The Jade Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page B

floor was of black and white marble in gleaming hexagons. To the right and left of me were a number of paneled double doors, and at the far end rose the twin-branching staircase, also of marble, with a wrought iron balaster of wreaths and rosettes picked out in gold.
    The footman ushered me into a salon, where the only light was that which filtered through the closed shutters. After the tiring heat of the journey the shadowed coolness was welcome. With a low bow the servant withdrew, closing the doors behind him. I took a seat in one of the tapestry chairs and tried to compose myself.
    While I waited, I glanced around at the opulent decorations and furnishings, which made the Carlisles’ elegant house in Harley Street seem almost humble by comparison. The walls were hung with damask silk of a deep rose shade, and the floor was a delicate parquetry of pale and dark woods. The furniture, in the French style, was ornate and gilded.
    The shroud of silence, accentuated by the faint ticking of a handsome pedestal clock, gave a curiously eerie feeling—as though the salon, the whole great house, was expectantly waiting for something to happen. Perhaps this was because the Quinta dos Castanheiros was doomed to pass out of Milaveira hands, I thought, remembering how Stafford Darville had told me that the entire estate was heavily mortgaged. But I preferred not to follow that train of thought. I preferred not to think of Stafford Darville at all.
    Suddenly, my musing was arrested, and I gasped out in fright. Something smooth and soft and stealthy had brushed against my ankles. Then a sleek dark shape emerged from beneath the chair and glided across the polished floor. A cat, I saw in wild relief, but my heart still thudded from the shock. The creature stationed itself near the door, surveying me with its yellow slit eyes, its long tail jerking to and fro in swift, angry flicks.
    I heard a sound, then one of the doors opened and a woman entered the salon. Although inclined to plumpness, she looked regally dignified in the purple gown she had chosen for her mourning. Her dark hair, drawn back smoothly at the nape of her neck, framed features that, if not exactly beautiful, were well shaped and indeed striking. In this filtered light it was impossible to be sure of her age, but I judged she was in her middle forties.
    For a moment she paused in the doorway, and her amber eyes swept over me, assessing me. Then she came forward with her ringers graciously extended, a cool and distant smile upon her lips.
    “So you are Elinor,” she said in carefully precise English. “I trust that you had a good journey.”
    I had risen to greet her, but before I could take her hand, she caught sight of the cat. She turned on it in a fury, berating it with an angry flood of Portuguese. The poor animal shot past her and escaped through the open door, a black streak of fear.
    “Wretched creature,” the woman continued to me. “Heaven knows how many of them she has now. They are everywhere about the place. But they will go, of course, as soon as I have my way here. However, Elinor, I daresay you are wondering who I am, so I will introduce myself. I am Carlota da Milaveira—the Condessa da Milaveira.” She announced the fact majestically, her chin held high.
    “But I understood that my grandmother was the Condessa da Milaveira,” I faltered in bewilderment.
    She gestured impatiently. ‘The old lady retains the title, of course. She is the condessa mother. But I am the wife of the new Conde da Milaveira.”
    “Oh, I see—my uncle. Then you are my aunt, Tia Carlota.”
    A quick frown of displeasure marred her face, and I realized that I had said the wrong thing. Surely, I thought, she didn’t expect me to address her as Senhora Condessa.
    “I am glad you are arrived safely,” she continued. ‘Though why you have come, I must confess, is quite beyond my comprehension. You are not, I presume, expecting to take up permanent residence at the Quinta