I almost touched her face but stopped short.
She parted her lips, then faltered. “I see. I do believe the earl is as careless with his words as his sabre.”
Did she truly care for him? She had willingly danced with him, attended the Herschels’ gathering, and tormented me with the idea that I may not win her after all. And I wanted to win her. Not for her fortune or mine, but for herself. She had rebuffed my every attempt, showing hardly any favor until today. A pox upon our families, who gave us no choice, muddying the waters. I wanted her to choose me for me ... as I chose her.
“But it will not matter,” I hurried to add when the silence between us stretched too long. “I must leave for India within a fortnight. My grandfather expects me to remain and marry, but your hesitation changes everything. Why prolong your discomfort? I’ll book passage tomorrow. We’ll part as friends, and you’ll finally be free. If you wish for Lord Chudley—”
“I do not wish for Lord Chudley,” she said fiercely.
Shock filled me, but before I could reply, Edward strode into the kitchen, flashing a note.
“A message from the Claphams, Mr. Sinclair. I cannot play chaperone another moment. Appointments await me tonight.”
I read the note; its contents drained the blood from my face. I tucked it away. They wanted to grill me yet again, their representatives completely unconvinced by my arguments, and time was not my friend. Should I meet with them tonight? I could hardly refuse and appear as disreputable as I ever had.
The fragile moment with Kitty dissipated like smoke. I cast her one last lingering glance, then followed her brother toward the door.
Behind me, I left a silence I feared might never be filled again.
17:Kitty
It is the distinguishing glory of Christianity not to rest satisfied with superficial appearances, but to rectify the motives, and purify the heart.
WILLIAM WILBERFORCE
I headed downstairs to Grandfather’s study late that evening when the household lay asleep, my mind churning with the day’s events. I didn’t want to see Sebastian leave, not when I considered him a friend—the same plump boy whose cheek I had slapped and then, years later, stitched with the greatest care.
As for Lord Chudley, whatever charms he had flaunted upon our first meetings, I now found them far less appealing—like strawberry jam slathered on a moldy biscuit.
Banishing the image of the young earl from my mind, I tiptoed across the shadowed burgundy Persian rug with a lit candle in hand, until at last I found Grandfather’s study and pushed on the door. It creaked open, revealing a gloomy room illuminated with shafts of cold moonlight. My feeble light wavered, throwing ghastly shadows across the burgundy-papered walls. The spicy scent of tobacco filled the room.
I was not allowed within this hallowed space alone. Desperation propelled me forward to discover the latest mysterious letter from my birthplace.
The colonel’s desk and room lay organized with military precision. Not a speck of dust to be found anywhere on the gleaming mahogany desk, nor the polished bookcases. Resting on the shelves were items from his former life in India.
Despite the urgency of my mission, I drew close to the shelves and reached out to touch the spines of the books, each one a portal to a world I could only imagine. Titles on Indian history, military strategy, and exotic flora caught my eye, their worn covers bearing testament to the colonel’s meticulous nature.
Among the tomes, my fingers grazed a small brass box engraved with swirling patterns. I lifted it gently, feeling the weight of its contents, and opened it to find a collection of old letters, neatly folded and tied with a frayed ribbon. Each one bore a seal, the wax still glistening in the dim light.
Guilt flickered within me at my subterfuge, but I had too many questions not to pry into those letters.
A low rumble of thunder echoed outside, startling me, and I nearly dropped the candle and the small bundle in my other hand. My heart raced as I quickly scanned the room, half-expecting to see my grandfather emerge from the shadows. The scent of tobacco grew stronger, mingling with the earthiness of the leather-bound journals stacked neatly on one side of the desk.
An open letter lay exposed on the desk. It bore the watermark of a Calcutta trading house.
Received payment for two bales of blue dye—marked A3 and C7—via Sinclair & Company, per usual arrangement. Enclosed: £800 for January and February consignment.
My brow furrowed. Blue dye? That was indigo, wasn’t it? The price seemed extravagant. Even with high-quality dye, could two bales fetch so much?
Below, the signature chilled me:
Lord Charles Sinclair
Continue routing through Hyderabad.
Why through Hyderabad? And why did he pay such a princely sum?
My gaze caught a glint of something on the other side of the desk. A small drawer was slightly ajar, its contents hidden from view. Curiosity piqued, I crept around the desk, my heart pounding.
