Chapter 7 Sebastian
I can plod. I can persevere in any definite pursuit.
To this I owe everything.
WILLIAM CAREY
I descended the staircase in the Grenville townhouse the next morning, my nerves thrumming from lack of sleep.
Most of the night, I had tossed and turned, mulling over my conversation with Miss Grenville.
What an impossible task lay before me. Frustration suffused me that both of our grandfathers would prove so heavy-handed in their demands.
Had the colonel truly sequestered his granddaughter in the countryside, never letting her live in London until now?
Clearly he had threatened her, just as my own had with me.
An inheritance and a life of isolation.
Hardly what a marriage ought to be built on.
Failure was not an option. If I faltered, everything would pass to my younger brother, Julien—a self-serving man who thought only of himself.
The plantation workers, already vulnerable, would suffer under his harshness, and I couldn’t allow that.
For their sake. Miss Grenville’s complaints about the East India Company would be amplified tenfold under his hand.
If I had the authority, I’d have dismissed him already.
How strange to think that my future hung in the balance of two delicate hands owned by Miss Grenville.
My pulse surged as I strode into the morning room papered a bright yellow. The cheerful walls clashed with my grim mood, and I saw no sign of her, causing a flicker of disappointment that I attempted to quash.
Edward glanced up from his paper as he motioned for me to join him at the table.
“My sister will not be joining us. A megrim, or so I’ve been told. Or did your conversation last night prove the real difficulty?”
I sat next to him. “I suspect any megrim comes from the threat of an unwanted marriage.”
He thrust the paper into my hands. “I have no doubt. I do not envy your task.”
Numb, I stared at the headlines, too discouraged to reply.
NEW PROCLAMATION ON TRADE REGULATIONS SPARKS DEBATE IN BENGAL
The East India Company has issued directives concerning the cultivation of key cash crops and revisions to land revenue systems. Critics, such as William Wilberforce, fear these measures may place undue strain upon local agricultural communities, leading to unrest among prominent landholders.
Reports suggest rising tensions within the Bengal Presidency . . .
“I am to meet with Mr. Wilberforce later this week,” I said with a wince as I set the paper down, my appetite fled.
“I wish you luck,” Mr. Grenville said cryptically. “He has the unique ability to ferret out a lie. You will not easily persuade him, nor my sister.”
Lord, guide me in this. Let me see beyond her prickly defenses to understand the pain lurking beneath.
Any other man would have marched out of the Grenville townhome while his dignity remained intact, considering her shenanigans.
But I was not like other men, and I had a duty to fulfill. I could not abandon my quest quite yet.
Regardless, I didn’t know whether to bite my cheek or tug on those curls once again. Difficult woman!
“Your sister . . . She is not an easy woman to understand. She told me of your shared history in Hyderabad. A tragic past,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral. “Despite what she has endured, she has a spirit about her. A strength of will.”
Edward’s brow lifted slightly, though his gaze remained on the coffee in his hand.
“Kit has had to be strong.” He set his cup down with a clink.
“I daresay she’s been given no choice. I don’t expect you to understand the full weight of it, Mr. Sinclair, since you have had the benefit of being fully English, able to go where you wish and say as you please.
But suffice it to say, my sister has been hurt more deeply than most realize.
I hope you will keep that in mind with this arranged marriage. ”
A complicated family, as complicated as my own.
“Tread carefully with her, or I shall be obliged to intervene, and you will not like it. Allow her to make her own decision.” The edge in his voice warned me against further questions.
Still, his words lingered, leaving me with a growing sense of urgency.
If I was to win her trust, I needed to rethink my approach.
“You have my word. I will accept her decision, whatever it may be.” Then, before I could help myself and sounding entirely too eager, “Will I see her later today?”
Edward smirked as he folded his paper. “I’ve plans for the both of us while Kit convalesces. You’ll see soon enough.”
I caught the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes, and my thoughts wandered to the bluestocking salon. She had meant to repel me with that visit, but she had only intrigued me further.
Snatching the paper a second time to distract myself, I spied another headline.
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE STALKS LIMEHOUSE DOCKS—A VIGILANTE AT WORK?
London’s docklands have long been a haven for smugglers, cutthroats, and illicit dealings, but recent nights have seen an unusual disturbance—one that has left more than a few hardened criminals quivering in the alleys.
Several dockworkers and night watchmen have reported a lone figure moving through Limehouse and Wapping after dark, slipping between the warehouses and disappearing before anyone can draw near . . .
I stared at the paper a moment longer, then huffed a quiet laugh. A lone figure prowling the docks at night, sending criminals scattering? Madness.
And yet, I envied his action.
Edward arched a black brow. “What’s so amusing?”
I folded the paper and set it aside. “Just thinking how much simpler life might be if all my problems could be solved in the dead of night with a well-placed right hook.”
Edward glanced at the paper. “You’re welcome to try your luck in Limehouse. I wager you’d find my sister the greater challenge by far.”
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. He wasn’t wrong.
When the carriage halted later that morning, Edward’s grin bordered on smug as he gestured toward the stately Georgian building on Bond Street.
A discreet sign announced Angelo’s School of Arms. Inside the building, we entered a grand training hall with polished wooden floors and high ceilings designed for ample room of movement, with mirrors lining most of the walls.
Various fencing weapons—foils, épées, and sabres—alongside framed portraits of past masters, including Domenico Angelo—brought a sense of awe.
Finally, I felt like I had come home.
Edward grinned at my obvious reaction. “There are smaller practice rooms adjacent to the main hall for private lessons, should you care for it. I can make arrangements if you wish.”
Even now Edward appeared an enigma as he eased into the group of men, all dandies with tousled curls.
He offered cool nods but refused to engage with them, instead leading me toward an older man with gray at his temples.
I wondered at the lack of introductions, since the other men seemed to recognize him.
We stopped before the slender man dressed from head to toe in black. Edward gestured to me. “Mr. Angelo, may I present a friend of my family, Mr. Sinclair? He has jousted with the very best in Europe, even with some of Napoleon’s men.”
Mr. Angelo regarded me with an arched brow. “Bah, the French! They think they are the best. Who did you train with?”
“Jean-Louis Michel,” I answered. Egos ran high within fencing circles.
Mr. Angelo barked a laugh. “You might as well have trained with a ballet master. Regardless, I should like to see what you are capable of, young man.”
I discarded my jacket, fully aware of the eyes upon me. My dated breeches and stockings remained at odds with the trousers the other men wore, yet I was no less prepared.
A young gentleman placed into my hand a practice foil. The weapon felt lighter than my preferred sabre, but suitable for a bout of skill.
“En garde,” Mr. Angelo said, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen countless duels. We raised our foils and saluted each other before slipping into the familiar guard position while several other fencers gathered around us.
Mr. Angelo moved to the left in a blur, extending one arm, his blade steady. The moment I shifted into seconde, he lunged. I parried the thrust, my blade sliding along his before he disengaged and swung his own blade. I countered with a deft quarte, our swords clashing.
“You’ve got some speed, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, circling me like a leopard about to devour its prey.
I stayed light on my feet, tracking his movements, waiting for the inevitable feint. He flicked his wrist, a classic flèche to close the distance, but I slipped back, evading the swipe.
Mr. Angelo pressed forward, his blade flashing in sharp, distracting thrusts. I parried each, allowing him to feel the resistance, then launched my attack and forced him to stumble backward. Gasps followed as he straightened.
“Interesting,” he said, catching his breath with a smirk. “You are a dancer.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, taking advantage of his pause to knock his blade off course.
We disengaged, and he lowered his foil. “Not bad at all, Mr. Sinclair. You are a gentleman even if you play the rogue with the sword.”
I offered a slight bow. “Better to be both, sir. One without the other rarely lasts.”
For once, I was glad to be in England. At least Mr. Angelo wouldn’t be privy to Jean-Louis Michel’s knowledge of how low I had sunk as a true rogue and Lothario.
Listen, mon ami, Jean-Louis had said, his eyes keen yet softened with the weight of experience.
A man who fights with his heart clouded by anger or regret is as good as dead.
Fencing is not about strength, not about power.
It’s about clarity—clarity of purpose, of mind.
Control that, and you control the blade.
Control the blade, and you can do anything.