Free The Orphan's Tale by Anne Shaughnessy Page A

against her chin, begging a kiss. She complied with a faraway smile. "I suppose I will miss him." She shook herself slightly, smoothed Brutus' soft nose, and went back into the inn.
    Elise de Clichy had been surprised when Charles de Saint -Légère had told her the night before that he was being transferred to the mounted gendarmerie at the Bois de Boulogne for an unspecified length of time, and that he would be leaving early the next morning. She suspected that the transfer had something to do with the sudden, unexplainable interest that a man named Constant Dracquet had taken in Charles, and the appearance of that magnificent bay stallion over a week before.
    Charles had mentioned, as well, that another Police officer would be coming to lodge at the Rose d'Or in his place. Elise had found that interesting. Something odd was afoot: the Paris Police had had nothing to do with Charles de Saint-Légère's arrangement with the Rose d'Or.
    She had not troubled Charles with her speculations, but smilingly refused an urgent offer of marriage, the tenth Charles had made in the year since he had come to live there. She had Claude, the older of the two men who helped at the inn, escort him to a coach. She had pressed a packed lunch on him, containing several of her sugar cakes, laughingly made him promise to write, and then went back into the inn.
    He would be coming back, so it was useless to mope. She had an inn to run, and the morning rush was coming.
    Still... She paused to gaze out the door one last time. She was fond of Charles, and she was honest enough with herself to admit that her feeling for him was a little deeper than mere fondness. It was best to wait and see. He would be back.
    Elise had known suffering in her life, even though she had not yet reached her twenty -ninth year. She had known love and disappointment and grief. They had almost driven her mad, and in the end she, born a lady, had turned her back on the glittering world of the Faubourg St. Germain and become an innkeeper. She did not have time to brood over the past, and she could indulge her passion for sheltering strays and lost souls.
    Charles de Saint -Légère was neither of these. He had originally come to the Rose d'Or upon his return to France in 1832 when Christien L'Eveque, Elise's close cousin and dear friend, had told him that the landlady brewed the finest English style ale in Paris. She did: it had been the best he had ever tasted, and he had told her so. Their conversation had been an interesting one, and when it was finished, he was one of the inn's employees, rooming there at a reduced rate in exchange for his services as a sort of watchman.
    Charles had promptly fallen in love with Elise. She had refused or laughed off at least ten proposals of marriage in the year since he had come there.
    Elise knew she would miss him, but she could sort out her emotions while he was gone. She smiled, closed the door, and went back into the inn.
    Later, as she was preparing a batch of gingerbread, Yvette, her co -owner, came to her with the news that a gentleman had called at the inn and was asking to speak with her personally. He was in the small salon. 'Lise had best watch her step: he didn't seem one to trifle with.
    Elise laughed at Yvette as she untied her apron, and said, "When have I ever tried to 'trifle' with our customers, havette? You should know better. Did you invite him to sit down?"
    " I drew a chair forward for him, but he only nodded to me and went to the window," Yvette said, shivering a little. "Be careful, Elise! He's armed!"
    " I will bring my pistols," Elise said dryly. "But haven't you looked at some of our customers? They're all armed!" She set her apron aside and went to the small salon.
    Elise had no doubt that this man was probably quite unalarming. Yvette had a justifiable terror of men with weapons, but she tended to see threats where none existed.
    She paused outside the room. A medium-crowned hat, a pair of gloves and a fine,