“What of James Grenville?”
Mr. Wilberforce leaned forward. “Mr. Grenville went to Hyderabad as a liaison between the Company and the nizam in order to combat the French threat, but credible reports indicate he spied for both the East India Company and the nizam’s court, playing both groups. He reached out to us shortly before his death, noting corruption ran deep. In your company. But when we demanded answers from the East India Company board of directors, we were told that he lied. Sold out his country’s interests to the Muslim court in Hyderabad.”
My skin pebbled. Perhaps there was more to his death than I had first assumed. “Mr. Grenville married the maharaja’s daughter and later died of diphtheria. That is all I know.”
Mr. Grant’s voice tightened. “Some in Parliament believe the nizams are now little more than puppets, bound by debts that can only be repaidwith land and resources. And they suspect the East India Company is the one tightening the noose. Tell us, Mr. Sinclair. Are they wrong?”
I blew out a harsh breath. How ironic that my grandfather thought it was William Carey who threatened stability in India with his preaching.
The weight of the gentlemen’s stares bore down on me, but all I could think of was Kitty. A memory surfaced unbidden—her face clouded with anger and hurt as she demanded if I knew of her past in India and the irreparable harm that had been done to her.
That moment had shifted something in me. What, I wasn’t exactly certain.
“I cannot say I know of any rogue players, but I will look into the matter and give you an answer as soon as possible.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Do you think Miss Grenville is aware of her father’s spying?”
Mr. Grant raised an eyebrow. “It is possible she does not know the full extent. People often conceal such matters from young ladies.”
Mr. Wilberforce’s gaze pierced me. “It’s understandable to feel protective of her. No woman wants a father branded a traitor. Her grandfather remains outspoken against our efforts in England and publicly condemned his son’s conversion to the Muslim faith. Can you see our predicament? James Grenville accused the Company of corruption. The Company calls him a traitor to the Crown.”
A shiver swept through me. I had not known her father had been labeled as such.
“I urge you to consider where your loyalties will lie,” Mr. Grant added.
The statement struck me like a blow. The Company. The very institution my family relied on, the cornerstone of our wealth and power. These men spoke of spies, of bribery, of backdoor dealings—allegations that, if true, unraveled everything I believed I was working toward. Surely it could not be as widespread as they claimed. Surely there were good men still trying to do what was right.
I lowered my gaze—the news far worse than I could have imagined. I felt like a ship unmoored.
What would Kitty think if she learned her father was a spy and a traitor?
Before I could answer, Mr. Grant leaned in. “We’ve traced shipments, Mr. Sinclair. Poppies grown in Bengal, sold at auction, then trafficked across the South China Sea. The Company claims legality. But legality isn’t the same as righteousness. They steal land from farmers to grow whatever crops the Company demands and trade the harvest abroad.”
I forced my jaw to unclench. “With respect, gentlemen, the tradeissanctioned. The Crown knows. Parliament knows. Opium is a revenue stream, not a secret.”
Inwardly, I cringed. I knew of many who abused those poppies—starting with medicinal purposes before finding themselves ensnared.
“But should it be?” Mr. Wilberforce demanded, echoing my thoughts. “You’ve likely seen the damage drink can do in England. Is poison any less deadly when it sails east? The Company hooks the Chinese on opium so we can dictate the terms of trade, Mr. Sinclair.”
A breath caught in my throat. I thought of the bottle I hadn’t touched in nearly two years. Of the men I’d seen wasting away in Calcutta’s back alleys.
My silence stretched too long.
“The Company keeps its ledgers clean,” I said at last. “As junior factor, I’ve seen the records. And I keep to what’s legal.”
“But you’re not just a Company man,” Mr. Wilberforce gestured to me. “You’re a man of conscience. Mr. Carey assured us so.”
Was I? Some days I wasn’t sure. But I knew this much: My grandfather had his hands in plenty of affairs—land, trade, contracts. If opium fields existed near Calcutta, they weren’t under his purview. And smuggling? No. He’d never stoop to that. Surely not.
I shifted in my seat before I realized my action. “I will not ignore anycomplaints of the nizam’s court, nor the suffering of the people within the Calcutta marketplace. And yes, I hate any substance that ensnares. But again, gentlemen, the trade is sanctioned.”
“You can assure me that the Company does not siphon goods from the Indian people and sell them for profit?” Mr. Wilberforce demanded.
“My grandfather would never permit outright theft,” I said, the words dry in my throat. “We follow what the government allows. There’s no smuggling—only Company trade, as the Crown has sanctioned. We are ... respectable.”
“Then let your voice prove it,” Mr. Wilberforce said. “Address Parliament. Publicly. Speak for the fair treatment of laborers in the colonies. Your position in the East India Company gives your words weight.”
The opportunity to speak in Parliament was both a privilege and a burden.
“I am bound to the interests of the Company, sir.” And I was not yet ready to believe its house of stone had cracks running through the foundation.
