last 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 staring at that silver-gilded body for the rest of the afternoon, the last 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 against the side of the tub and pressed her hands over her neck to hide her gills. That forced her breasts 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 stand 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 correctly, suggested 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 stare 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 stippling along the outside of her thighs. He couldn’t see her dorsal stripe, supposedly one of a sereia’s best 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 question.

Duilio leaned back against the vanity stand and crossed one ankle over the other, trying to present a nonchalant facade. “I suspected 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 distance. “You would have lied.”

She twisted 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 wrists, 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 expected 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 waste 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?”

Oriana stared at Mr. Ferreira, taken aback. How does he know about that night?

“Miss Paredes?” he prompted.

And how could she answer his question? 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 trust this man? He wore a different face now, not the one she’d seen the day before. He’d unnerved her at first, but ultimately she’d taken him for a fop, silly and desperate for approval, prattling on about a stupid coat. The man standing in front of her had direct, intelligent eyes—sharp eyes that she suspected many in the upper levels of society wouldn’t appreciate if they realized his frivolous manner hid them.