The Seat of Magic (15 page)

“For moral support.”

She had no idea how a meeting between her and her father would go. They hadn't spoken for a decade, and there were too many problems between them to make any discussion simple. She would have to work hard to control her temper. “Thank you. I'll be ready.”

“Until later then,” Duilio said and turned toward his valet.

Oriana grabbed his hand. He regarded her with raised brows as
she caught up a handful of her underskirt and used it to wipe his powder-covered fingers. “Black coat,” she whispered when she let go of his hand.

He smiled at her again before going down the hallway to retrieve his coat from his valet.

Oriana watched as Marcellin, his eyes averted from the scandalous sight of her bared shoulders, helped his employer into his coat and handed him a pair of gloves. The valet said something to Duilio in French. He answered in that language, a firm comment, whatever it was.

She had never considered Duilio Ferreira a strikingly handsome man. Viewed objectively, he was attractive perhaps, but nothing out of the ordinary. Joaquim was more handsome, despite having similar features. Duilio's warm eyes were, without doubt, his finest feature. He was above-average height, only an inch or so taller than she was, and he had an athletic leanness nothing like Erdano's muscular bulk. But as Oriana watched him tug on his gloves, she decided he had to be the most handsome man in the world. He glanced up and caught her watching him. He made a shooing gesture with one hand to send her back to the sitting room.

She didn't want to lose sight of him, but since his mother must be waiting for her, she went.

*   *   *

D
uilio settled again among the petitioners and tried to be patient. It had been a few days since his last visit to the palace, and the crop of people waiting appeared to have changed—a sign that some progress had been made. He didn't see the elderly gentleman, Mr. Bastos, there. He hoped his man of business had been able to sort out the old man's problems.

He sat pondering what to tell the ambassador, should he actually succeed in seeing the man and was pleasantly surprised when the infante came walking down the wide runner in the hall before even a quarter hour had passed. The infante gestured for Duilio to join
him this time and kept moving. Duilio jogged a couple of steps to catch up. The guards fell back, giving them room to speak privately.

“Did you find the girl?” the infante asked.

“Yes. I would like to tell the ambassador so, if possible.”

“Not a good idea.” The infante moved at a faster walk than normal. “There are guards outside his door now.”

Ambassador to Northern Portugal must be an uncomfortable posting. “What's changed?”

The infante pointed toward a spiral stairwell. “The astrologers fed my brother some nonsense about
Alvaro
killing him.”

They crossed over the sea-god archway and walked toward the new part of the palace. The infante stopped in the tower to one side of the archway and gazed out the window, gesturing for Duilio to join him there. Out on the terrace below, Prince Fabricio stood staring up at the bust of the sea god that supported the archway. The sun had burned through the fog, and in that light, Duilio could clearly see the prince's rapt expression as he gazed up at the fantastical sculpture. A lean-faced priest in a plain black cassock stood at a distance behind him, the prince's entourage today instead of the astrologers, Duilio supposed.

“Fabricio wants to be the sea god,” the infante said softly. “He dreams of controlling the seas, bringing the two princedoms back into one kingdom, conquering Spain, perhaps.”

While Duilio didn't see any likelihood of conquering Spain or the seas, there would be value to bringing the two princedoms back under one flag. Portugal had split during the eighteenth century, when two young princes had compromised rather than fight each other for control, leaving the Golden City controlling the north and Lisboa, the south. The reunification of the two princedoms had been part of Maraval's plan, although he'd tried to achieve it through necromancy instead of diplomacy. “How does the prince intend to do that?”

The infante chuckled. “That's the point of dreaming. One need not have a plan.”

“Ah.” It was the only thing Duilio could say that wouldn't get him in trouble.

“Were I in his shoes,” the infante said, “I would spend less time dreaming and more doing.”

The priest's eyes lifted toward the window where they stood and for an instant Duilio thought the man was looking at them.

The infante backed farther from the window. “You should get back. I don't want Father Salazar to see you.”

Duilio obeyed, losing sight of prince and priest both. “Why not?”

The infante licked his lips, the first sign of reticence he'd displayed thus far. “He watches me. I don't . . . like that.”

That didn't make much sense, but Duilio didn't argue. Sometimes people rubbed one the wrong way. It was usually wise to heed those reactions. “Is he the chaplain here?”

“Yes. The former chaplain died a few weeks ago. I miss Father Abreu.” With a sigh, the infante stepped away from the window and led Duilio toward another stairwell, into the newest part of the palace, and downward to a level that must be dug into the hillside. “So,” the infante said in an inquisitive voice, “do you box?”

Where had that come from? “Excuse me, Your Highness?”

“Raimundo,” the infante corrected. “Alessio said you were good at sport. You do
box
, don't you?”

Duilio was far from expert, and admitted as much.

The infante laughed. “I could get Bastião to go up against me,” he said, pointing discreetly at the burly guard still following them at a distance, “but he'd flatten me with his first swing. Would you be willing to give it a try? The guards have a gymnasium on this level.”

So that bearlike guard was the real Bastião. Duilio wouldn't want to fight the man either. He stood as tall as Erdano and his blue uniform coat strained across his barrel-shaped chest. Duilio drew
out his watch and checked the time. If he didn't stay too long, he should be able to get back to the house in time to clean up and take Oriana to her father's office. “If you'd like, Raimundo.”

He only hoped he wouldn't regret it.

*   *   *

O
riana sat on the leather chaise near her bedroom door, trying to draw calm from the silence. She was going to talk to her father and the closer the time came the more nervous she became. She was grateful Duilio intended to accompany her. He'd been late getting back to the house and disappeared immediately into his rooms, evidently needing a change of clothes.

She wanted to hate her father. There was ten years of anger built up in her that had never had an outlet. But he
had
come to ask after her. He'd revealed his identity to Duilio, risking his life. She couldn't figure out her father's motives, not without talking to him. And if she did that, how could she stay objective? She and her father had always bickered, but she'd always loved him. Was that enough to make up for his leaving her and Marina behind?

She got up and went into the bathroom to look at her reflection one more time. She wanted to present a strong face. Teresa had styled her hair in a high bun. Powder hid most of the bruising on her skin. The clothes she wore had come from Lady Ferreira's dressing room, quickly made over by the seamstress to fit Oriana's taller frame. The brown silk skirt had an added flounce now that blended with the original fabric well enough that most women wouldn't notice if they hadn't once worked in a dressmaker's shop. She wore a close-fitting pinstriped vest over her high-collared cambric shirt. A borrowed black brooch at her throat and teardrop earrings in carved jet lent her a sophisticated look, and Felis had even found her a flat-brimmed black hat. She looked quite sharp.

“Oriana?”

Duilio's voice came from the hallway, so she took a last look to reassure herself and went to join him. He stood outside her bedroom
door. He'd bathed again and changed clothes, yet another black frock coat, but with a simple brown waistcoat now. He held a handkerchief to his lips. When he took it away, she saw that his lip had been split. She went to his side to get a better look and saw swelling along one of his cheekbones as well. “Did the guards at the palace do that?”

He sighed. “No, the infante thrashed me.”

The prince's brother?
She touched his swelling cheek gently. “Why?”

“Why don't I tell you in the coach?” he asked, looking more exasperated than pained. “You look very well, I should add, even if you have decided to ignore my recommendation of black velvet.”

Oriana laid her hand on his offered arm, feeling for a moment that she fit somewhere in this world. “A black velvet ribbon would only be appropriate with evening attire,” she said airily.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he replied, a laugh in his tone.

They walked down the stairs and he waited while she pinned her hat into place and donned the silk mitts she wore to hide her webbing. Cardenas opened the door for them, and Duilio held out his arm for her to take. The fog had burned off, leaving a crisp chill in the air—something to be appreciated in rainy October.

It was only when they headed down toward the street that they saw a slender woman garbed in a pale green walking gown pushing open the wrought iron gate to enter the small garden in front of the house. A maid in stark black followed at a distance, parasol clutched in her hands. The woman's head lifted when she caught sight of them coming down the steps, revealing a lovely face under her hat's brim.

Oriana felt cold spread through her stomach.
Genoveva Carvalho
.
What is she doing here?
The last time she'd laid eyes on Miss Carvalho, the young woman had been pressing a kiss to Duilio's cheek, ostensibly in gratitude for his saving her youngest sister.

Miss Carvalho's face lit with delight at the sight of Duilio, but that expression faded when she saw Oriana's hand on his sleeve.
Oriana clutched his arm more tightly, unable to help the reaction. She had no claim on him.
That doesn't mean I'm going to back down
.

Miss Carvalho approached anyway, apparently undaunted by Oriana's presence. Meeting them at the bottom of the steps, she twitched her lace-edged skirt about to keep it from the grasp of the boxwoods. “Mr. Ferreira, I'm pleased to see you,” she said in her soft voice. “And Miss Paredes as well. Lady Ferreira told me you'd gone to visit family. I hope you found them well.”

Oriana found herself clenching her jaw. Miss Carvalho was only asking a polite question. But that question implied familiarity with Lady Ferreira, perhaps a sly hint that Duilio's mother approved of her as his future wife. “Yes, thank you,” she said after hesitating a split second too long. “Is your sister fully recovered from her ordeal?”

Miss Carvalho opened her mouth, her eyes wandering about as if she could find the answer written on the leaves in the garden. “She's well,” she finally said.

“That's good,” Oriana mumbled. She glanced at Duilio, hoping he could use his silver tongue to extract her from this awkward situation.

“I'm afraid we must miss your visit again, Miss Carvalho,” Duilio said quickly. “Miss Paredes and I have an appointment, and we are cutting it close as it is.” With truly fortuitous timing, the carriage pulled around from Ferraz Street at that moment. Duilio tipped his hat to Miss Carvalho and her silent maid and led Oriana past them and out the gate to the cobbled street, where the carriage met them. He opened the door and made a show of helping Oriana up into her seat. Then he climbed up and settled next to her without a backward glance at the elegantly gowned young woman on the steps of his house. Once he got the door closed, he rapped on the wall for the driver to move out.

Oriana cast a quick glance at the forlorn figure. “Does she come to visit often?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Duilio said with exasperation in his voice.
“I've been avoiding Miss Carvalho, so I suspect she's been trying to get my mother to like her instead.”

She felt an unwelcome surge of sympathy for the girl. Genoveva Carvalho was, without doubt, a good match for him—lovely, well mannered, and from a wealthy family of the older aristocracy that lived farther up the Street of Flowers. But Duilio had been put off because she'd been infatuated with his brother Alessio first. Her interest in him had arisen too late to make a favorable impression. If that hadn't been the case, perhaps they might have married.

Oriana reached up and grasped one of the hand straps. Like everything in the Ferreira household, the coach was of the highest quality, well sprung and clean inside, but somber. Searching about for a new topic, she returned to her earlier question. “What did happen? With the infante, I mean?”

“He is ostensibly in need of a sparring partner,” he said, “and asked if I would humor him.”

“Do you box?” she asked hesitantly.

His eyebrows rose. “I'm a gentleman, Oriana. Of course I box.”

She cast him a doubtful glance from under a lowered brow.

“I box. I fence. I shoot,” he added, “with differing degrees of proficiency. I sail and I rowed at university, but I'm no good with horses. I smell wrong to them.”

Oriana suppressed a smile. “I see. Forgive me for doubting. How did you fare?”

“With the infante?” Duilio's brow furrowed. “He's very fast. A couple of times I could have sworn he wasn't there a second before.”

“I see.” That explained the bruising and split lip. “I thought you went to see my uncle.”

“That's the bad news, I'm afraid. He's been put under even stricter guard than before.”

“Why?”

Duilio exhaled heavily. “Apparently the royal astrologers predicted that the ambassador is going to kill the prince.”