Page 12 of Mail-Order Viscountess

He couldn’t blame her. If he’d been in her position—dragged across the continent on false promises, only to discover the whole thing was a lie—he’d be suspicious too.

Still, the constant scrutiny made his jaw tighten. Every time her gaze swept over his battered face, judgment seemed to drip from her eyes. Like the fight proved something about his character. Like helping that girl made him reckless or dangerous instead of decent.

“Thank you.” Clara’s voice came out barely above a whisper. She’d been so quiet he’d almost forgotten she was there—which was ridiculous given she was the whole reason for this disaster. “That’s very kind.”

Rose stood, smoothing her skirts with the kind of grace that came naturally to her. “Why don’t I show you to your rooms? You can rest, and we’ll meet for dinner later. Say, six o’clock?”

Kate rose as well, one hand reaching to help Clara up from her chair. The movement was protective—the way she positioned herself between Clara and the rest of them.

Thomas stood as well. The movement made his vision blur, and he gripped the edge of the table until the room steadied.

When his eyes focused again, Kate was watching him with that same calculating expression. Like she was cataloging every wince, every sign of weakness, storing it all away to use against him later.

Let her look. He had nothing to hide. Well, except for the fact that he’d be heading to California as soon as he could manage it—but that was his business, not hers.

And the day he’d leave couldn’t come soon enough.

CHAPTER 4

The stairs creaked under Rose Balfour’s weight—a sound that matched the exhaustion pulling at Kate’s bones.

“Your rooms are just down this hall.” Rose glanced back over her shoulder, her auburn hair catching the light from the oil lamps mounted along the papered walls. “They’re not fancy, but they’re clean. Mrs. Kendell keeps a respectable establishment.”

Kate’s fingers tightened on the handle of her carpetbag. Respectable. The word meant different things depending on who spoke it. In Columbia, respectable had included her stepmother’s drawing room—all silk and mahogany and cruelty dressed up as polite conversation.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit and narrow. The wallpaper bore faded roses that might have been cheerful once, before years of frontier dust had dulled them to brown. Better than some places they’d stayed on the journey. Worse than others. At least it didn’t reek of unwashed bodies and stale tobacco.

Rose stopped at a door near the end of the hall and produced a key from her pocket. “Here you are. We can request another room if you’d each rather have your own.” She pushed the door open and stepped aside.

The room was small. A double bed dominated the space, covered in a faded quilt. A dresser stood against one wall, complete with a chipped porcelain basin and pitcher and a small mirror above. A single window overlooked the street below, its curtains drawn against the afternoon light.

Kate stepped inside, Clara close behind her. “This will be fine.” The bed would be adequate—they’d shared smaller in worse places. At least this room had a door that locked. She’d check the mechanism before they slept tonight.

“The bathing room is downstairs.” Rose remained in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her. “I can let Mrs. Kendall know you’d like baths drawn?”

“Please.” Her voice scratched, so she cleared her throat. “That would be appreciated.”

Rose’s smile flickered—uncertain, like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or flee. She’d been kind enough on the walk from the stage depot, filling the silence with commentary about Butte’s growth and the weather in the mountains. But kindness didn’t erase the fact that her family had lied to Clara. Had brought them here under false pretenses.

Had summoned a mail-order bride for a man who’d never asked for one.

Kate set her carpetbag on the floor beside the dresser, her muscles protesting the sudden lack of motion after hours confined in the stagecoach. Three months of travel had taught her body to expect constant jarring movement. Standing still felt wrong somehow, like the floor might drop away at any moment.

“I’ll have Mrs. Kendall send up tea as well.” Rose shifted her weight, still hovering in the doorway. “Unless you’d prefer coffee?”

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Clara’s voice carried that bright politeness she always used when trying to pretend everything was fine.

Rose’s smile warmed a fraction. “I’ll see to it then. We’ll eat dinner at six in the dining room, but if you’d rather have trays sent up⁠—”

“We’ll come down.” Kate kept her voice level. Hiding in their room would solve nothing. She needed to observe Thomas Balfour more, assess whether his pretty speech about choices and respect held any truth. Men said all kinds of things when their backs were against a wall. Following through was another matter entirely.

“Of course.” Rose’s fingers worried at her skirt—a nervous gesture that seemed at odds with her otherwise composed demeanor. “I know this situation is...unconventional. Thomas truly didn’t know about the arrangement. My husband and his brothers meant well, but they should have consulted him first.”

Meant well. As if good intentions excused lies.

The words sat bitter on Kate’s tongue, but she swallowed them. Antagonizing Mrs. Balfour would accomplish nothing. The woman seemed genuine enough—nervous, certainly, but that could mean anything. Guilt over her family’s deception. Concern for how this disaster might unfold. Simple discomfort with strangers.

Kate had learned not to trust her first impressions. People showed only what they wanted you to see.