Chapter 5 Sebastian
I’m not afraid of failure; I’m afraid of
succeeding at things that don’t matter.
WILLIAM CAREY
I stepped out of the hired carriage and onto the quiet street of Berkeley Square taking in the surroundings, curiosity competing with rising dread. Georgian townhouses with tall, symmetrical facades loomed with dignity that separated Mayfair from the rest of London.
The house before me was no different, and perhaps even grander than its neighbors. The redbrick exterior, complemented by white columns framing the black front door, gave the house an air of restrained elegance. Nothing ostentatious but every bit impressive.
I inhaled deeply, the scent of London smoke mingling with the damp earth.
I had only been to this city and this house once before, and even then, just briefly.
Years had passed since that fleeting visit.
The townhouse before me seemed almost like a distant memory, a remnant of a life that felt both familiar and impossibly far away.
Resolved to banish my nerves at meeting Miss Grenville again, I climbed the steps and rapped the brass door knocker. Within moments, a butler ushered me into a spacious hall and led me to a drawing room decorated in pale yellow hues.
An older man, close in age to my grandfather, soon greeted me. My pulse stuttered when I realized he was alone. No Katherine Grenville.
Perhaps she did not want this marriage. How ironic that a man nicknamed “the Lothario” by his brothers now had qualms about meeting a young miss. I hoped she never learned of the embarrassing past I tried to keep hidden.
“You had a decent trip from India, I gather.” The colonel gestured to a settee beside the fireplace. I sat, following his lead.
“Well enough, sir,” I answered. “Only a few storms to weather.”
He nodded. “I remember your grandfather’s stout constitution. I don’t believe he was ever seasick in his life.”
“No, he could not endure being bested by the elements,” I said. The colonel, although he appeared relaxed, regarded me with interest.
“You resemble him, to be sure. And you carry yourself as he did when he was younger.”
I merely smiled at the comparison, while doubt settled in my mind.
My host tapped long fingers on the settee, hinting at some unrest. “I must warn you, Mr. Sinclair. My granddaughter does not take to the idea of marriage readily. She is high-spirited, intent on having her own way. But I think, if you are anything like your grandfather, you will prevail in battle.”
Battle? Hardly the language of wooing. I was about to answer when a rustle of skirts came from behind me and the colonel’s eyes narrowed.
“Ah, Katherine. You are late. I have already received your guest, Mr. Sebastian Sinclair.”
I rose from the settee and turned, my thoughts scattering like startled birds, impossible to gather once I spied the same dark-haired woman I had rescued on the busy street mere hours ago.
The weight of her in my arms, the flash of indignation in her eyes, the faint scent of rose water mingling with the damp air—all of it lingered.
The lovely face stopped me cold, though this time I caught the fire in her luminous eyes before she could mask it.
“You!” she blurted, coming to a sudden halt.
She was tall—I’d known that the moment I rescued her from the chaos of the street—but seeing her now, commanding despite her obvious shock, left me quite dumbstruck.
I managed a bow as the sting of that childhood slap flickered in my mind, an odd counterpoint to the warmth her presence stirred. She stood motionless, fists balling as if steadying herself, and I half expected her to whirl and leave without another word.
“It has been many years, Miss Grenville,” I said, feeling very much the fool. Some part of me had stirred with recognition when I saw her on the street, but the memory had not come clear until now. “Perhaps you do not remember meeting me when we were but children.”
“Oh, I quite remember.” Her voice sounded strained.
I froze, uncertain which unsettled me more—Miss Grenville’s clipped words or the unwelcome hostility radiating from the stranger who appeared at her side.
The warmth I’d felt at seeing her again cooled, replaced by the uncomfortable awareness that I might not be welcome here after all.
I met her grandfather’s gaze, lifting my chin out of habit, though every instinct warned me I was already on trial.
“And this is my grandson, Mr. Edward Grenville,” the colonel said, and the young man stepped forward, as if to guard her from me. I would expect no quarter from either of the grandchildren.
The younger Mr. Grenville said nothing, his mouth pinching into a firm line when I inclined my head in greeting.
The colonel rubbed his hands together with apparent glee. “A splendid gathering. You will, of course, join us for dinner.”
I mumbled something agreeable while resisting the urge to tug at my tight cravat. Considering the glares of the Grenville siblings, especially hers, those eyes sparking hard and bright, a long evening awaited.
A very long evening.
Dinner proved agonizing, with the colonel dominating the conversation, his questions a relentless barrage about the state of India. Each answer I gave felt like walking a tightrope—one misstep and I could lose his favor, along with my inheritance, which hung by a thread.
Miss Grenville, however, was silent, watching me from across the table.
Her pale-pink gown, while elegant, did nothing to flatter her striking features.
The pasty color seemed to drain the life from her complexion, muting the fiery spirit I’d glimpsed when we first met.
A pity, I thought. Katherine Aurora. The name conjured a brightness that her attire failed to reflect.
How might she look in the bold colors of India—turquoise, crimson, saffron?
She flushed beneath my perusal. “Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, what is your opinion of the East India Company’s methods in Hyderabad? Effective, would you say?”
I set my glass down, shocked at her bold question. Her tone was deceptively light, but I recognized a challenge when I heard one.
Before I could respond, the colonel’s knife clinked against his plate.
He glared at his granddaughter. “Effective? The East India Company’s methods are nothing short of exemplary.
Without its influence, India would remain a patchwork of warring states.
Efficiency isn’t the question—it’s the only solution to bring peace to warring principalities. ”
Miss Grenville didn’t waver, her mocking smile remaining fixed. “Some have raised concerns about the cost of that efficiency. Forced cultivation, famine, uprisings. What price is too high for peace?”
“A woman has no business dabbling in politics. Remind me to throw out The Times before you fill your head with such nonsense.”
She wasn’t looking at her grandfather when he uttered that threat—she was watching me, gauging my reaction. The weight of her words was surprising.
I felt the pressure mount. My response could shift everything—either softening her opinion or reinforcing her evident distrust. And of course, it would shape my standing in the colonel’s eyes as well.
“Peace”—I cleared my throat—“is often hard-won. The Company has brought stability to regions that would otherwise descend into chaos.” I paused, sensing her skepticism.
“But stability should never come at the cost of humanity. The challenge is finding balance, Miss Grenville. Surely you are well-informed on how we British kept French agents, the revolutionary Jacobins, from taking over and asserting dominance. We’ve prevented wars between the Hindus and Muslims. Is that so intolerable? ”
I did not care for her attitude, and my ire rose as I spoke, just as it had during my visit with Mr. Carey.
The colonel nodded, his mouth twitching with satisfaction. But Miss Grenville’s eyes narrowed, her smile fading.
“I see,” she murmured. “Balance, then. And who defines what is balanced?”
Her grandfather dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Katherine, your imagination runs rampant, as always. Leave the governance of empires to men who understand it.”
“The Vellore Mutiny was featured prominently in the London papers,” she said, voice sharp. “I still remember the uproar—it was all anyone spoke of for weeks. All of England took notice. I daresay we were not all imagining concerns.”
Her mention of Vellore caught me off guard. The brutal mutiny had served as a stark reminder of the Company’s past dealings—actions that grated, truth be told.
After all, Vellore was no minor incident.
In 1806, Indian soldiers in the Company’s service—sepoys—rose in bloody revolt after the British imposed new uniforms that disrespected both Hindu and Muslim beliefs.
Leather headgear trimmed European-style and cartridges rumored to be greased with cow and pig fat ignited religious outrage.
Over a hundred British soldiers were slaughtered in the rebellion’s first furious hours before the uprising was crushed with ruthless retribution.
I resisted the urge to tug at my cravat.
The younger Mr. Grenville leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes flicking between us like a spectator at a duel.
Colonel Grenville waved his knife. “A man must rule with a heavy fist in order to bring progress.”
Miss Grenville straightened, jutting out her jaw. There was spirit beneath her polished exterior, and it both intrigued and unsettled me—reminding me of the little girl who slapped my face.
I was here to win her over, to secure the future I needed, but this woman—the one I was bound to marry—was unlike anyone I’d ever encountered, battling with me at the first opportunity.