The next few days would surely generate some nervous personal inquiries, as he’d confessed that Alessio had left behind written evidence of his amorous exploits. Having been raised with a father who struggled to hide his own indiscretions—often unsuccessfully—from his wife and sons, Duilio had tried to live in a manner he wouldn’t have to conceal from a future wife or children. It baffled him that others failed to take such precautions. He shook his head, resolved not to worry about it for the time being, but a sharp warning prickled down his spine, his gift jolting awake again.

Duilio stepped deeper into the curtained alcove and scanned the room, wondering what had set off that warning. Then he spotted Paolo Silva framed in the entry archway. His uncle rubbed his chin with one hand as he surveyed the ballroom and its inhabitants with a jaded eye. Why had he not checked with Carvalho to see whether Silva was on the guest list? His mother would not take it well should she notice Silva’s presence. Duilio shot a quick glance at Miss Paredes to see if she’d noted the man’s arrival, but she appeared lost in thought, her eyes on the dancers.

The musicians were in the middle of a set, so Duilio edged his way around the ballroom toward his mother’s side. He needed to get her out of here before the man came and bothered her. He wasn’t afraid for his mother, but that would not end well for Silva.

Oriana sat to one side of Lady Ferreira as the young folk danced to the reedy music of the quartet. The swirl of color of the young women’s gowns, the aromas of cigarette smoke and heady perfumes, the hushed patter of the gossip flowing around them all faded into the background. The waiting was proving irksome. She wanted to be doing something.

She’d caught sight of Mr. Ferreira as he stood near one of the curtained doors that led onto the balcony. He’d been talking to an urbane gentleman whose expression appeared to alternate between embarrassment and avarice—Mr. Pimental, who had married the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Davila. After a time that man slipped away, leaving Mr. Ferreira momentarily alone. But now he moved, edging around the dancers and toward the matrons. When he reached their side of the dance floor, he nodded to the matrons and pressed a kiss to his mother’s gloved hand. Lady Ferreira smiled vaguely up at her son.

“Mother, would you like to take a walk on the veranda?” he asked, catching Oriana’s eye as he did so.

“Of course, Duilinho,” his mother said, rising gracefully.

Oriana rose with her, but Mr. Ferreira caught her hand. He leaned closer, the musky scent of his skin touching her nose. “Silva’s here,” he whispered. “I’ll send my mother home with the carriage and be back in a few minutes. Just tell everyone you’re waiting for her to come back. Will you be able to handle him if he accosts you?”

His eyes met hers, worried, but she shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she told him.

“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.” He escorted his mother away.

Oriana settled into her chair again. She didn’t know if Silva was guilty of what Lady Ferreira believed, but her own past interaction with him made her amply wary. She was not going to let him get the better of her.

CHAPTER 19

The dancing went on, one set ending and another beginning, while Oriana sat among the gossiping matrons and pretended to wait for Lady Ferreira’s return. She watched the swirl of color and wondered how many of Isabel’s friends had seen her but chosen not to speak to her. How many mistakenly believed Isabel was still alive?

Where was Silva? Oriana glanced about markedly as if anxious for her mistress to return, and finally caught sight of him. He stood at the far side of the ballroom, bowing over a young woman’s hand. The pretty girl seemed flustered by his attentions. Silva tucked the young woman’s gloved hand into the crook of his arm and led her at a slow walk about the edge of the ballroom floor. It would take them around to this side of the room. Oriana mentally readied herself for the moment the man noticed her. He had said they would meet again, hadn’t he?

She could see a resemblance to Duilio Ferreira now that she knew to look. Not as tall as his nephew, Silva had run to stockiness with age. He dressed wisely, though, in well-tailored garments that concealed his thickening waist.

No sooner had he come within hearing distance of the gaggle of matrons about her than old Lady Beja swatted at his legs with her cane. “Let go of that young girl, you old miscreant,” she snapped. “Come sit with someone more your age, who can appreciate you properly. I’ll have Torres escort Miss Offley back to her mother.”

Silva complied with every appearance of graciousness. The old lady’s companion, a black-clad woman nearly as ancient as the lady herself, jumped up spryly, grabbed the girl’s arm, and hauled her toward the far side of the ballroom. The girl cast a confused glance back at Silva but apparently never thought to protest. Oriana was glad to know someone else found Silva’s pursuit of very young women inappropriate. Isabel certainly had.

“Now,” the lady continued, “you’ve been absent from our company too often recently. What have you been doing?”

“Whatever my prince bids me, madam,” Silva said in an obsequious tone. “If my duties take me from your presence, I can only mourn my loss.”

Relieved she was sitting behind them and not in their line of sight, Oriana rolled her eyes.

“So, what do you make of this year’s crop of girls, Silva?” the lady asked.

“Sadly, they all suffer again this year in comparison to Lady Isabel,” he returned smoothly. “Is she here tonight?”

“Surely you’ve heard? She’s eloped,” the lady said in a whisper that carried clearly to the ear of all but the deafest matron. “Ran off with her cousin’s betrothed. Lady Amaral has taken to her bed, I’m told.”

Thank the gods, Oriana thought. That meant Lady Amaral wasn’t likely to show here. Her presence on top of Silva’s would have been unbearable.

Silva gasped at Lady Beja’s gossip. “I’ve been so busy I hadn’t heard a word.”

The lady snapped her fan across his white-gloved knuckles, and then pointed at Oriana with it. “Miss Paredes there knows all, I suspect.”

Oriana sighed inwardly. Apparently Isabel’s disgrace meant that her own name was now known to every gossip in the city. Oriana turned in their direction, giving in to the inevitable.

The lady crooked an imperious finger. “Come here, Miss Paredes.”

She rose and obediently crossed to the lady’s other side, feeling Silva’s eyes on her. “Yes, Lady Beja. May I fetch something for you?”

The lady fastened a clawlike hand on Oriana’s arm and hauled her down into the seat her companion had left empty. “Sit here. Now, where has Lady Isabel gone?”

“I no longer work for the Amaral family, Lady Beja.”

“You did until then.” The old woman slapped her fan across Oriana’s right hand, sending uncomfortable reverberations through her webbing. “No point in keeping secrets for a family who threw you out, miss.”

Oriana clenched her jaw, ignoring the fading discomfort. “Isabel introduced me to Lady Ferreira before she left, lady. And if I had secrets about Lady Isabel, I would hold them for her sake alone.”

The old lady laughed. “A loyal companion? How unusual. Torres would sell my bed curtains in the market the very day I died.”

“I cannot believe that, my lady,” Oriana protested.

“Wait and see, girl.” She waggled her fan in the direction of her returning companion. “That one’s mercenary through and through.”

“Tell me, Miss . . . Paredes, it is?” Silva inserted, leaning forward in his chair to favor her with his notice. “Do you know when Lady Isabel and her new husband will return from abroad, then? I would like to pay my respects.”