Page 40 of Mail-Order Viscountess

“That’s all?”

“What else would there be?”

But Clara knew her too well. Had spent too many years reading the things Kate wouldn’t say aloud. Her sister’s expression shifted as understanding dawned in her eyes, along with something that looked almost like concern. “Kate⁠—”

A knock interrupted whatever Clara had been about to say. A relief.

Kate stood and moved to the door. When she opened it, Mrs. Wang held a laden tray.

“Hot stew. Fresh bread. Tea.” The older woman bustled into the room without waiting for invitation, then set the tray on the bedside table. “You eat. Then sleep. Tomorrow we talk about what comes next.”

What comes next. The words settled in Kate’s stomach like stones. “Thank you, Mrs. Wang.” She did her best to inject warmth into her voice despite the tightness in her chest. “This is very kind.”

The older woman paused at the door, her dark eyes sharp as they swept over both of them. “You are safe here. Remember that.” Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made Kate’s pulse kick harder.

Clara moved to the tray, lifting a bowl of stew and breathing in the steam. “She’s right, you know. We are safe here.”

Safe. The word felt slippery, hard to hold onto.

Safe from what? The storm, yes. Starvation and cold, certainly.

But safe from the consequences of a night spent unchaperoned in a cave with Thomas Balfour?

She moved to the window and pressed her palm against the cool glass. Somewhere out there in the darkness lay Butte. Soon, Edmund Hartwell would spread word of what he’d seen. Or what he thought he’d seen.

Mrs. Hartwell would be the first to know. By next week, half of Butte society would be whispering about the seamstress with questionable morals. Her carefully laid plans, the future she’d been building—all of it crumbling before she’d even had a chance to begin.

“You should eat something.” Clara’s voice pulled her back from the darkness of her thoughts.

Kate turned. Her sister had already started on the bread, tearing off pieces with fingers that still trembled a little. Her bowl of stew sat beside her, steam still rising in lazy curls.

Kate forced herself to move away from the window, to cross the room, to take up the second bowl, and sink onto the bed beside Clara. The stew’s warmth spread through her hands, and she lifted a spoonful to her lips. Rich beef broth, vegetables that had been preserved, herbs she couldn’t quite identify. It tasted like comfort. Like home, though she’d never had a home that felt quite like this.

The weight of Clara’s gaze was strong, though Kate didn’t acknowledge it.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Kate took another bite. Then another.

“Kate.” Clara set down her bread, fixing her full attention on Kate now. “What happened?”

The spoon in her hand weighed as much as a log. She set it in the bowl, then placed the bowl on the tray. Her fingers wanted to shake, so she pressed them flat against her thighs. “We had a visitor this morning.”

Clara’s expression shifted—wariness creeping into her features. “A visitor?”

“Edmund Hartwell.” The name tasted bitter. “The copper baron from the stage. Audrey Hartwell’s husband. He was riding near the river when we left the cave.”

Understanding dawned across Clara’s features, followed by something that looked like dread. “Oh no.”

“He drew his own conclusions about what we’d been doing all night.” Kate worked for a casual tone, though her chest felt tight enough to crack. “Made it clear that his wife can no longer associate with me. That recommending my services to Butte society would damage her own reputation.”

Clara’s hand flew to her mouth. “Kate, no.”

“So the seamstress business is gone.” She tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact, tried to sound like this was just another setback to be managed. But the words came out hollow.

Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s not fair. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Fair has nothing to do with it.” Kate reached for her bowl again, though the thought of eating made her stomach turn. “You know that as well as I do. Reputation is all that matters to people like the Hartwells. And mine is ruined.”