The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  She glared and jerked her hand away. “What are you—”

  Ridley veered in, startling them both. “Are you all right?”

  This was officially awkward.

  Leaning in, Ridley searched her face and inclined his head in greeting. “Are you in need of a hero?” he offered in a husky, accented tone.

  Her heart popped. One would think they had never met.

  She crinkled the dance card.

  Thornbur gestured with the bracelet. “I can assure you, Ridley, I was only—”

  “Permit me to comment on your cumbersome, baseborn behavior, Thornbur.” Ridley swung toward him and widened his stance. Holding the man’s gaze, Ridley took the bracelet and tucked it into the man’s coat pocket. “When I asked you to apologize to her, did I also ask you to give her jewelry and grab for her?”

  Thornbur lingered. “I…no.”

  Women started to whisper.

  People were gathering.

  “Ridley…might you not…” Jemdanee held her dance card up to her nose in dread.

  “I’m ensuring everyone knows you didn’t invite this.” Ridley glanced toward the gathering crowd and stepped toward the officer. “Thornbur,” he rumbled out. “Your evening was going so well. What happened?”

  Jemdanee cringed and felt like crawling away.

  The young officer eyed him. “I was only—”

  “Don’t ever touch her or any woman without permission.” Ridley looked down at the man who was a head shorter. “Ever.” Ridley adjusted Thornbur’s lapels. “If I have to reprimand you again for misbehaving, my uneducated friend, I will puncture your subclavian artery. Find a medical book and locate where that particular artery is and how long it takes for it to flood out. Now be a dear and go dance. Twirl for me.” He shoved Thornbur, twisting him by the shoulders.

  Thornbur stumbled, turned and thudded into a pillar, sending a lantern crashing.

  Flames where the oil spilled at Thornbur’s feet flared. “Oh, shite!”

  Jemdanee cringed, noting the flames were all too symbolic.

  The devil was looking to strut.

  Ridley pointed. “Fabulous twirl. Unending apologies about the fire.”

  The Field Marshal stalked toward them, his mustache twitching. “Thorbur! Are you annoying everyone again?”

  Thornbur slid his cap down past his nose. “No, sir!” He saluted and darted past the crowds.

  Servants hurried over and tossed water onto the burning oil lighting the floor, extinguishing it.

  The Field Marshal veered toward Ridley. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, must you turn everything into an opera? The boy was doing exactly what you asked him to do.”

  Ridley leaned in. “I didn’t ask him to touch her.”

  The Field Marshal gave him a withering look. “Miss Kumar, marry this idiot and control him.”

  Jemdanee almost hooked the pallu of her sari over her head, her face burning. “How is Kalpita?”

  The Field Marshal muttered something, edged back and departed, disappearing.

  Jemdanee bit back a smile. “Trouble follows you everywhere, Ridley.”

  “Hold onto that thought.” Quickly turning away, he grabbed a champagne glass off a passing tray, tossed it back and set it onto another passing tray. Swiveling back, he gave her a pointed look and paused.

  His gaze dropped from her kajal smoked eyes to her breasts and exposed midriff.

  A low whistle escaped him. “Why have we been avoiding each other?”

  Jemdanee whirled the veil against herself. “I am here to answer that question.”

  He veered closer, towering. “Cherchez la femme…In other words, if a man is acting out of character, in order to stop it, it’s important to find the woman who is the cause of it.” His mouth quirked.

  The heated scent of his peppery woodland cologne overtook her breaths. Something was different. He was almost…playful. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Are you insinuating I have no right to be jocular?”

  She met his gaze, sensing this was a decoy. “Out with it.”

  His amber eyes were unreadable. “I have a few things I need to do first.” He snapped out his ungloved hand. “Dance with me and ignore the limp.”

  “What limp?”

  “Exactly.” Ridley set her hand onto the sleeve of his evening coat, pressing it into his forearm and led her to the floor with a cool, limping stride.

  Her fingers and her palm and her knuckles pulsed beneath his, each juttering her heart into frantic beats as if she had just met him.

  Joining the other couples on the vast terrace, they turned in unison toward each other as a breeze from the warm night rustled through, lifting the draped end of her sari up toward her face and between them.

  Through the color of sheer azure, his hand caught the silk before she did and he gently draped it back down over her shoulder, his fingers skimming it down into place.

  That touch was almost unbearable in its tenderness.

  Taking her hand into his, he yanked her close, and firmly positioned her against himself, setting a large hand on the sheer sari of her waist.

  The searing heat of that hand penetrated her skin. There was only silk between them.

  Holding her gaze, he pressed her against himself harder. “We go back ten years. This is me trying to be dashing for the only woman who will ever matter to me.”

  She lowered her gaze to his waistcoat, overwhelmed.

  “Look at me.”

  Jemdanee snapped her gaze up to his.

  He studied her. “Remember me in this moment and that I am capable of good.”

  She searched his face, feeling as if he were…saying good-bye. “Ridley?”

  He held her gaze. “Not now.”

  They held their position, pressed against each other, waiting for the music to begin.

  His cologne, his regimented breaths made her inwardly yearn for…everything. And more.

  The music commenced and Ridley swept her effortlessly across the floor, turning them both with a quick ease and precision that was downright sensational.

  Her breath hitched, realizing he knew far more about dancing than she did.

  The limp impeded only in certain turns, but his strained face showed that he wanted to give her the dancing he had once told her he never would.

  They danced in complete silence, but with each turning movement and each turning step, she secretly stole glances of his rugged face that hovered above hers and pressed her fingers into his coat tighter, wanting to burn the memory of him and those shifting muscles beneath the fabric into each breath she took.

  It was a moment of forever that ended too soon.

  When the music ended, Ridley brought them to a halt and twirling her once for effect, he released her. “Never say I didn’t take you dancing.”

  She knew he was referring to their conversation back in London. Her heart squeezed. “I did not realize you knew how to dance so well.”

  He lifted a brow. “Hiccius doccius. I was raised by a French woman and shuffled off to Paris for nine years.”

  Hiccius doccius?

  Who was this man?

  She gave him a withering look. “Are you running out of words?”

  “No. I am running out of time.”

  She lowered her chin. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  His steady gaze bore into her. “You look beautiful.”

  Her fingers twitched.

  Angling toward her, he removed one of the flamboya flowers pinned to her hair with a gentle tug, grazing her cheek. Holding her gaze, he tucked it into his pocket. “You have too many flowers in your hair. It’s distracting.”

  “Too many? Last I knew, there were only two.”

  He quickly removed the other one. “Now there is none.” He tucked it into his pocket, as well.

  She eyed him. “Is this your attempt to…flirt with me?”

  He released a breath through his nostrils. “Kumar?”

  Oh, no. She was Kuma
r. “What is it, Ridley?”

  “We have to talk.”

  Oh, no. “About what?”

  His voice faded. “Are you listening?”

  Despite his closed expression, she sensed his vulnerability. Something had changed. Something was wrong. She tried not to panic. “Haan. Yes. What is it?”

  “Promise me you will cooperate with what I am about to ask.”

  She eyed him. “Hearing you say that does not sound very promising.”

  He shifted from boot to boot, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “A missive and a parcel arrived from London. I can’t stay. I should leave tonight, but this time we have together is important to me and two days isn’t going to change what awaits. I therefore will be leaving in two days and though it marks me to the bone, I’m leaving you here. I can’t take you.”

  A heaviness centered in her chest. “I…”

  He grazed her cheek. “Be the woman I need you to be. Stay here where you’ll be safe.”

  Which meant…he was in danger. “Ridley…I…what is happening? What is it?”

  “Everyone I ever associated with is in danger. It’s why I’m wearing black.”

  Her pulse roared knowing he was danger.

  After having seen him on that filth-ridden floor of an abandoned building bleeding from a seizure that had thrashed him into the chair and every board beneath him, she knew that had been the best scenario given his line of work. She couldn’t have imagined what might have happened to him had that situation been handed over to dangerous men as opposed to an abandoned building.

  Being part of his life she would have to accept living with that and the panic.

  It was the price of loving him.

  She slowly shook her head. “I barely survived what we went through back in London and you barely survived it yourself. You cannot go. Stay.”

  He glanced around as if everyone on the terrace annoyed him. “I’m not about to let my own mother and everyone else I know die. You needn’t worry. I’m more than a limp.”

  She leaned in. “The limp was a warning. I will not let you define justice by holding only yourself to the flame. Given your mother is in danger, I am going with you.”

  He lowered his chin. “Absolutely not. One man is already dead because of me and there are enough pieces of him scattered for me to take this seriously.”

  Her stomach churned. “I am coming with you.”

  “No. I don’t need to spend every fucking minute worrying about you.”

  She stared him down, ready to take him on. “I am going. Bas.”

  He squinted. “We have a problem.”

  “No. Not we. You. You have the problem. Learn to depend on more than yourself. I am far more lethal than I appear. You have yet to see me uncork jars that can make every man’s eyes sizzle to liquid. For not every weapon has to be a blade or a lead ball. You are not alone in this. I am going.”

  A slow breath escaped him through straight white teeth. “Our minds are always at war despite our hearts wanting peace.” He patted his pocket. “I take this night and your flowers with me.” He tapped his forearm where her name was buried beneath his coat. “You are always with me. Always.”

  Her throat burned. “You are not leaving without me. I am going with you.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, you aren’t.”

  “We do this together.”

  “You’re not going.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “You cannot keep me from following.”

  “You do realize who the hell you are talking to, yes?”

  All too well. “I thought we were equals.”

  “Not in this.”

  “If not in this then in what? Do not disrespect me merely because I am a woman.”

  Ridley unbuttoned his black evening coat one by one, exposing his black attire beneath. Holding her gaze, he dug out a band ring from his inner pocket and held it up, letting the gold glint against the torch-light. “Before I left London, I bought a ring for myself and had it etched.” He tilted it out toward her. “Read what it says.”

  She dragged in a breath, leaned in and read SHE BRINGS ME JUSTICE.

  Her heart flipped and then dropped. Her hands quaked, tears burning her eyes.

  His features tightened. “Are you saying what I etched on it is a lie? Are you saying that when I ask you to do what is right by me, yourself and justice, you won’t?”

  “Justice is not something we can deliver to every part of the world as if we were gods, Ridley. We are human and humans die.”

  “Yes. They do. But if they must die, they die doing what is right.” He held up the ring, his eyes clinging to hers. “When you receive this ring by parcel, it means you are to come to me.” He slid the ring onto his own finger. “Whether I live or whether I die, the moment you receive this, come to London at 221 Basil Street. Not sooner. Do you understand me?”

  She couldn’t breathe, her eyes stinging. “Ridley, why are you doing this?” A tear rolled down her cheek knowing she was losing him. She swiped at it. “Why are you pushing me away when I am agreeing to stand alongside you? I am here.”

  “Listen to me.” He leaned in, smoothing her cheek. “Tomorrow late morning, you and I are getting married. It will ensure you are legally entitled to my estate should anything happen. I want you to be taken care of.” Stepping back, he buttoned his evening coat as if he had finished a long day of work. “The day after you take my name, my trunks go with me and I depart. As your husband, I will do everything in my power to come back to you.”

  Unable to breathe, she whispered, “Whatever happened to my say and my equality?”

  “I cannot possibly offer you equality when you’re dead.”

  She glared. “Better I die than live knowing you are in peril.”

  He grabbed her face, startling her. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to,” he growled, his fingers digging into her face. “I’m up against something that wants to make a cannibal look like a child with a lolly. I would sooner bury what we share then bury you in the ground. You’re staying right here.”

  Despite a quiver running through the heaviness of her body, she felt eerily calm and ready for whatever following him into London would bring. Maybe it was the countless amputations she’d overseen or…her love for him. One even greater than she had imagined.

  She held his gaze, digging his fingers even harder into her chin which he had already marked. “I can and will be your greatest weapon. Do not join in on the world’s judgement by thinking I have no strength. Aside from my upbringing, I have attended more surgeries in these past three years than you have in your head.”

  Something dark flared within his eyes as he rattled her face. “I bet you fainted every time.”

  She shoved his hand away. “I only fainted once.”

  He tsked, not breaking their gaze. “You moths don’t talk to each other. It’s called the flame.” He studied her for a long moment. “I have already visited a government solicitor and was advised, given your Hindu heritage, that having you written into my testament is not enough. If anyone, be it my mother or Vidocq, contests it for whatever reason, you won’t see a farthing, but as my wife, your rights will be what I need them to be. Unbreakable. As such, we marry tomorrow morning at eleven at the Registration Office on Larkin’s Lane. They permit the declaration of marriage outside of any one religion.”

  Her consciousness seemed to ebb. “You are asking me to marry you for all the wrong reasons.”

  “How is it wrong that I want to protect you if I die?”

  She swallowed. “I will not marry you for the sake of having access to your estate. You think that is what matters to me? Do you? I can financially oversee myself in this world.”

  “I need peace in this,” he bit out, “and you will give me that peace, damn you. Be there.”

  “No. You will not force me to be a bride and then widow me by leaving.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Be at the Registration Office on Larkin’s Lane. I wi
ll be there. I will be there waiting at exactly eleven. Why?” He leaned in and breathed out, “Because I love you.”

  Her heart popped.

  He pointed and disappeared into the crowd.

  Unfurling her trembling hands, she watched Ridley cross the expanse of the verandah, returning to a group of officers he had earlier been conversing with.

  She lingered, unable to move or think or breathe or heave or anything.

  How could he possibly tell her of his love and then think he could leave her?

  Kalpita bustled in with the flow of a pink veil and tsked from behind her ostrich fan, her dark eyes taunting. “Whatever was that about?”

  Jemdanee tried to remain calm. “He means to leave to London and put himself in danger.”

  Kalpita paused and then patted her arm, the bangles on her wrist chiming. “She who cannot dance always blames the floor. You forget who is in my pocket: the Field Marshal. I will have my Charles put in an order that your Ridley cannot leave Calcutta or he will be arrested.”

  “That would have been brilliant except his mother is in danger and needs him.”

  Kalpita squinted and lowered her voice. “I will give you an amulet of a peacock bone dipped in gold. Wear it in his presence when the sun shines on the morrow so that it may glint and blind him into doing your will. Tie it around your wrist and secure the leather string to ensure it stays on. It will give you the outcome you seek.”

  Jemdanee gave the woman a withering look. “If peacock bones had that sort of power, all the peacocks in India would be dead.”

  “The power it holds is real. It was blessed by a swami,” Kalpita insisted. “Use it.”

  Jemdanee paused at seeing Ridley grab two bottles of champagne from servers.

  Because one was not enough.

  He stalked past her and into the darkness of the night.

  She almost grabbed Kalpita. Given the amulet did involve a bone, she wouldn’t be surprised if it did hold power over Evan Oswald Ridley. “Where is it?”

  “In my chamber.”

  Chapter 10

  2:14 a.m. - Spence’s Hotel

  Male shouts dug through the haze.

  Startling awake, Jemdanee staggered up in her bed and drew in her limbs, realizing she had fallen asleep. She glanced toward the still closed door leading into Ridley’s room.