Sebastian’s hand pressed gently against my back, and his lips quirked as he spied my expression.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, low enough for only me to hear. “He lives for formality. I’ll be at the gathering tonight, and the servants will take excellent care of you.”
He instructed the servants to carry my trunks upstairs while I stood bemused in the grand hall. Then he gave me a saucy wink and followed where his grandfather had gone. As he walked away with his hands behind his back, I watched him suddenly halt beside a massive portrait of a brooding young man—one who resembled Sebastian closely with long black hair caught up in a queue. One look at that painting and then he continued ... but I thought something deflated within his formerly confident stride.
Was the portrait of Hugh?
And would he tell Lord Sinclair about Edward’s discoveries at Limehouse?
I could not shake the sense that, despite Sebastian’s joviality, maybe he felt as anxious as I did. A shiver rippled through me as I studied my new home.
Lord Sinclair reminded me all too much of the Iron Colonel.
28:Kitty
The art of pleasing is the art of deception.
LUC DE CLAPIERS, MARQUIS DE VAUVENARGUES
The dining room was a study in contrasts. Imposing, it reminded me of the drawing rooms of England, but the details were undeniably foreign. The walls were painted a deep ochre, with teakwood panels gleaming in the light of brass oil lamps. The long mahogany table stretched endlessly, its surface reflecting the glow of crystal decanters and silver candelabras.
The air was thick with tantalizing aromas—cardamom, turmeric, cloves—all mingling with the buttery richness of ghee. Sebastian pointed out each dish as he sat beside me. My stomach, unsettled by months of travel and stale ship fare, fluttered at the scents of roasted meats and fragrant biryanis. Trays of chutneys—mint, tamarind, and a fiery red chili paste—lined the sideboard beside bowls of steaming rice and flatbreads wrapped in linen.
Though only family dined that evening, the staff moved with practiced ease, their soft steps and the clink of dishes a counterpoint to the low murmur of conversation.
One boy, no older than fourteen, approached with a jug of water, his eyes fixed firmly downward as he poured. Something about his solemnity tugged at me, an unspoken story written in his guarded expression.
I couldn’t stop watching them, the servants—Indian men and boys who looked like my mother’s people,like me. They reminded me of a part of myself I had carefully hidden, a part I was now surrounded by, but felt strangely separate from. Their presence unsettled me in ways I hadn’t expected.
The table buzzed with conversation, most of it in clipped English tones, though I caught the occasional unfamiliar word murmured between the servants. Dismayed, I tried to remember my Urdu and failed.
Lord Sinclair sat at the head of the table, giving no indication of the conversation he’d held with Sebastian behind private doors. Nor had I a single moment alone with my husband to inquire how his grandfather received the news.
Beside me, Sebastian seemed at ease, though I caught the occasional flicker of tension in his jaw. Seated next to Lord Sinclair was Sebastian’s youngest brother. He was handsome in the way the Sinclairs all seemed to be, with high cheekbones and intense eyes. But where Sebastian’s charm was easy and infectious, Julien’s demeanor appeared sullen and heavy, like a storm cloud waiting to burst. When Lord Sinclair introduced us before the meal, Julien gave me the briefest nod before directing his attention to his wine.
“Younger brothers are notoriously difficult,” Sebastian murmured in my ear after Julien’s slight.
“Is that what you call it?” I whispered back. “He hasn’t said a word to me.”
“He’s made his feelings clear enough without speaking,” Sebastian replied, his smile strained. “He’s quite put out with my return.”
I wanted to ask more, but with Julien so near I thought it best to wait until we were alone. Why did he resent his older brother?
Across from me, a young woman with a pile of auburn hair and dressed in lavender picked at her food. Hugh’s widow, Charlotte Sinclair, I had been told.
Dinner was a sensory feast, each dish more vibrant and flavorful than the last. But as the courses went on, I found my appetite waning.
The weight of the house pressed down on me—the tension in the air, the subtle glances between family members, and the dissonance between the grandeur of the meal and the unseen Indian hands that had prepared it under British command.
Toward the end of dinner, Charlotte leaned toward me, her fine-boned hands fidgeting with her napkin. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “Did Sebastian tell you about my husband, his older brother, Hugh?”
I turned to her, startled by the boldness of the question. “Somewhat,” I admitted. “I am sorry for your loss.”
She glanced toward Lord Sinclair, who was engaged in conversation at the other end of the table, then back at me. “Calcutta has its risks, particularly in Lord Sinclair’s line of work. Unfortunately, my husband found himself cornered and robbed at one of the Sinclair warehouses.”
She went on. “I confess I know nothing of that day. I try not to get involved in the family business. It’s unseemly for women to do so, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity to conduct business,” I answered.
