Mr. Grant inclined his head. “We support his ministry in India and have heard firsthand of the troubles within the country.”
I resisted the urge to pull on my new cravat, which tickled my chin. Fussy thing. How did gentlemen stand such a contraption?
“Thank you, sir. India is ... complex, to say the least.”
Mr. Wilberforce nodded. “Have you worked long with Mr. Carey? He said you have a gift for languages and often help him with translations.”
The question evoked both admiration and regret. “He’s a determined man. The conditions are harsh, yet he finds purpose in them as he shares the gospel.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low but no less passionate. “Determination indeed. I understand he has faced considerable resistance to his efforts. It is unfortunate that he doesn’t have greater support from the Company.”
Such a tightrope I walked, placating each side.
“True,” I agreed, choosing my words with care. “Not many share his vision.”
Mr. Grant gave me a knowing look. “And what of your vision, Mr. Sinclair? What do you make of the Company’s role in India?”
I flinched. Was I being interrogated or recruited? The familiar heat of sweat under starched linen crept down my back. I forced a calm expression. These men didn’t understand what it meant to navigate Company politics, to survive under the watchful eye of my grandfather.
“There are ... always challenges,” I admitted, my tone guarded. “While the French are finally routed out, tensions linger between the Hindu and Muslim territories. India remains a patchwork quilt with fragile threads—easily torn apart by decades of infighting.”
The men frowned.
“And the East India Company represents British interests? Or its own?” Mr. Grant demanded.
I did not need to give Mr. Grant a history lesson. His experiences with the East India Company would have taught him peace remained tenuous. The Marathas had carved out a war-hardened empire in the west. Mysore, under Tipu Sultan, had also fought the British tooth and nail with French backing. And the nizam of Hyderabad flipped allegiances to survive, while the nawabs in the north ruled like miniature kings, more loyal to their purses than their people. As Grandfather explained it, we walked into a fractured land and tried to patch what was already splintered.
“I should like to think that we represent all interests, but particularly Britain’s. Do you not hold to British interests, gentlemen?”
A blow—aiming at their patriotism. But none of the men shifted in their chairs. Instead, Mr. Wilberforce steepled his fingers together, silent for a moment.
“It is the true duty of every man to promote the happiness of his fellow creatures to the utmost of his power,” he finally said.
I shifted in my chair. Didn’t I believe this? Mr. Carey had encouraged me to think so. But I resented the implication that my family and the rest of the Company ought to endure unfair accusations.
“On that, you and I would agree,” I answered.
Unappeased, Mr. Wilberforce tapped his fingers restlessly against the arms of the chair. “I’ve heard of the opium crops forced on the local farmers. We’ve been gathering information about these practices through certain ... connections in the ton. But even our most detailed reports barely scratch the surface.”
I blinked. An inside man—or men? Possibly of my own acquaintance? “In London or in Calcutta?”
He pierced me with a look. “I am not at liberty to divulge such information.”
Whoever this agent was, he would likely be invisible. I needed to find him, and soon. Or had my good friend, Mr. Carey, poisoned the men before me—just as Grandfather had warned?
“Gentlemen, if you will continue to accuse the board of directors, I need more proof of wrongdoing.”
Mr. Grant’s expression hardened as he studied me. “You are no doubt familiar, then, with a certain James Grenville?”
The question caught me off guard, and my heart stuttered. “Grenville?”
He gave a measured nod. “Yes. James Grenville. He was the British resident at Hyderabad, stationed at the nizam’s court. His ... methods were, shall we say, a subject of concern to Parliament and to the Company.”
Shock flickered through me, though I fought to keep it from my face. James Grenville—Kitty’s father. I had heard of his legacy: his time at the nizam’s court, his skill with languages, even his ability to charm. But methods? What had they learned that I hadn’t?
Mr. Carey hinted at corruption buried deep in the Company’s dealings—had James Grenville been part of it? My mentor had also suggested that even good men could be drawn into compromise.
Or was this just more smoke, stirred by men in armchairs, flaming scandal with secondhand tales?
