Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel Page 6

  She liked him!

  Chapter 3

  Peering past the open door of a sizable, luxurious, black-lacquered carriage worthy of a dark prince sent by Rahu, Jemdanee noted through the lopsided lace hanging over her face that no one was in it.

  Not even a Hyderabadi cricket.

  Why did the thought of them being alone unsettle, entice and thrill her?

  Ridley veered in and grabbed her waist hard from behind, hoisting her high up and into the carriage, startling her. “It’s not that complicated.” He released her onto the landing and tugged her skirts down into place over her legs, smoothing them.

  She seated herself near the window and eyed him. “Where is our destination?”

  “The longest route to rest. Nothing happens until tomorrow night.” He hopped up, swaying the carriage with his weight, and snapped his fingers, pointing her to another area. “The other side, if you please.”

  She scrambled over to where he had pointed.

  The door slammed behind them, encasing them in the lone flickering kerosene light within the coach that barely illuminated the velvet-lined space.

  Leaning over, he ensured the curtains on the windows were closed.

  Falling onto the seat next to her, he adjusted his leather belt and stretched muscled legs out, thudding his large leather boots on the seat across from them. He picked up a wool cap laid on the cushion and pulled it onto his head.

  He held out several bundles wrapped in handkerchiefs. “For you. Eat.”

  The carriage rolled forward, swaying them.

  Food! “I thank you.” Her hands grabbed the bundles as she frantically unwrapped each one. With trembling fingers, she shoved the fresh cheese (mmmmmmmmmmm), an apple (divine, divine, divine) and a massive loaf of fresh soft bread into her mouth, glorying in its overwhelming combination of uplifting flavors.

  It was like being eight again and realizing food was real and that it had flavor.

  She chewed and chewed frantically and shoved more and more bread into her mouth. It was all there was left.

  “Don’t choke.” His tone softened barely enough to hint that he meant it.

  She paused, glancing toward him, and felt like an animal shoving its head into a bucket of slop with saliva dripping from all ends. She slowed her chewing to a far daintier appearance and tucking the last of the bread into her mouth, swallowed.

  She winced against the discomfort which the dryness of too much bread had brought.

  “Eating too fast will result in esophageal constriction.” He held out a flask with the tilt of his wrist.

  This one thought of everything. Including the nuances of the esophagus. “Is it tea?”

  He snorted. “No one carries tea in a flask.”

  Offended, she countered, “They do in India.”

  He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “It’s brandy.” He held it out again. “But I give you permission to pretend it’s tea.”

  Permission, indeed. She hardly needed two fathers. “Have you nothing else?”

  “No.” His mouth thinned. “I didn’t think to bring my chef and a sideboard. Maybe the next time you get arrested.”

  She tsked. “I am not being ungrateful. I simply prefer not to partake in any form of inebriating drinks. I am overly wild as it is.”

  He gave her a withering look. “Your idea of wild is my idea of boring.”

  She poked his arm. “You would be the first to tease, but I once made a bhang lassi from the buds of a cannabis out of my greenhouse, and lost more than a day and a night. Apparently, I climbed a tree and refused to come down. I remember none of it and that is no easy feat. I blame myself for being what I always am: overly generous. I crushed in far more bhang than I did lassi, so to speak. Peter was livid. I could have chosen a river instead of that tree and this conversation would have never taken place. I have since learned to avoid anything that might alter the state of my mind. My mind is already altered. By life. I therefore only, only partake in juice pulp, tea, cow’s milk or goat’s milk. No others.”

  “Goat’s milk?” The shudder in his voice was apparent. “Here. You’ve earned it.”

  She shook her head and kept shaking it. “Not unless you want all of the trees to bend from my weight.”

  The gold of his eyes flickered with renewed interest. “Do you fear yourself or the brandy?”

  She puffed out a breath. “I have never tried brandy, so I cannot say, but I do fear another episode of bhang lassi. A part of me knows I will only do what I always do: overindulge. I call it overcompensating for a time when I had nothing. I can never take one sliver of cheese. I need fourteen in both hands and in every pocket. I apply that to everything in my life.”

  It was why she was forever getting into trouble. She tried to nudge boulders over a ledge whose distance she couldn’t always gauge. “Few will ever point out their own flaws, but I will be the first to admit I carry the greatest one of all. I deny myself nothing and regret everything.”

  Ridley quirked a brow. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Control.”

  She feigned surprise. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is None.”

  He unscrewed the flask and held it out. “I think it time you learn how to trust yourself. You have bread lodged in your throat.” He leaned in. “If you never learn the art of control, you’ll always be up in that tree and those branches won’t hold you for long. You don’t want a broken neck.”

  That was a challenge if she ever heard one.

  He leisurely swigged it as if drinking water and held it out, holding her gaze. “Temper it.”

  Jemdanee eased out a breath and grasped the silver flask. “If I am to temper, do not permit me to drink any more than…” She widened her fingers by an inch. “No more than this. If I do more, swat me.”

  His expression become one of pained tolerance. “Where shall I swat and with what? How many times and how hard? Marks or no marks? Be specific.”

  She eyed him. “The responsibility is not that great. You may return to the deranged darkness from whence you crawled from, you…” Strange man. She sipped at the mouth of the flask, fully aware that her lips were now scandalously touching what had moments ago been in Ridley’s own mouth. Liquid gushed into her own mouth as if punishing her for even thinking of it.

  Jemdanee choked, gagged and then coughed, swallowing the bread no longer lodged in her throat. The brandy surprised her. It was a smooth burning liquid that tasted divinely of a buttery, berried spice. She likened it to savoring berries set on fire.

  Flavorful.

  Permitting herself another sip, she relished being in the presence of a progressive man who didn’t mind her drinking at all. Peter wouldn’t like him. “When a noose no longer awaits my neck, you must come to India so I may repay your kindness with a tin cup of sonti from a very darling old Indian who does nothing but ferment rice for the drink”

  She paused, realizing the offer sounded like a marriage proposal, and added, “Not that you need to come. I am merely extending my gratitude.” What was the point of inviting him to India? Was the brandy already making her insensible?

  Ridley gripped his knees, searching her face. “A four-month journey for a single drink won’t fit into my schedule, but I’m no less honored.” The tilt of his head emphasized it. “Vidocq travelled there once for an assignment. India is all he ever talks about. It was the highlight of his career.”

  My, what a name. “Vidocq?”

  “My mother’s cousin.” His voice warmed. “Brilliant, brilliant man. I lived with him in Paris for almost nine years and was privileged enough to attend an exclusive academy he oversaw. I was the youngest in attendance at thirteen.”

  Jemdanee lowered her chin. She dare not fathom what sort of deranged Frenchman could have possibly created this man. “What sort of academy was it?” She sipped more brandy.

  “Not one he ever advertised. It was done behind closed doors given how dangerous and involved his lesson plans were. He was an
d is an informer for the Sûreté, and his approach to the prevention of atrocities against humanity is nothing short of revolutionary. He has overseen thousands of arrests and reduced crime exponentially in Paris. Criminals of even the highest rank refer to him as le Vautrin. The wild boar.”

  She had no doubt Mr. Ridley had a name, too.

  With unending curiosity, she prodded, “Do criminals refer to you by a certain name, as well? Not to digress, but I imagine the fear you impose on them.”

  His tone grew wry. “They only fear my ability to see into their minds and snap their necks in the dark. They call me L’Homme de L’Ombre. The Shadow Man.”

  The Shadow Man. That was overly ominous for a criminal to say.

  Jemdanee hesitated, wondering how much of what she saw was him and how much was a façade that hid other things. Far, far darker things that made any man this permanently serious. Too serious to whisper of.

  She swallowed the brandy still floating in her mouth, needing its warmth against the chill overtaking her. “Why did you leave France? Did you no longer wish to assist him there?”

  He shrugged. “I returned to London after inheriting my father’s estate and decided it suited me. Much like Paris, London never sleeps and neither do its animals. Someone has to put them in cages.”

  How did his soul survive the burden of being responsible for every loon in the city? “Noble though it is, why choose such a disparaging profession?”

  A distant look overtook his features. “‘Tis the irony of what I do. I deliver justice to everyone but myself.”

  Her heart squeezed. Its deeper meaning meant… “Did someone hurt your family?”

  Something disturbing replaced that distant look. He averted his gaze. “My father was murdered. They wouldn’t let me see him given I was only twelve when it happened, but apparently, he’d been cleaved into so many pieces, they found fingers ten feet from his body.”

  Jemdanee felt herself shrinking, which was no easy feat after everything she had seen. She tightened her hold on the flask. “Was no one apprehended?”

  “No. By the time Vidocq got involved, they had already scrubbed the evidence. It was well before Scotland Yard was established, so there wasn’t anything in place to oversee a crime of that magnitude. The Bow Street Runners are naught more than overpaid fops with very little to no education. Ascertaining suspects based on evidence requires a learned mind and the ability to crawl into an abyss that blurs those lines.”

  The burden of carrying so much darkness in one’s head overwhelmed her, blurring against the brandy warming her breath. Though she had always hoped otherwise, she knew her own mother had most likely met a similar fate.

  For once upon a vast copper-colored sky smeared by time that was now ten years ago, her mother, who had worked as a basket weaver back in Calcutta, had disappeared.

  The woman had never returned from bathing in the river and no one could find her.

  Those and countless other sordid memories defined Jemdanee. Ones tainted by the hardships of poverty and the strange disappearance of her maa whose beautiful dark face had bedimmed and became only the scent of crushed jasmine grabbed from a nearby shrub.

  It was why Jemdanee always rubbed jasmine into her skin. To honor and to love and to remember maa in a world that didn’t remember her at all.

  How did one survive being unable to erase what could never be changed?

  One didn’t, but one tried.

  Conviction overtook her tone. “Atrocities of murder are high in India, as well. It goes well beyond what the British are doing. Far too many are touched by carnage, though not in any guise one might imagine. Peter struggles to convince the government to regulate certain poisons there, but given the wilderness it is all too easily accessible. Countless plants are nefariously used by the natives at every turn, regardless of the caste. There is one plant by the name of cerbera odollam, which grows freely and is used so often against others, it is known as the Suicide Tree. The kernels hold a toxin that results in death in less than three hours. I can only imagine the assistance needed in deciphering such lethal sources.”

  He searched her face for a long moment. Leaning toward her, his large fingers brushed hers as he took tugged the flask out of her hand.

  She stilled, that touch tingling and warming her fingers like the brandy that clung to her lips.

  He twisted the cap back on and tucked it into the satchel. “You went four sips over.”

  She dropped her hand, realizing he had been gauging her intake.

  The swaying shadows within the carriage and the incoming lantern light that shifted his frame and face in and out of gloom, seemed to personify who he was: otherworldly.

  Realizing the linen napkins on her lap now only held crumbs, she folded them one by one to ensure she didn’t scatter them onto the pristine velvet cushion surrounding her and set them onto his left knee. “I thank you for the nourishment.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  She hesitated. “Do you think about your father’s murder often?”

  He set the linen napkins back into the satchel and adjusted the worn leather belt hosting his weapons. “Not as often as I once did. Work knocks it out of my head.”

  Work. Being able to earn a wage was indeed a path to freedom. One she had always wanted.

  Whilst she had always ‘worked’ alongside Peter who depended on her vegetative knowledge for tonics whilst she ensured his medical valise was always ready for the grab, there was never a wage and her own gratitude prevented her from ever asking for one.

  It made her curious. “Are there any opportunities in London for a woman of color to be able to earn a wage?”

  He paused. “Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged, feeling awkward. “I have been dependent on Peter’s generosity for too long. Getting arrested is a humbling reminder of how reliant I am on him. He has hinted that he wants me to marry now that I am eighteen, but…I have experienced too much freedom to ever think it would suit me. A wage would give me a chance to pursue a life outside of marriage.”

  He said nothing.

  This one probably thought she was setting standards too high for herself. Standards no woman, yet alone an Indian one should waggle fingers at. “Do you think my wanting independence outside of a marriage is outlandish?”

  “Not at all. In my realm, outlandish doesn’t exist. I’ve seen it all.”

  Why did that not spark hope?

  He shifted and paused, his brows coming together. Patting his coat pocket, he dragged out a small glass bottle whose label, which had been crookedly pasted on its side, had been stripped, leaving a residue of glue. As if astounded, he turned it over in his large hands, preoccupied with what he held. He uncorked the bottle, despite it being empty, and held it against his nose.

  He squinted, as if trying to decipher something and punched the cork back into its opening.

  Sensing it was important, she asked, “Did you find it at the theatre?”

  “All wrath, no. It’s from a case I resolved a while ago.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize it was still in my pocket. I haven’t worn this coat in a while.”

  She picked at her fingernails trying not to squirm at the thought that it may have been found on a dead man and he’d been sniffing it. “I can only imagine the story behind it.” It was her attempt at being polite.

  He rotated the vial. “It was surprisingly uneventful. Only one person died.”

  “Ah…” His idea of uneventful clearly didn’t meet her standards.

  Rising, he turned and seated himself across from her, dragging the wool cap on his head further down over his eyes toward the bridge of his sharp nose. Leaning further back, he held up the vial between large fingers. “Are you up for a game? Do you enjoy the art of speculation?”

  What an unearthly soul. “Why not offer to pull out marbles whilst we ride away from prison?”

  He tsked. “Marbles would only get lost under the seat. You and that fancy talk of wanting an
opportunity outside of matrimony speaks to me. Especially given the sort of marriage I had. A young, intelligent Indian girl with no prospects and the entire world against her represents a future that will never come unless the right person invests in what few see: her soul. How about we step into the prospect of offering you something bigger?”

  She squinted. “If the mobs do not find me, yes?”

  He tapped his boot against her own. “Cease thinking on that. You will be on that boat either way, and fortunately for you, Finkle holds enough power to scrub the books and erase what the public is thinking.” He held up the vial. “Here is my offer. If you can ascertain one of the ingredients in this vial, I’ll toss nine books into your hands to take to Calcutta. Because you don’t want to stay. There is no bearable life here for an Indian or any person of color in London and your arrest is merely the beginning of the hardships you will endure. Ascertain one of the ingredients in this vial and those nine books are yours. It will give you an opportunity to start a life apart from Dr. Watkins in the realm you belong in: India.”

  What an odd demon. “How will nine books assist me to live a life apart from Peter?”

  He rotated the vial. “Most men have currency in a local bank, whilst mine consist of rare books stuffed into every corner of my house from cellar to attic. The books I’m referring to are worth about ten thousand pounds.”

  She frantically adjusted the veil against her face in an effort to better see him. Ten thousand pounds. That was…two hundred and thirty thousand rupees! That could buy her the-the…land she wanted to invest in and-and…more greenhouses! And-and…rarer specimen for her and Limazah to work toward creating the apothecary they often spoke of!

  More importantly, she would no longer be a burden to Peter who did nothing but spend, spend, spend his own money to ensure her a happiness that had never been his to buy.

  Jemdanee paused, her initial excitement…fading.

  It was too much money to take from a man who was already doing so much for her. It wasn’t right. “Nahin.” She shook her head and kept shaking it, refusing to even think on it. “I thank you for the unexpected offer, but I cannot.”