The Orchid Affair Read Free Page B

us. Discretion might not be the better part of valor, but it saves you a lot of apologizing later on.
    “Here,” I said, thrusting the key into his hand. “You got us into this; you get it sorted. I have research to do.”
    And with that, I fled out into the rain.

Chapter 1
    Paris, 1804

    “ A round the back,” said the gatekeeper.
    Laura scrambled backwards as a moving wall of iron careened towards her face. From the distance, the gate was a grand thing, a towering edifice of black metal with heraldic symbols outlined in flaking gilt. From up close, it was decidedly less attractive. Especially when it was on a collision course with one’s nose. Her nose might not be a thing of beauty, but she liked it where it was.
    “But—” Laura grabbed at the bars with her gloved hands. The leather skidded against the bars, leaving long, rusty streaks across her palms. So much for her last pair of gloves.
    Laura bit down on a sharp exclamation of frustration. She reminded herself of Rule #10 of the Guide to Better Governessing: Never Let Them See You Suffer. Weakness bred contempt. If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the meek never inherited anything—except maybe a gate to the nose.
    “I am expected,” Laura announced with all the dignity she could muster.
    It was hard to be dignified with raindrops dripping off one’s nose. She could feel wet strands of hair scraggling down her neck, under the back of her collar. Errant strands tickled her back, making her want to squirm. Oh, heavens, that itched.
    She looked down her nose through the grille of ironwork. “Kindly let me in.”
    Ahead of her, just a stretch of courtyard away, across gardens grown unkempt with neglect, lay warmth and shelter. Or at least shelter. From the look of the unlit windows, there was precious little warmth. But even a roof looked good to her right now. Roofs served an important purpose. They kept off rain. Blasted rain. This was France, not England. What was it doing mizzling like this?
    The gatekeeper shrugged, and started to turn away.
    Laura resisted the urge to reach through the bars, grab him by the collar, and shake.
    “The governess,” she called after him, trying to keep any touch of desperation from her voice. She refused to believe her mission could end like this, this ignominiously, this early. This moistly. “I am the governess.”
    “Around the back,” the gatekeeper repeated and spat for good measure.
    Around the back? The house was a good mile around. Would it really have been so much bother to have let her in through the front? What had happened to liberté, égalité and fraternité ? Apparently, those sentiments didn’t extend to governesses.
    Laura took a step back, landing in a puddle that went clear up to her ankle. She could feel the icy water soaking through the worn kid leather of her sensible boot. At least, it would have been sensible, if it hadn’t had a hole the size of Notre-Dame in the sole. Laura took a deep breath in and out through her nose. Right. If he wanted her around the back, around the back it was. There was no point in starting off on the wrong foot by fighting with the gatekeeper. Even if the man was a petty cretin who shouldn’t be trusted with a latchkey.
    Temper, she reminded herself. Temper. She had been a semi-servant for years enough now that one would think she was immune to such slights.
    Gathering up the sodden folds of her pelisse (dark brown wool, sensible, warm, didn’t show the dirt, largely because it had already been designed to look like dirt), Laura trudged the length of the street, skidding a bit as her sodden shoes slipped and slid on the rounded cobbles. The Hôtel de Bac was in the heart of the Marais, among a twisted welter of ancient streets, most without sidewalks. During her long years in England, Laura had never thought she would miss London, but she did miss the sidewalks. And the tea.
    Mmm, tea. Hot, amber liquid with curls of steam rising from the top,