Chapter 2 Sebastian #2
A shudder rippled through me. The scent of the brandy, spiced and sharp, stirred a memory I had long tried to forget.
In the winter of 1813, while Britain fought to bring down Napoleon, I had been in Paris.
Not as a soldier, but as a spoiled heir, entertaining myself with fencing tutors and wine-stained distractions.
Men my age bled at Salamanca, and I had been parading through Europe like a lord of leisure.
That shame still clung to me. I had not touched brandy since.
Grandfather poured the amber liquid into a cut-glass cup and swirled it before handing it to me with a hard smile.
I kept my hands at my sides, even though I wanted nothing more than to toss back the liquid and let it burn.
But I was not that dissolute man anymore. Never again.
My silent refusal must have irked him. His lip curled as if the sight of me displeased him. As if I was weak for not tolerating his brandy.
He waved a hand dismissively. “You may go.”
As I exited the study, my thoughts churned. Marriage had never been a pressing concern for me. Now it loomed over my future like a thunderous cloud. What of my own desires?
I pushed those thoughts aside and crossed to the stables.
The smells of hay and leather met me like an old friend. Orion, my loyal stallion, nickered as I stepped inside. I buried my head in his mane.
“I’m afraid, old friend, that the future holds no room for freedom,” I murmured as I pulled back.
Orion whinnied, as if in understanding.
With a sigh, I saddled and soon mounted the horse, hot wind whipping through my hair as we trotted out of the courtyard and headed into the city.
The weight of Grandfather’s expectations pressed on my shoulders, but out here, in the open air, I could forget, if only for a while.
There was one man I could speak to freely.
William Carey. I turned my horse toward the heart of the city, where I could slip past the press of the crowd with ease.
When Orion’s hooves pounded the streets, my grandfather’s voice echoed in my head. Stay far away from that man, he had commanded. But as I tightened my grip on the reins, the old, wild Sebastian rose within me.
I would hear what Carey had to say—if only to understand the humble man my grandfather so reviled.
Steam curled into the air from teacups alongside the faint trails of incense as I entered a modest tea shop tucked into the British quarter. Though the heat lingered, a passing breeze stirred the open windows, bringing with it a thread of street chatter from beyond.
I spotted William Carey seated at a corner table, a well-worn book lying open before him, his gaze distant.
“Mr. Carey,” I greeted him and took the empty seat across from him. “Forgive my tardiness.”
William Carey’s eyes refocused and a warm smile broke across his lean face. “Not at all, Mr. Sinclair. I planned to enjoy a moment of rest.” He waved for tea to be brought over, and his voice lowered as he added, “Are you able to help my translators after all?”
I shifted in my seat, feeling the weight of my grandfather’s expectations settling once again on my shoulders.
“I fear my plans have changed,” I answered, not wanting to betray the unease I had buried since my grandfather’s command to avoid this man I had grown to respect.
We met eight months ago when I acted as a translator between the Company and the Muslim courts.
“My grandfather wants me to . . . counter some claims being made in Parliament.”
Something akin to disappointment flickered in his gaze. I hated to let down yet another man. He gave a slow nod, his fingers tracing the edge of the teacup.
“I imagine Wilberforce has much to learn about the Company’s activities. Regardless, I am sorry to see you go.”
I glanced around the room, the familiar knot of tension tightening in my chest. “You’ve heard more rumors then? I gathered nothing from your latest letter, other than an urgent request to speak.”
Mr. Carey’s expression grew serious. “There are troubling reports about the opium trade, particularly how it’s being cultivated and exported. Many believe the Company is profiting from more than just spices and textiles.”
I waved a hand, irritation prickling beneath my skin. “Rumors. Always rumors.”
“You truly believe the Company is innocent?” Mr. Carey asked, not unkindly.
“I believe my grandfather would never permit such dealings,” I replied quickly. “Say what you will of his pride, but he values honor. Reputation.”
Mr. Carey’s voice lowered. “Reputation can be a powerful mask. Are you entirely certain?”
“It is not a mask with the Sinclairs. Yes, the Company seeks profit—what merchant doesn’t?
Besides”—I swallowed my irritation, forcing myself to recall how much shame I had brought to the family with my former habits—“you know how he feels about vices that overtake men. No one is permitted to be weak.”
Mr. Carey’s expression softened. “Aye, so you’ve shared.”
I nodded, tapping my fingers on the table. “Two years of temperance.”
“Such is the nature of temptation,” he said quietly. “Stay the course, Sebastian. God is faithful.”