“Let me inform you of what your precious Company and my grandfather did. I was stolen from my mother, Khair-un-Nissa, against both our wills. I have not heard from her since. I’ve been told that she died. That my entire family died in Hyderabad.”
He paused, his brows knit. “I was just a lad then, but I remember some of it—at least, what my grandfather shared. The palace was in turmoil—not just with diphtheria but with tensions rising between the nizam’s court and the British officials. Your father was caught in the middle, trying to bridge a divide that was already beginning to close.”
He shook his head slowly. “As for your mother’s family? I don’t doubtmany of them passed of fever. It was a dangerous place. The nizam proved a moody man with a harem full of intrigue. Not a good place for a young girl to be raised. Your father’s Indian way of life ran against how most Company men lived. Rumor had it that he dressed as the Mughals and adopted their religion. And once the diphtheria outbreak began—well, it gave the colonel all the excuse he needed to rescue you from the court.”
I stared at him, my throat tightening.
“You must understand, Miss Grenville, this wasn’t merely a question of scandal or propriety. In those years, the nizam’s court had begun welcoming French military advisors again—men aligned with revolutionary ideals, Jacobins even, determined to spread the revolutionary French cause, later followed by Napoleon’s men. The Company feared the spread of such influence. Can you imagine if the French rhetoric gained a foothold in India? Your father may have stood between worlds, but they feared which side the court would favor. They couldn’t risk leaving a child of both houses—both bloodlines—within reach of that kind of political volatility. To the British men in Calcutta, removing you wasn’t a betrayal. It was policy.”
After a moment he continued, his voice gentler. “I know it must be painful to remember. Your father hadmanypolitical enemies, and my grandfather said your mother refused to leave the country.”
I reeled at the news. “You think she passed away? Or could she still be alive?”
Mr. Sinclair frowned, his gaze darkening slightly. “I don’t know for certain what happened to her. There were so many conflicting reports. Some said she fell ill, others whispered that the nizam intervened—perhaps to assert his control or to squash rumors. There was even talk that he intended to marry her to someone else, someone more aligned with his plans.”
“And what rumors of her now?” I demanded, my voice trembling as I leaned closer, desperate for answers.
His eyes softened, and for a moment, I felt the warmth radiating from him, a contrast to the chill of the night air. “I wish I could tell you for certain. I’m sorry, Miss Grenville.”
I wanted to cry. Devastation must have played upon my face, for he reached out a hand to touch my arm, only to drop it at the last moment.
“I am so sorry,” he repeated.
Had I misunderstood the conversation between my aunt and grandfather? Had Grandfather rescued me all those years ago? If so, the knowledge didn’t settle the ache within my chest.
I also could not dismiss the letter I’d found—one that contained my mother’s name and the worddanger—addressed to Edward and me. Should I trust Mr. Sinclair with the contents I had read?
Before I could make up my mind, he looked over his shoulder as voices floated nearby. From our vantage point on the balcony jutting from the drawing room, we both turned to see Grandfather take a seat by the fireplace. Ah, so he was determined to play chaperone after all. I dared not risk that he might listen in on our conversation.
To my relief, Aunt soon followed, waving invitations that had been delivered recently. Her strident voice filled the drawing room as she demanded to know what events we might attend.
“I thank you for your answers, Mr. Sinclair. I have long wondered what might have happened.” I tugged the shawl closer. Encouraged by how well he listened, I forged ahead, determined to settle this marriage business between us once and for all.
“Why don’t we call a truce? I have a more acceptable proposition than what our grandfathers planned. Edward will be my escort, and you our guest, as we navigate a London season.”
I squared my shoulders. “But for that to happen, I need Grandfather’s approval. He’s... reluctant to let me step into society, and I won’t have another year pass by with me tucked out of sight. With you at my side, he might be persuaded. And in return, we can both avoid any peskyoffers of marriage—from scheming mamas or fortune-hunting dandies. Surely you realize I will never marry you.”
He remained silent. So silent that my nerves threatened to get the best of me.
Then Mr. Sinclair tilted his head slightly, studying me as though I were a puzzle he intended to solve. “Neveris a rather definitive word, Miss Grenville. Are you entirely certain?”
“I am,” I replied with conviction, though my heartbeat betrayed me. “You may consider that my final answer.”
He stepped closer, the warmth of his presence unsettling. “Then allow me to propose a different arrangement.”
I crossed my arms, my skin pebbling in the evening air. “What sort of arrangement?”
His smile tilted crooked. “Let us at least get to know each other better before coming to such a decision. If you refuse me once my visit has concluded, I shall bid you adieu.”
My pulse quickened, but I raised my chin, refusing to back down. “You’ll find that I intend to be very difficult, Mr. Sinclair. If you can prove to me that the East India Company is aboveboard... perhaps...” Then I tipped forward to him. “That, and cut your hair, sir. You look like a pirate.”
A laugh broke free of him. “A pirate?”
“Very much so, sir. A proper rake could do no less.”
He tensed even as my tone remained playful.
“You see, I am not so easily charmed,” I added. Not at all. I had a stash of romantic novels stuffed under my bed to guide me. “I prefer my freedom.”
