He tugged off his gloves and brusquely said, “It isn’t your fault.”

She found herself staring at his patent shoes, surprised by his cross tone. “I . . .”

His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You survived,” he said, speaking more gently now. “That doesn’t make you complicit. You are not responsible for Isabel’s death.”

“If they wanted me,” she said, “then Isabel—”

“No,” he interrupted. “It doesn’t matter why she ended up there. Neither of you deserved to die. You were both victims that night. You can’t blame yourself.”

She could. If she’d never come to Northern Portugal, Isabel wouldn’t be dead. If she’d not taken a job in Isabel’s home, if she’d refused to go with Isabel to Paris, if she had chosen . . . well, there were a thousand other paths her life could have taken, most of which wouldn’t have tied Isabel Amaral’s fate to hers. Life would be easier if she knew all the ramifications of each choice before she made it, but it seemed she had to make each one blind. And apparently Mr. Ferreira’s gift hadn’t made his life proof against that, either. On the other hand, they had gotten back to the house safely, as he’d promised.

His fingers still cupped her chin, forcing him to stand close. She breathed in and caught that scent he had, the smell she’d mistaken for cologne before. How long had she been standing there silent? His warm eyes weren’t on hers any longer, fixed on her lips instead.

Footsteps on the stairwell made her jerk away, and Mr. Ferreira stepped back. Cardenas came up onto the landing only a second later, the keys to the house dangling in his hand. He nodded blandly and bid them both a good evening, no reproach in his expression. Oriana felt it anyway. “Good night, Cardenas,” she answered quickly. “And to you too, Mr. Ferreira.”

Mr. Ferreira tipped his head toward her. “Miss Paredes, try to get some sleep.”

Oriana slipped inside her bedroom without answering. Once she’d closed the door, she pressed her warm cheek against the wood. What had she been thinking?

She’d had to fend off enough attempts at seduction in the past two years. Duilio Ferreira had been considering kissing her. She was almost certain of that. Almost.

And she had been about to let him.

CHAPTER 22

FRIDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1902

Duilio liked to believe that he made his own destiny. He walked along Clérigos Street, heading toward Joaquim’s office in Massarelos, frustrated at the tangle his mind was in. He suspected that Inspector Gaspar was somewhere nearby. He had that feeling of being watched again, but his sense of it was benign, so he doubted it was the man who’d murdered Alessio, Donato Mata. He had his favorite revolver clipped to his waistband, though, just in case.

At the moment, though, his main worry was himself. When he’d first laid eyes on Oriana Paredes, he’d felt she would be a pivotal factor in his life. Otherwise he might not have done any more than glance at her that spring day on the banks of the Douro. Instead he had watched her, bribed servants to learn her name, and sought her out when Isabel Amaral disappeared. He’d brought her into his household because she was a witness who might have valuable information, but also because he simply wanted her safe.

He liked her. He enjoyed talking to her. She was . . . challenging.

Last night he’d nearly kissed her. He had stood there in the hallway, his fingers cradling her chin, and the desire to kiss her—no, in all honesty, the desire to bed her—had almost overwhelmed his good sense. Part of that was simply the stress of the previous few days. Sex would have been a release, more than just literally. But somewhere in his mind had been a wish to simply lie in his bed with her afterward and discuss the confusing evening they’d had.

He could ask her to become his mistress, but he’d meant what he’d said to Rodrigo Pimental. He would never demean her that way. Beyond the impropriety of such a notion, he simply liked her too much. And given their talk the previous morning, he suspected her response to such a proposition would involve her sharp teeth.

Her people had always had a tense relationship with the Portuguese, one balanced on the edge of a sword. The violent introduction by rape—no matter how Camões had interpreted the event, it wasn’t logical to believe that women who ran away were inviting courtship—had wrought terrible changes on their society. Several decades later, King Sebastião I had sent ships to help the sereia keep the Spanish from invading their islands. It had saved them from the slavery reportedly suffered by the sereia on the Canary Islands, but that hadn’t been enough to wipe away the stain. The current banishment of her people from the Golden City had likely spoiled any progress in relations made since then. Duilio could well understand the antipathy Miss Paredes showed toward his people.

But yesterday Duilio had held her long-fingered hand in his. Staring down at that delicate, veined webbing, he had thought of more than tracking down one more killer. He had wanted all of this over with, because he wanted to take up his own life again. He wanted to see what destiny he could make for himself. Holding her hand, he’d asked himself if Oriana Paredes might play a part in it.

Surely that was impossible. She would be gone soon, returned to her own life on the islands . . . or maybe to some new assignment spying in the city. Unlike most of the noblemen’s daughters and well-bred city girls he met at soirees and balls, Oriana Paredes—Is that even her name? Duilio wondered—had some purpose in her life other than waiting about for a man to claim her. He had no idea if her future plans included a man at all.

Yet standing in the dim hallway outside her bedroom, his fingers touching the softness of her throat, he’d believed she felt the same yearning he did. This morning he’d left the house before either she or his mother had risen, hoping to trade information with Joaquim before Joaquim’s side investigation was shut down. If he’d gotten the chance to talk to Miss Paredes, he might have a better idea of her expectations. Now he could only wonder. There was someone out there who might want to kill her, which would render everything else moot.

He’d spent too much time stewing over this. He was at the Massarelos station already, so he worked his way back to Joaquim’s office and installed himself in his regular chair, inordinately grumpy about everything.

“Silva showed up at the ball last night,” he said before Joaquim could even manage a greeting. “He was unusually forthcoming.”

Joaquim groaned. “Odd that you should start with that. You know better than to dwell on anything he says.”

Duilio stretched out his legs and kicked at the desk. He didn’t need Joaquim to remind him of that. “Fine. Did the Amaral servants have anything pertinent to tell you?”

“Did you enjoy nearly being burned to death?” Joaquim asked. “If I were picking, I would have started with that, Duilio. For God’s sake . . .”

“What?” Duilio snapped. “Did you come by and have dinner with Cardenas?”

“No, I stopped by and chatted with Gustavo Mendes this morning.” Joaquim peered at him narrowly. “Have you had breakfast? You’re normally only this cranky if you haven’t eaten.”

Duilio sighed. Cranky wasn’t the image he wished to portray. “No, I left before Mother and Miss Paredes woke, and I didn’t want Mrs. Cardoza to prepare breakfast twice.”

Joaquim shook his head, pushed a notebook over to Duilio, and rose. “Read. I’ll ask one of the officers to go get you some food.”

He suited actions to words, shutting the door behind him as he went off to procure food. Duilio picked up the notebook and found the marked page. Joaquim’s notes were tidy, with a conclusion at the end of each interview of the Amaral servants. He’d spent the most time with the first footman, Carlos, and the lady’s maid, Adela, shared by Lady Isabel and her mother. Then Joaquim’s notes took a sidestep, moving to interviews with a few of the workers at a tavern frequented by servants up and down the Street of Flowers, The White Rose. Both Carlos and Adela, when asked if anyone had been inquiring about the activities of the Amaral staff, mentioned a woman who’d approached them at the tavern, offering positions in a more lucrative household. When Joaquim returned to his office a few minutes later, Duilio snatched one of the egg-custard pastries his cousin offered and asked, “What led you to ask these two—Carlos and Adela, I mean—about this woman at the tavern?”