Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  With the tug of both hands, Ridley jerked her back toward himself against his body hard, startling her. “We battle gravity, Watkins, so try to do a better job holding it up. Less of that heavy breathing or you’re likely to faint and I already have a satchel to carry.”

  Although her ear and cheek tipped toward that alluring, dominating heat, she yanked up enough of the gown to permit him to continue. “Why do you continue to call me Watkins?”

  “Is that not your name, Watkins?”

  “No. I only embraced Peter’s family name out of respect for all that he has done for me. This mere Watkins business, as you use it, insinuates I am a man. I prefer you respect that I am not. You may address me as Jemdanee. Few have that honor.”

  He yanked the gown of her back together. “I prefer we not become overly acquainted. My profession blurs too many lines as it is.” Hook by hook from the bottom, he fastened everything into place. His large warm fingers moved fast, making her fully aware that he was trying to speed his way through it.

  Glancing back at him, curiosity made her ask, “Why were you tying knots into that rope?”

  His profile remained reserved. “It’s how I think.”

  “With knots?”

  “The world is full of them.” He tugged some of the hooks a bit more vigorously, maneuvering the last of the hooks together. “It may fall from your shoulders given your small frame.” He wedged the material together. “I swiped it from a corpse.”

  She froze, her skin crawling.

  “This is where you laugh. You know…ha, ha? I was joking.”

  And she thought her mind prevented her from being normal. “Arrey. That was not amusing. Nor did you deliver it with the pun it so desperately needed.”

  “I disagree. Humor is born of darkness. Crown me.” He patted her dress. “Ici. I know another language, too. Four, actually, not including one I invented myself. So don’t think you’re singular.” He turned her around with the nudge of her shoulders, rolled up her sleeves again to ensure they weren’t touching her skinned wrists and stepped back.

  She eyed him, her skin still crawling. “This had better not have been stripped from the limbs of a corpse, Ridley.”

  “’Tis Mr. Ridley, if you please. Respect your elders.”

  She almost stuck out her tongue. “Karma is real.”

  “It certainly is.” He tapped the sleeve of her gown. “I’ll leave its extensive history to your vast imagination. Look for blood spatter. Last I knew there was plenty of it.”

  Ha. Ha. Haaaaaa.

  He paused, as if hearing something, and swung toward the door.

  It creaked open, revealing a very young, lanky warder. “All posts have been vacated.”

  “I owe you, Turner.” Ridley gestured toward the desk. “Clean up the room and sweep it before you let anyone back here.” Swiping up her gown from the floor, he rolled it and shoved it into the satchel, swinging it over his shoulder. “Watkins. Prepare to move.”

  She almost said, ‘Yes, sir!’ as if he were a sergeant and she the cadet.

  She bustled after him.

  Ridley stalked toward the door, his great coat billowing as he approached the warder. “Any complications?”

  “None. Though I do suggest avoiding Newman. That one can’t be trusted not to ring the bell, even if paid. He’ll be making his way through the corridor in a few minutes, keeping to his usual round. There is a small side hall and door for you to dart into and wait. The moment he trudges through, round the corner and wait in the storage room on the far end. No one ever goes there and it’s removed from the main corridors. Stay in that room until I knock. After that, you’re free to run.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have Shelton deliver the agreed upon coin to you and the others. Go buy that dog of yours a full leg of mutton and a turkey.”

  Turner eyed him. “I don’t have a dog, Ridley.”

  Ridley paused. “Who the hell are you living with?”

  “My younger sister. She came in from Bodmin. You met her briefly. Remember?”

  “But you always mention feeding a poodle.”

  “She is unwed for a reason. I call her ‘my poodle’.”

  Ridley tsked. “Never insult your sister, Turner. All women are beautiful until they become your wife.”

  They both snorted.

  Jemdanee almost crossed her arms. This Ridley clearly thought he controlled wit, the universe and everyone in it.

  He pointed at her. “Se dépêcher. That, Watkins, is French.” He disappeared.

  Astounded that she was getting out of prison with the blessings of every warder, she scrambled out after him lest anyone decided otherwise. Noting he was already half-way down the narrow corridor, she gathered her cumbersome heavy skirts and bustled after him, wishing for the lightweight flow of her sari.

  In between bustling, she attempted to daintily wedge herself beside him.

  When he didn’t say anything, she whispered up at his towering frame, “I am humbled and honored by everything you are doing for me. If I may be of any service to you outside of—”

  “Watkins?”

  She hesitated. “Jee?”

  “Quiet.” He swung the satchel onto his other broad shoulder.

  Footsteps echoed down the adjoining corridor before them.

  Jerking to a halt, which made her collide into him, Ridley grabbed her and shoved her back hard toward an inset doorway, pressing his own body against hers and the door. “Don’t even twitch,” he rasped, the heat of his breath grazing the top of her forehead. “Everything echoes.”

  She froze.

  The leather belt holding his weapons and the pulsing heat of his muscled body dug into her harder as the footsteps continued.

  This man was no different from a god.

  He was molding the world around them to bring her justice. For her.

  For someone he didn’t even know prior to this moment.

  It was inspiring.

  Her softening gaze lifted to meet his and to her exasperated dismay, the fluttering of her heart further betrayed her nail-scraping, lip-biting, knees-digging attraction.

  It was getting worse.

  The curve of his strong throat which was hidden beneath the knotted silk of his cravat beckoned as the heated peppery scent of his cologne seemed to drag itself across her lips. She felt like she was nestling against a sun-scorched wall and setting both hands against it not caring if her skin blistered.

  If they weren’t standing in the dim, dingy corridor of a prison, she would have grabbed him by the hair and kissed him until he admitted eighteen was the new thirty.

  He lowered his gaze to hers.

  Jemdanee swallowed, dreading he could hear her womanly thoughts. What did a man like this see when he looked at her? Brown skin? Crooked teeth? Or her lapis lazuli blue eyes that hinted of a white father she would never know?

  Wobbling on her booted heels, her hands jumped to his waist to balance herself against the awkward position they held. She winced at the shuffling sound.

  Her fingers twitched at the echo.

  The footsteps paused.

  Ridley’s rugged features wavered as he searched her face, his breaths mingling with her own.

  Her pulse roared.

  The footsteps kept moving. They faded and disappeared.

  She sagged.

  Ridley gave her a pointed look and pressed his belt into her hard in reprimand. “You almost gave us away.”

  She winced against the pinch and poked his chest hard with two fingers, ensuring he felt each one. “Cease using the belt like a poker. I could have sneezed but did not.”

  “I could have left you in this prison but did not.” Thudding the door behind them twice with a rigid hand as if displeased with her, he pushed away and kept walking, his great coat sweeping back into the narrow corridor as he disappeared.

  The tingling in the pit of her stomach continued well after he had turned the corner. She rubbed at the area beneath her breasts where his belt had pi
nched.

  He was as elusive as he was damnably rude. Why did she like him?

  “You were supposed to follow,” he called in a riled whisper. “Bustle it.”

  She cringed and rustle, rustle, rustled the oversized gown and herself around the corner after him, feeling like a balloon in need of inflation.

  He yanked out a wad of black lace from his satchel and snapped it out. “Cover those blue eyes.”

  It was the first time he hinted he had noticed her eyes at all.

  She couldn’t tell if it was a compliment. She set her chin in case it was. “I am more than a pair of eyes.”

  “That you are. You’re a fugitive wanted for the murder of seven people with eyes.”

  She winced at the body count the poisonings had amassed. No wonder they were looking to hang her. Taking the veil from him, she draped the black lace over her head with the turn of her chaffed wrists, burying herself in the fabric that barely allowed her to see through. She lingered, now eerily feeling very much like a harem girl in a sandstone palace awaiting inspection.

  He adjusted it and leaned back. “It blurs enough.” He gave her a pointed look. “Now pray to your gods we make it out of Millbank without having to use everything attached to my belt.”

  A breath escaped her.

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward a door at the far end of the wall. Guiding her inside, he shut the door and leaned against it, encasing them in pulsing silence.

  They were now in a small lantern lit room whose walls displayed racks of chains, shields and hip-high swords.

  Because a prison wasn’t imposing enough.

  “We wait.” Removing a cigar from his leather casing, he struck a match and lit it, the shadows and light playing against his rugged features. “Feel free to talk, but keep your voice low.” The glint of a gold ring flashed from his finger.

  Jemdanee blinked realizing the glint was a wedding band.

  He paused. “Would you rather I not smoke?” he asked from behind the flame he held.

  She shook her head. “Plenty of men smoke hookahs before me. I myself smoke bidis.” When Peter wasn’t looking.

  “Then what is it?”

  She scrunched her nose and leaned in. “Are you not divorced?” Not that she was curious. Yet she was.

  He tossed the match and puffed on the cigar to further light it, the tobacco hissing. “I am.” His jaw tightened as he released smoke through his nostrils. “I divorced Elizabeth on the grounds of adultery three years ago. She was involved with five other men.”

  She lowered her chin. What sort of woman would go to five others after meeting him? Or dare to, for that matter? “Saali. It would seem she created her own harem.”

  He drew in more smoke. “I’ll leave the irony of that out of this conversation.”

  “Did your heart have a need to love again?” she ventured, gesturing toward the ring.

  He eyed her. “I never re-married. A man like me only chains himself once.”

  A grand statement made in a storeroom full of chains that hinted every woman on every continent had lost their opportunity. “I do not understand. Why do you still wear her ring?”

  “I honor what once was.” He tapped it. “It’s a tombstone.”

  How very, very…Ridley-esque. “Why honor her memory if she violated your physical and spiritual being?”

  He dragged in a mouthful of smoke before misting it out. “Passion comes in many guises.” His expression became one of pained tolerance as he fingered his cigar and tapped the building ash off. “The greater the passion, the more outrageous it gets. The vase I didn’t mind. It was the men.”

  There was something wrong with this one. “None of that speaks of passion or love, phaujee. Using an object to physically hurt another is better known to the world as violence. Have you been to India?”

  He leaned in. Lifting her veil, he wound a lock of her loosened black hair around his finger and tugged it. Hard.

  She winced against the sting of her scalp and slapped his hand, glaring. “Why not fasten the chains again and attach what you British call a knee splitter?” she hoarsely whispered, gesturing to the walls around them.

  He dragged in another breath of tobacco, his eyes flickering with an amusement the rest of him did not show. “Don’t lecture me. I’ve seen too much of life and I am what I am because I am. People drown in lakes all the time, but it hardly keeps the rest of us from enjoying the water.”

  Jemdanee squinted. “I do not understand your analogy.”

  He puffed on the cigar again in agitation, the tobacco hissing. “Pray you never will.” He checked his watch again. Taking in another quick drag of his cigar, he turned his head and breathed it out between teeth, keeping his voice low. “I had the servants put fresh linen on the bed. For your safety, your room will adjoin mine and the door will remain open at all hours except for when you’re bathing or dressing.”

  Her lips parted. Heat rose from her chest to her face. “You insist I cover myself and eat meat to reduce the cravings, yet I am to slumber in a room adjoining yours?”

  “I’m not that sort of man. The only time I’ll ever go into your room is never.” He stuck his cigar in his mouth, letting it dangle. “So don’t beg.”

  She slowly shook her head, knowing however many days they were going to be together was going to bring trouble. “What about Peter?” she whispered.

  His features darkened. “What about the arm he broke? Your Dr. Watkins deserves at least four years in prison for that.”

  Four years? This one didn’t appear to like Peter. “He has duties in Calcutta and the Field Marshal made it very clear that his position depends on a timely return. It is how he earns his money given he no longer has his inheritance. Can you not help him in the same manner you are helping me?”

  He quietly thudded the boot, gesturing down toward it. “He stays beneath it.”

  The problem with this man was she didn’t know when he was or wasn’t being serious. “I am quite certain he did not mean to break the arm of the constable,” she whispered.

  He dragged in a breath of smoke. “You don’t appear to know your pita very well do you?”

  She swallowed, not at all liking the direction this conversation was going. “I know him far better than you think. Peter is a very well-respected Army surgeon. How is he even being held in any prison given his rank in the government? Do you know how many lives depend on him? Too many to fill a prison. I feel nothing short of guilt knowing he brought us into London given they refused to give me a seat in a classroom back in Calcutta. A seat I know they will never offer me here in London, either, yet he stubbornly wanted to give me what no one else would: an opportunity.”

  He shifted his jaw. “Is that what he told you?”

  She blinked. “Did Peter do something other than break an arm?”

  He said nothing.

  Peter, what did you do? “He is all I have and compassionately enabled me to survive the disappearance of my mother. Please. I would be grateful for any assistance you might offer him. I am not one to beg, Mr. Ridley, but for him, I would.”

  No longer meeting her gaze, he rolled his cigar between fingers. “I’ll send a missive to Finkle.”

  “Finkle?” She almost snorted but feared it would echo out of the small room they were in. “I might have met his cousin, Flank,” she whispered. “You British certainly have names deserving of yourselves.”

  He tapped off more ash. “Finkle isn’t his real name. He and I pretend we don’t know each other in the name of getting things done. Much like I’m going to pretend I don’t know you when this is done.”

  This was promising. “Dare I ask how long I will be bound to you?”

  The rolling of his cigar stopped. “Bound isn’t the right word, Watkins.” He released smoke through his nostrils. “Whether you find the source or not, we aren’t taking any chances by letting you go to trial. The newspapers have already tainted enough minds to ensure no fair outcome will result, leadi
ng to a biased jury who will only see a poison-toting Hindu. Sadly, that is your reality, Watkins, because too many people on the vile side of bigotry seem to forget that in the end, we all turn the same color in the ground: bone white. Which is why in three days, I’ll be packing you on a night ship to Calcutta all paid for by yours truly with paperwork granted by your fairy godfather Finkle. He and I have already had this discussion. You’re not hanging for someone else’s crime and London can kiss my middle finger because that is where this is going. So chin up. You’re in good hands.”

  Kali only knew she wanted to lift both hands to the glory of his rugged face and touch that overly serious countenance in reverence. He had earned it.

  Not that she would do it.

  A knock made them pause. “You’re free to run,” Turner called.

  Ridley dashed out the cigar, shoving it into his satchel and yanked open the door.

  Getting out of the imposing massive brick structure and its multiple towers proved to be one that required a map that was clearly in his head.

  They walked in fast silence until eventually, they merely walked out into the night by unlatching a massive door and letting it shut behind them.

  He propped up his collar and jogged past. “Move.”

  She glanced around in disbelief. There was no one in the walled portico. It was as if he had erased every human in sight. “Are there no chowkidars?” she whispered, glancing around, half-expecting them. Realizing he probably didn’t know what she had asked, she added, “Guards.”

  “They are all where they should be: indisposed. Now move.”

  She darted after him, clinging to the veil which the night wind threatened to pull.

  A liveried footman opened the door of an unmarked carriage just outside the gates.

  Ridley tossed up the satchel to the driver. “Razor the gown and everything in it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We ride to the farthest outskirts and then back again. Only pull into the carriage house once assured we haven’t been followed. Signal me of anything and have additional pistols primed and on the ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was obvious that Mr. Ridley was the master of a very dark and very twisted universe. One he controlled with the flip of a collar and the thud of his leather boot.