Her face was all seriousness, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “You wouldn’t dare, sir.”

This was 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 then she 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 joked about it.

Shocked and appalled would sum up Joaquim’s reaction should Duilio confess he was considering Miss Paredes as a potential . . . What was he 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.

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 Verde for 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.”