The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  She pinched her lips refusing to get riled by his righteousness.

  His gaze held hers. “You’re failing yourself if you think passion defines love. Passion can blind you from seeing that there is no love at all. I used to be what he is, Jemdanee. Crass. Rebellious. Lustful. But such passions ultimately lead to self-destruction. It wasn’t until I came to India that I was forced to recognize my own mortality and rediscover what matters: the soul I have to carry.”

  Her chest tightened knowing this ‘angel’ had only been born after coming to India.

  Prior to his arrival to India, he’d been what most wealthy merchant sons were: self-entitled. He raced horses, studied art in Italy that would never see income, and spent money, money, money on women, wine, coaches, boots and cravats.

  And then he joined the military upon his uncle’s insistence that he take more responsibility for his life. Bradley’s highly placed commission brought him to India where he continued to not only whore but drink and gamble beyond his own income.

  Until a revolt had seen his body tossed onto a bullock-pulled cart loaded with still bleeding corpses of other officers that had been slaughtered.

  He barely survived. It changed his whoring, drinking, and gambling loving ways.

  He ordered bibles to be set in every room and in every barrack and donated sizable portions of his estate to countless charities, churches and the building of Christian Hindu schools whilst attending sermons as if entering himself as a horse in his own race.

  Few men ever tried to change their ways and she admired that about him.

  More than she wanted to admit.

  She heaved out a breath. “I do not dislike you, Bradley. In truth, I do find you to be endearing, but you are more of a brother to me, which will never translate into anything I would ever kiss.”

  He folded Ridley’s letter. “You seem to forget I have generously permitted you to work in a field reserved for white men and have given you privileges that go beyond your station in life.”

  How quickly men reverted to being children. “I never asked for any privileges.”

  “Maybe you should.” He lifted Ridley’s letter and smacked it. “This will never equate to respect. He will grow bored of you once he takes what he wants and will move on.”

  What little he knew. “There is far more to him than you think.”

  “Isn’t he the sole reason why you first came to the Government House? To find sanctuary outside of his suicidal tendencies? Yet you mean to embrace him? Why?”

  Her mind burned hearing it said aloud.

  It was true that all she had from Ridley was a history too dark to tell and a tipping pile of letters that were as romantic and erotic as they were arcane. But his continued devotion whispered of what she had always known. What they felt for each other was real.

  It had always been.

  Her voice softened. “Ridley needs me. He is alone in his head and in this world.” She gently tugged the letter from his hand. “If this is the torch he still holds for me even after three years, I can only imagine the depth of his heart.” She tucked the letter into her blouse to demonstrate where it belonged. Over her own heart.

  Bradley said nothing.

  She glanced toward the clock, easing out a disbelieving breath knowing it was almost time. “As you know, the Field Marshal arranged a greeting line for Ridley which I was asked to be part of. I have not seen him since his attempted suicide and it will be an emotional hardship for both of us. I am asking you to respect that.”

  He said nothing.

  Jemdanee squeezed his arm. “I am grateful for the position I have held here. You have protected me from your own associates at every turn and for that alone I am beholden to you.” She peered up at him and smiled. “Might we part amicably?”

  Bradley gripped the key attached to a chain around his throat. “You are the first woman I have ever met who treats me like a person as opposed to a prize. Given the sort of man I used to be, I need to be reminded of that at every turn.”

  He knelt, swaying the tassels on his uniform and lifted his green eyes pleadingly to hers. “I no longer wish to serve this government but you.” He removed the pins from the sash of his uniform, one by one, and held them all up in one hand. “Marry me knowing I will do everything within my power to ensure your happiness. Marry me knowing I have met enough women in my life to know you are the path I wish to take.”

  She cringed.

  Ah, yes. This was the grand illusion of what every woman wanted.

  A dashing wealthy officer on his knee, followed by a church wedding and glimmers of children sired in the darkness of the night without a candle lest an ankle be seen (oh my!).

  Then on that glorious holiday known as ‘Christmas’, everyone would tither around an axed tree sipping on punch floating with fruit bearing no alcohol. Whilst she? She would then sit in eighteen pounds of neck-choking lace at a piano she would never be able to play as their half-bronzed children climbed up onto the lap of Bradley who would over-smooth their little heads and read them the bible.

  It whispered of a future full of mirth, hearth and certainty, but…no passion.

  It was called being humble together.

  And then there was Ridley.

  A dark, provocative man who had fought his passion only to have almost died trying to keep them both from feeling it. There was no offer of mirth or certainty, but who needed it when the raging tingles in her chest and in her mind erased it all?

  No man would ever be Ridley.

  She gathered the pins without meeting Bradley’s gaze and pinned them respectfully back onto his sash, one by one. “We have nothing in common. Not even a religion.”

  “That isn’t true.” He quickly rose. “Think of what you could do for your people.”

  O that be clever. Dangle her love for India and then accuse her of abandoning her people by not marrying him. “I cannot very well save my people when I refuse to save myself. Ridley is the only chance I have of being myself in the presence of a man.”

  Bradley swiped his face and ushered her over to the campaign desk. “Let us discuss getting you a separate room at Spence’s. I will pay for it.”

  She groaned. “Bradley, I have apothecary orders to oversee.”

  “They can wait.” He grabbed the decanter of apple brandy off a stack of maps. “Much like I have fought to place you into a position every government official lambasted me for, I can and will bend to whatever freedoms you seek. I will treat you like the equal you clearly wish to be. Here.” He quickly brought the decanter to her lips. “Go on. No glass needed.”

  She snorted and shoved away the decanter.

  His hold fumbled, spraying and pouring brandy everywhere, all over her sari and his coat.

  They flinched in unison as he scrambled to set it back against the pile of maps and the sketch he had earlier drawn.

  Seeing the charcoal sketch, her lips parted. It was…her profile.

  He leaned in, shoving it beneath a ledger. He piled other ledgers onto it. “I’m pathetic, I know.”

  She glanced up and softened her tone. “Why not ask Miss Wimberly to a picnic? Much like every woman without a ring on her finger, she asks about you all the time.”

  Bradley’s features wavered. “Miss Wimberly can barely say her name without blushing.”

  She laughed. “Is that not what you want? A humble woman dedicated to the ways of God and respectability?”

  He glared. “I want a woman capable of knowing her own mind. None of these women— Why can you not…” Jerking her into the bulk of his arms, he thudded them both against the desk. “Hold onto those glasses.” His mouth swooped down on hers. The burn of apple brandy stunned her as his tongue stroked hers, his hands jumping to her face to keep her from moving.

  She choked, almost too stunned to comprehend what was happening.

  Glog, it was like kissing her brother!

  The son of a— With a backhanded punch and a shove, she jarred him away with the t
hud of hands, her palm gouging into a pin on his sash She scrambled off the desk and stumbled away from him, her heart racing.

  Still astounded, her fingers now dug into her mouth, the sinful taste of apple brandy overtaking her lips. Even her sari was soaked with his brandy.

  The room pulsed.

  Bradley’s green eyes grudgingly met hers, the rise and fall of his chest faltering.

  Staring him down, she swore not to pick up his bible and start beating him with it. “I will set the bishop’s cross on your mother’s table. You might want to tell her why.” She glared, swung away and hurried toward the door that was not as close as she wanted it to be.

  “Jemdanee. Don’t—” Bounding for the desk, he snatched up the decanter of brandy from his maps. “Duck, cherub.” With the swing of his tasseled shoulder, smashed it against the frame of the door, shattering glass and spraying liquid that startled her.

  Pulse roaring, Jemdanee stumbled against the wall to avoid the shattered glass strewn against the floor which almost gouged her bare feet.

  She skidded toward the sideboard.

  Thudding open the chest, where she kept all defensive substances, she frantically glanced toward him to ensure she had time, and grabbed a jar of bhut jolokia, uncorking it.

  The capsicin was going to make more than his nose bleed.

  Holding it out before her like a sword, she waited with the spread of bare feet against the marble floor, centering her mind to remain calm. “I dare you to throw something else at me. I dare you, you-you…bhoot-nee ke. Your eyes and skin will burn for weeks!”

  Bradley swiped hands across his collared throat. “I wasn’t…I didn’t want you to leave and knew you wouldn’t run past the glass in bare feet. It’s the military man in me.” He held his gaze. “There is something I have to tell you. Let me say it.”

  Jemdanee swallowed hard, lowering the open jar in her hand.

  He arranged ledgers on the desk. “I did something I shouldn’t have and I’m ever so sorry.”

  She swallowed, tightening the fingers on the jar. “What do you mean? What did you do?”

  Sinking downward against the desk, his knuckles gripped the far edge tight to white. “I—” His weighing hand slipped downward against the edge of the desk in an attempt to straighten himself. He stumbled, his head cracking hard into the desk from the impact. Rolling onto the floor, he went limp, his hand unfurling as blood gushed from his forehead.

  Jemdanee’s eyes widened, setting aside the jar. “Bradley?”

  He didn’t move.

  She choked. “Bradley!”

  With the grit of teeth, she heaved up the weight of her medicine chest and hurried over to him, setting it on the floor beside his unmoving head. Yanking out a linen gauze from her chest, she folded it fast.

  Remain calm. He is not dead. Not. Dead.

  Uncorking a jar of turmeric paste, she swatted the gauze into it and angling down toward that oozing wound, she set it hard against the wound, compressing it into place until the paste and the blood adhered to each other.

  She set her cheek to that mouth, its faint breaths announcing he was still with her.

  His lids opened with a wince, revealing eyes that had shades of amber in their green. He momentarily stared up at her in anguish, searching her face. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. For now it’s all I will ever think about.”

  Still kneeling on the floor beside him, she stared him down. “I have known you for three years, Bradley. Never once have you disrespected me. Why now? What is this about?”

  He averted his gaze. “Sometimes the man I used to be rises above the man I want to be.” Bradley sat up, his tassel swaying against his shoulder. Stripping the gauze from his head, he glanced at the blood and tossed it as if it were a weed. “I need to tell you something. I owe it to you and I owe it to my faith.”

  He lowered his chin to his chest as a line of blood traced its way down his brow. “Peter had asked me to remove Ridley from your life given his concern for your safety. His concern became my concern after I had an associate in London disclose information about Ridley. He associates with incredibly vile people, Jemdanee. The worst sort. Aside from his choice of career, his former wife runs a brothel dedicated to things I dare not verbally admit to and his closest acquaintance used to be an assassin for the crown who went rogue. That man, who abides by the name of Quincy, now lends his services to the highest bidder in the criminal world.”

  Startled, Jemdanee tried to piece together what she knew to be true. “Ridley is a good man.”

  “Of sorts. In glimmers. All men try to be and too many fail, me being one of them.” He was quiet for a long moment. He sighed. “Nine months ago the Field Marshal tasked me to appoint a name to an executive order for a highly classified assignment.” He averted his gaze. “A war with the Sikhs was tremoring the ground and no one in the intelligence squadron was willing to take on the delegation so I recommended Ridley. It was a…felo-de-se assignment.”

  Her chest felt as if it were cracking.

  She knew about felo-de-se assignments.

  It meant a man going in and never coming out.

  And if it had involved the Sikhs, that assignment involved blood. For Sikhs were all too often misunderstood by the ruling hand of the British who only saw their dark skin and armies. Sikhs were incredibly fierce warriors, yes, with their kara bracelets that symbolized eternity and kirpan daggers they wore as part of their faith, but they were also people dedicated to meditation, their God and a code of conduct and honor.

  An honor to protect their land and their people and their ways until all were dead.

  Her throat burned. “Why would you do that? He is an inspector, not a soldier.”

  Still avoiding her gaze, he confided, “His investigative skills were needed to locate and destroy stolen documents from dangerous factions. He and another highly trained officer were assigned to the millstone and completed the assignment, but were discovered and attacked in their encampment a few miles outside of safety. The officer working alongside him was grievously injured and their horses were slaughtered in the raid, stranding them. I was astounded to hear Ridley had carried that officer for six miles to deliver him to a military medical tent, saving his life. So I suppose he has earned some of my respect back.”

  Her lips parted. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Bradley swiped his face. “Ridley had sought to erase the terms of your contract with the Field Marshal so I…recommended him for the assignment. I did it thinking he wouldn’t survive.”

  It was like death scraping her entire spine with a nail as it hit every cord and bump.

  Her eyes burned. “You wanted him to die.”

  He lingered and then half-nodded. “In your name, yes. I’m sorry. I wanted you to know.”

  This one needed far more than his halo ripped off.

  Staring him down, she uncorked a jar of capsicum and swatted a piece of gauze into it, then with the grit of teeth, reached out and set it hard against the wound of his forehead wanting him to feel more than pain.

  He choked and hissed, jerking away, while huffing out breaths against the sizzle of the capsicum she knew he was feeling. He winced and swiped away the sticking gauze, bearing his teeth against the induced pain.

  She glared, unable to breathe. “Can you feel the flames of the hell you preach to? Can you?”

  Bradley no longer met her gaze.

  Awful uncertainty washed over her knowing Ridley wasn’t the one dragging in a mess this time. She was. She did this.

  If she hadn’t left London, if she hadn’t abandoned him, Ridley wouldn’t have had to resort to working for a government that had almost seen him butchered.

  Realizing her trembling hand was bleeding from the impact of the pin, she seethed out a riled breath. “I cannot forgive you or Peter in this. I cannot.” She grabbed a gauze for herself and pressed it against her palm, scrambling to her bare feet.

  Bradley sat, his blond hair matting against the bl
ood-streaked gauze. “Do not blame Peter.”

  It was as if she had invited more than one devil into her life.

  She now had two.

  One born of dawn and the other vesper.

  “You have cursed us all.” She back away. “What am I to do now? What am I to say to him? That I permitted your lips to touch mine barely an hour before his arrival after you attempted to sentence him to death?” Her eyes burned knowing it. “I feel guilt now. Guilt! As if I had somehow brought this upon him. As if I had invited this!” She glared and swung toward the doorway to leave. She paused before all of the scattered glass and pools of amber liquid.

  Bradley jumped to his booted feet. Striding up to her, he tossed her up into his arms, causing her to choke.

  She slapped and slapped and slapped him, stinging her hand. “I do not want your hands on me!”

  He leaned away from her strikes but quickly crunched over the glass. Veering them into the corridor, he set her down, away from the glass. “If it gives you any consolation, I’m cursed to live with more than guilt.” He held her gaze. “I’m cursed to love a woman who will never love me.”

  She swallowed, edging back. “Let me go, Bradley. I never invited this. I never wanted this.”

  He untied his cravat, letting it hang, and nodded. “I know. I was playing the part of a guardian angel not realizing I was letting the man I used to be take over.” He lingered. “Go to him. When you realize his path takes you to a wall, I will be there to guide you away from it.” Turning, he used his large boot to sweep the glass strewn on the floor back into his study.

  Numb, she swung away.

  Dragging her hand across her lips to replace the burning taste of apple brandy with the salt of her own skin, she disbelievingly made her way down the corridor and past several other halls until she paused outside her bedchamber door.

  She swallowed against the tightness of her throat knowing Ridley had almost died.

  Though she had tried to battle her heart over the reality she had bound herself to since meeting him, she knew that every breath, every day, every week, every month, every year, every letter, and every word had only ever whirled into one man. Ridley.