“His feelings are wounded, then,” Pia said, nodding as if that made sense of what she’d read in his letter. “He begged my forgiveness. He said his infatuation with Isabel was a fleeting thing, and asked if he might take up our betrothal again.”
Technically, their betrothal never had been terminated. As Oriana understood it, Pia was still betrothed to Marianus Efisio. “Do you intend to take him back?”
Pia lifted her hand to her nose again to cover another sniffle. Then her expression firmed. “No. I won’t. I’ve written to him to end our betrothal. I’d prefer a husband who won’t be drawn away by every pretty, clever woman who comes along.”
“Good,” Oriana said, even though she had no right to comment on Pia’s actions.
Pia sniffed wetly, opened her handbag, and began hunting through it. “I heard you, you know, a few months ago when you thought I was still in the water closet.” She produced a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eye. “I was in the hallway, and I heard you tell Isabel it was dishonorable to try to steal her own cousin’s betrothed. I didn’t believe you then, but that’s how I know how long it was going on. At least four months, so it wasn’t just a passing fancy on his part.”
“No, I didn’t think it was,” Oriana agreed. “They should have told you the truth. If he didn’t wish to marry you, he should have spoken to you.”
“A man doesn’t break off his betrothal,” Pia said with a helpless shrug, her eyes lowered. “I suppose he thought if he ignored me long enough I would do it for him.”
The coward’s way out. Oriana wished she had some comfort to offer the young woman. “I’m sorry I couldn’t sway her.”
“No one could sway Isabel once she’d set her mind to something.” Pia took Oriana’s right hand in hers again and met Oriana’s eyes. “Thank you, Miss Paredes. I hope your current situation is easier than your last.”
“It’s a good household,” Oriana said honestly. “Isabel introduced me to Lady Ferreira a couple of weeks ago. I was fortunate that she needed a companion.”
“Especially since Aunt turned you out without a reference. Isabel’s maid told me that Aunt accused you of stealing, and kept all your clothing, even. If you need, I can ask my mother to give you a letter.”
“Thank you,” Oriana said, genuinely touched. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I should go now,” Pia said, dropping Oriana’s hand. “I’m going to tell Mother I want to go home. I don’t feel like smiling at anyone any longer.”
Oriana understood that sentiment. “Good night, then, miss.”
Pia walked past Oriana and into the ballroom, her shoulders drooping like a flower gone too long without water.
Duilio caught sight of Miss Paredes emerging from that doorway a few minutes later, directly after the pallid Miss Sequeira came forth. Miss Paredes scanned the room and then began to edge her way around the dance floor.
She crossed, her head lowered, to where the matrons sat, and settled in her seat again. Miss Sequeira spoke with her own mother, and they made a stately exit from the ballroom under the eyes of every gossip in town. Word of Pia Sequeira’s mournful retreat following that talk with Miss Paredes would be aired all over the city by morning. Duilio could spot eyes here and there watching Miss Paredes afterward, but no one approached her to speak with her.
Duilio caught movement in the corner of one eye and spotted Rodrigo Pimental drifting over to the balcony doorway where he stood. He sighed inwardly. Pimental was a few years older and not actually a friend. Well, not a friend by any measure. Always well dressed and careful of his grooming, Pimental presented an image of wealth and success. He held some sort of decorative ministry position, Duilio knew, likely bestowed by the prince for some favor his father-in-law had done. That kept Pimental’s well-born wife in silk stockings and furs, but the man was always short on funds. He had an annoying tendency to sponge off others. What Pimental did have was a keen ear and a sharp tongue that could cause no end of trouble if one didn’t watch one’s words around him.
“Well, Ferreira,” Pimental said, “is it true, the whispers I’ve heard about town?” He held a glass of watered sherry in his hand.
Duilio plastered his most vacant smile on his face. “That would depend entirely upon the whispers, Pimental.”
Pimental smiled tightly, his eyes on a pair of dancers on the floor. “That you hired away Lady Isabel Amaral’s companion—Miss Paraíso, or something. She has a fine figure, I admit, but there are younger and prettier girls out there. I can recommend a couple if you’re hunting a mistress.”
Duilio chose his words carefully, suppressing the urge to hit the man. “What a silly notion, Pimental. Miss Paredes is my mother’s companion.”
“I think not. I saw you watching her.” Rodrigo leaned closer, his eyes still on the dancers. “Your mother 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.