Chapter 14 Sebastian #2
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 trade is sanctioned. 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 any complaints 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.
Mr. Wilberforce leaned forward. “That is precisely why your voice is vital. Perhaps your insights could ignite change.”
I had been ordered to put any fears to rest, not further inflame them to a boiling point.
“I will think on it,” I evaded, though the thought churned uncomfortably. Think on it? I had no intention of stepping into that fire.
As the conversation shifted, I felt an unease settle over me. What other Company secrets did they know that I didn’t?
Four days later, just back from Angelo’s fencing studio, I had barely settled into the quiet of my guest room at Grenville’s townhouse when a sharp knock broke through my thoughts.
“Yes?” I called as I shrugged out of my coat. With a squeak, the door opened, and the butler entered, offering me a silver tray with a letter bearing Grandfather’s familiar seal.
My stomach tightened as I took the letter, then hesitated before breaking the wax seal. Letters from Lord Sinclair were rare, which boded ill. I skimmed the page, my eyes narrowing as I took in the curt greeting.
Sebastian Sinclair
Grenville House, St. James’s Place
London, England
17 March 1815
The reports from Madras suggest more than mere disturbance among the laborers.
There is evidence of unrest stirred by Wilberforce’s reckless rhetoric.
His meddling has seeped beyond Parliament, emboldening those who would disrupt our operations.
I will not countenance a repeat of the Vellore Mutiny, nor permit such insubordination to go unanswered.
Your brother, unlike you, met this unrest with the necessary firmness—the very quality our position demands.
A soft hand may serve in London’s drawing rooms, but in Madras, it invites revolt.
The Company has neither time nor patience for hesitation.
Let this stand as a lesson in what is required to preserve both stability and the Sinclair name.
As you remain in London, I expect you to counter Wilberforce’s fictions where possible. Parliament must hear from those who understand the order and prosperity we have established—not from idealists who would unravel it all in the name of sentiment.
Conclude your affairs—your wedding included—and write to me at once. Return only when you are prepared to defend the Company’s interests.
—Lord Charles Sinclair
No affection. No inquiries as to my health.
Only commands from the man who loomed over much of my life.
Tension radiated through my shoulders. The timing of the attack, occurring just after I left, felt too pointed to be a coincidence.
Someone—perhaps a faction dissatisfied with the Company’s recent policies—might be attempting to intimidate us.
Or worse, someone wanted to destabilize my family’s position within the Company.
As I folded the letter, a familiar twist of frustration and dread churned through me.
I had not yet persuaded Miss Grenville of marriage, nor Mr. Wilberforce of the Company’s integrity.