Read Online The Golden City by J. Kathleen Cheney - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Kathleen Cheney
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could find one missing servant.
The butler, an elderly man who had served the Ferreira family his entire life, bu st led up the hall in time to hand Duilio his gloves. “I’ve heard your sleep was di st urbed la st night, sir. I am so sorry . . .”
Duilio tugged on the kid-leather gloves and shook his head. “No need to worry, Cardenas,” he said reassuringly. “It was an important message, and I was awake anyway.”
“I’m concerned about security is all, sir.” The butler handed over Duilio’s top hat. “I don’t like st rangers in my house.”
“I do under st and, Cardenas. I’ll ask Erdano again not to send others from his harem here.” He hoped that would placate his ruffled butler. He didn’t want the man worrying himself into an early grave. “Is the young lady st ill in the house?”
Cardenas blushed. “Yes, sir. In Mr. Erdano’s room.”
Duilio managed not to grin at the man’s vexed tone. His long-suffering butler tended to consider Erdano and his women a nuisance. Their presence invariably disordered Cardenas’ well-run house- hold. “I’m certain she’ll leave soon enough.”
The butler’s spine was ramrod st raight. “She’s not alone, sir.”
Ah, that explains the blush
. Well, it meant João hadn’t spent the night out at the quay, but that was permissible as long as he had all the boats in sailing shape when they were needed. “Be patient, Cardenas. I believe this morning is João’s half day anyway,” Duilio lied, giving the butler an excuse not to throw out the boatman. “Now, I’m off to meet with Joaquim. I’ll likely be gone pa st luncheon, so don’t hold the meal for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Cardenas said with a brisk nod.
Duilio headed out the door. Once on the flag st one st eps, he heard the door lock behind him. As his gift had lately been warning him of impending danger, Duilio patted the flap pocket of his frock coat to verify that his revolver was there, then tucked his newspaper under his arm.
The Ferreira house was set back from the cobbled st reet by a small garden, the flowers all faded so late in the year. A tall fence of wrought iron about it warded away trespassers. An unpretentious manor of dark brown st one, the house had originally been built to adorn a
quinta
—a vineyard. The owner moved it to the Street of Flowers nearly a century before, st one by st one, but died with no child to inherit it. It had passed to the Ferreira family then, to Duilio’s newly wealthy grandfather. Although the house had been in his family for more than sixty years, they were st ill considered newcomers.
The traffic on the Street of Flowers was brisk that time of morning. While the broad avenue was forbidden to wagons and commercial carters, its width invited all other manner of traffic. Pede st rians bu st led pa st the wrought-iron fences separating the st reet from the houses, either heading down toward the river or up toward the palace or the government mini st ries centered in what had once been the Bishop’s Palace. Finely dressed gentry and government officials shared the busy st reet with fishermen and boatmen.
A tram ran up the center of the road, the gold-painted car rattling by all day long. The line had been ele ct rified at the turn of the century, eliminating va st quantities of mule manure that had required colle ct ing almo st hourly. Fortunately for the sanitation workers, the horses drawing private carriages and hired cabs up and down the st reet ensured that they st ill had jobs.
Duilio walked down to his gate and let himself out, st anding back as a lovely lady in a st ylish peach-colored walking suit passed him. Her poodle tugged on its leash, trying to get a better sniff of him, no doubt thinking him an oddly shaped seal. Dogs always found him perplexing. The woman ca st him an appraising glance, smiled coyly, and slowed her pace, her hips swaying attra ct ively.
One of the demimonde,
Duilio decided,
hunting for her next
The butler, an elderly man who had served the Ferreira family his entire life, bu st led up the hall in time to hand Duilio his gloves. “I’ve heard your sleep was di st urbed la st night, sir. I am so sorry . . .”
Duilio tugged on the kid-leather gloves and shook his head. “No need to worry, Cardenas,” he said reassuringly. “It was an important message, and I was awake anyway.”
“I’m concerned about security is all, sir.” The butler handed over Duilio’s top hat. “I don’t like st rangers in my house.”
“I do under st and, Cardenas. I’ll ask Erdano again not to send others from his harem here.” He hoped that would placate his ruffled butler. He didn’t want the man worrying himself into an early grave. “Is the young lady st ill in the house?”
Cardenas blushed. “Yes, sir. In Mr. Erdano’s room.”
Duilio managed not to grin at the man’s vexed tone. His long-suffering butler tended to consider Erdano and his women a nuisance. Their presence invariably disordered Cardenas’ well-run house- hold. “I’m certain she’ll leave soon enough.”
The butler’s spine was ramrod st raight. “She’s not alone, sir.”
Ah, that explains the blush
. Well, it meant João hadn’t spent the night out at the quay, but that was permissible as long as he had all the boats in sailing shape when they were needed. “Be patient, Cardenas. I believe this morning is João’s half day anyway,” Duilio lied, giving the butler an excuse not to throw out the boatman. “Now, I’m off to meet with Joaquim. I’ll likely be gone pa st luncheon, so don’t hold the meal for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Cardenas said with a brisk nod.
Duilio headed out the door. Once on the flag st one st eps, he heard the door lock behind him. As his gift had lately been warning him of impending danger, Duilio patted the flap pocket of his frock coat to verify that his revolver was there, then tucked his newspaper under his arm.
The Ferreira house was set back from the cobbled st reet by a small garden, the flowers all faded so late in the year. A tall fence of wrought iron about it warded away trespassers. An unpretentious manor of dark brown st one, the house had originally been built to adorn a
quinta
—a vineyard. The owner moved it to the Street of Flowers nearly a century before, st one by st one, but died with no child to inherit it. It had passed to the Ferreira family then, to Duilio’s newly wealthy grandfather. Although the house had been in his family for more than sixty years, they were st ill considered newcomers.
The traffic on the Street of Flowers was brisk that time of morning. While the broad avenue was forbidden to wagons and commercial carters, its width invited all other manner of traffic. Pede st rians bu st led pa st the wrought-iron fences separating the st reet from the houses, either heading down toward the river or up toward the palace or the government mini st ries centered in what had once been the Bishop’s Palace. Finely dressed gentry and government officials shared the busy st reet with fishermen and boatmen.
A tram ran up the center of the road, the gold-painted car rattling by all day long. The line had been ele ct rified at the turn of the century, eliminating va st quantities of mule manure that had required colle ct ing almo st hourly. Fortunately for the sanitation workers, the horses drawing private carriages and hired cabs up and down the st reet ensured that they st ill had jobs.
Duilio walked down to his gate and let himself out, st anding back as a lovely lady in a st ylish peach-colored walking suit passed him. Her poodle tugged on its leash, trying to get a better sniff of him, no doubt thinking him an oddly shaped seal. Dogs always found him perplexing. The woman ca st him an appraising glance, smiled coyly, and slowed her pace, her hips swaying attra ct ively.
One of the demimonde,
Duilio decided,
hunting for her next
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