“A woman has no business dabbling in politics. Remind me to throw outThe Timesbefore you fill your head with such nonsense.”
She wasn’t looking at her grandfather when he uttered that threat—she was watching me, gauging my reaction. The weight of her words was surprising.
I felt the pressure mount. My response could shift everything—either softening her opinion or reinforcing her evident distrust. And of course, it would shape my standing in the colonel’s eyes as well.
“Peace”—I cleared my throat—“is often hard-won. The Company has brought stability to regions that would otherwise descend into chaos.” I paused, sensing her skepticism. “But stability should never come at the cost of humanity. The challenge is finding balance, Miss Grenville. Surely you are well-informed on how we British kept French agents, the revolutionary Jacobins, from taking over and asserting dominance. We’ve prevented wars between the Hindus and Muslims. Is that so intolerable?”
I did not care for her attitude, and my ire rose as I spoke, just as it had during my visit with Mr. Carey.
The colonel nodded, his mouth twitching with satisfaction. But Miss Grenville’s eyes narrowed, her smile fading.
“I see,” she murmured. “Balance, then. And who defines what is balanced?”
Her grandfather dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Katherine, your imagination runs rampant, as always. Leave the governance of empires to men who understand it.”
“The Vellore Mutiny was featured prominently in the London papers,” she said, voice sharp. “I still remember the uproar—it was all anyone spoke of for weeks. All of England took notice. I daresay we were not all imagining concerns.”
Her mention of Vellore caught me off guard. The brutal mutiny had served as a stark reminder of the Company’s past dealings—actions that grated, truth be told.
After all, Vellore was no minor incident. In 1806, Indian soldiers in the Company’s service—sepoys—rose in bloody revolt after the British imposed new uniforms that disrespected both Hindu and Muslim beliefs. Leather headgear trimmed European-style and cartridges rumored to be greased with cow and pig fat ignited religious outrage. Over a hundred British soldiers were slaughtered in the rebellion’s first furious hours before the uprising was crushed with ruthless retribution.
I resisted the urge to tug at my cravat.
The younger Mr. Grenville leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes flicking between us like a spectator at a duel.
Colonel Grenville waved his knife. “A man must rule with a heavy fist in order to bring progress.”
Miss Grenville straightened, jutting out her jaw. There was spirit beneath her polished exterior, and it both intrigued and unsettled me—reminding me of the little girl who slapped my face.
I was here to win her over, to secure the future I needed, but this woman—the one I was bound to marry—was unlike anyone I’d ever encountered, battling with me at the first opportunity.
“I’ll leave it to the members of the East India Company, then,” she replied, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Since they do seem to be the authority on the subject.” Her eyes locked on mine one last time before she returned her attention to her plate and cut into her food with an air of finality. My chest tightened at the blatant flash of hate in her eyes.
The colonel’s nostrils flared. “You’re talking about a few disgruntled soldiers who couldn’t take discipline. If they’d just fallen in line—”
“Lord Sinclair believes in discipline,” I answered quickly. “Yet I will not defend what happened in 1806. Countless men were imprisoned.” I refrained from mentioning those who were executed for starting riots. “I might add that British officers responsible for forcing European customs on Indian troops were removed from their posts. Perhaps, Miss Grenville, reform is possible.”
My answer did not appease her, her full upper lip curling in response.
“Mr. Wilberforce may not agree such reform is possible,” the younger Mr. Grenville said. He had scarcely spoken the whole of the evening or touched his plate. “I understand there are those in Parliament who want a full accounting of the activities of the Company overseas.”
“To which our Mr. Sinclair will set the record straight,” the colonel replied with a triumphant tone.
I swallowed my claret, the taste suddenly bitter. Miss Grenville snorted, the sound unladylike.
I may have won the colonel’s favor, but the woman who would soon be my wife was an entirely different matter. If I couldn’t find a way to bridge the gap between us, my inheritance would be cold comfort in a marriage founded on resentment.
A tense silence followed, broken only by the clink of silver on china.
The colonel, undeterred, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
“We will, of course, show you the sights of London, will we not, Granddaughter? My Katherine has talked of nothing but seeing the city this year. I’m certain Mr. Sinclair will provide an excellent escort, won’t he? In the meantime, I shall arrange for the reading of the banns and find a suitable clergyman.”
Miss Grenville shrugged. “I think Edward and I can provide a list of all that London offers. I had plans to call on my friend Lady Ashford tomorrow. Our correspondence has been such a comfort this year. Perhaps Mr. Sinclair and my brother would be so kind as to join me.”
I was speechless at this change in her. Just when I thought I had taken her measure, she revealed another facet. Was this charm another tactic in the game? Or had I somehow earned a temporary truce?
“Good, then, it is settled. Tomorrow, Mr. Sinclair, I shall expect you early.” The colonel smiled again and pushed back his chair with finality.
