Wickeds Scandal (The Wickeds) (11 page)

What a thoughtful man!   Alexandra
made her way down the hall to the room Mr. Runyon indicated. She could hear her
uncle muttering to Mr. Runyon about requiring drink before dinner.  Her
uncle cared nothing for the nuances of conversation, his only concern seemed to
be gluttony.  She shook her head and opened a door to her right. 

This was no sitting room.  Heavy,
dark walnut furniture dominated the room.  Paintings, the colors dark and
muted, hung from the paneled walls.   Her sense of direction, always
questionable, led her to the wrong room. Curious, Alexandra stepped
closer.  Mr. Runyon’s taste, based on what she saw in the entryway, was
exquisite.  She thought perhaps she ventured into his private collection.

Her eyes attempted to adjust to the dim
light as she stepped up to the first painting, a large landscape framed in
gilt.  Upon closer inspection, she could make forms and shapes. A satyr
and several nymphs lay on a field of red poppies.  Naked bodies writhed
together making it difficult to actually decipher what belonged to whom.  Alexandra
blinked. The scene before her was erotic, but also obscene. The satyr held a
whip in one hand.  Her gaze ran to the other paintings in the room. 
All were filled with even darker depictions of the sex act.  She should
not be here.  She spun around to leave, fear pricking her spine.

“There you are, Miss Dunforth.  You
seem to have no sense of direction.  This room was not the one I intended
you to find, but find it you did. Is the art to your taste?”  The silken
tones greeted her exit.  Mr. Runyon stood directly in front of
her.   He stared at her bodice in an assessing manner.

Startled, Alexandra took a step back. “I
fear I chose the wrong door.”  

Mr. Runyon hovered over her like a
vulture.

Unease rippled through her. Did he
intentionally send her to this room?

Fingers touched her lightly on her arm.

Alexandra jumped.   

“Miss Dunforth,?  I see the
paintings in this room have left you a bit unsettled.   Your hair can
wait.  Let us have a sherry in the parlor.”  His voice was calm,
lacking the menace of a few moments ago.  Mr. Runyon features were calm
and placid.  He gave her a shy, questioning look and tucked her hand
securely in the crook of his arm.  “Come Miss Dunforth.”

Alexandra felt a bit foolish.  Mr.
Runyon surprised her.  The paintings were odd, but there was likely an
explanation.  She did not wish to seem naïve in regards to art.  She
observed the kind man next to her.  Her current situation and the shock of
the paintings mixed with her own guilt made her paranoid.  Mr. Runyon did
not deserve such quick, harsh judgment. She imagined things.

“Miss Dunforth?”  Mr. Runyon watched
her anxiously, his brow wrinkled with concern. “I feel I must apologize. 
When I lived in Italy, I studied art, in all its many forms.  I fear that
the Italians have much more sophisticated tastes than we English.  The paintings
you saw are considered questionable here in London, but in Italy you see the
like in nearly every drawing room.  I should not have brought them back
with me but as an art lover, I could not bring myself to simply put them in
storage. I sincerely hope I have not offended you.  I’ll have them removed
before you visit again.” He stated the last bit firmly with a shake of his
blonde head.

 “Oh please!  It is I who may
have offended you, Mr. Runyon.”  Never had Alexandra felt more like a
backward country girl. “I fear my education in the arts is limited, though I
hope to increase my knowledge.  I lean toward the scientific.  I
simply have not been exposed to Italian art before.” 

A smug look crossed Mr. Runyon’s face,
then, just as quickly disappeared. 

Alexandra paused, deciding she definitely
needed a sherry.  “Tell me about the paintings.  I assume by your
comments you purchased them in Italy.”

Mr. Runyon maneuvered to the parlor,
leaving her to sit on a lovely, green velvet chair. Odious Oliver, already
seated, was working his way through a large glass of wine. He tipped the glass
back, downing the red liquid in one swallow. He snorted pig-like.  “What
do you know, girl, about art? Or Italy for that matter?”  Her uncle shook
his empty glass at Mr. Runyon’s butler.

The butler, a tall, lean man of uncertain
age, shuffled slowly to her uncles side. The butler’s eyes hooded as he served
Oliver Burke.  He bowed only slightly, as if it offended him to wait on her
uncle.

“More wine, my lord?”  The butler’s
tone polite, held a note of mockery.

Uncle Oliver’s face, hardened.  He turned
to Mr. Runyon, a complaint on his fat lips, but just as quickly lowered his
eyes. He held out his hand for the wine.

Alexandra watched the exchange with
curiosity.  Mr. Runyon looked at her uncle, as one does a rodent
accidently found on the doorstep.  Her host caught her curious glance and
quickly smoothed out his features.  He gave a conspiratorial wink and
leaned over to Alexandra.

“My dear,” he said close to her ear,
“forgive me.  I do not approve of your uncle’s disposition or the way he
regards you, or your opinions.  I am so sorry for being unkind.  He
is your uncle after all.”

I am a horrible person
.  Mr. Runyon protected her from her
uncle, brought her lovely gifts and treated her with every kindness.  Meanwhile
she used and exploited this sweet man for her own ends.  Her guilt caused
her to assassinate his character at every turn. “You, sir, are forgiven for
your prejudice.” 

Mr. Runyon deserved her gratitude, not
her speculation.  His courtship of her gave her a reprieve from her
uncle’s plans.  Now that her uncle assumed her betrothal to Mr. Runyon,
Odious Oliver left her in peace.   He no longer threatened the
servants of Helmsby Abbey with expulsion.  In fact, he’d stopped
mentioning the estate to her completely.   Now, if she could only
reach Mr. Meechum, her aunt’s solicitor.

The note she sent Mr. Meechum the morning
after Agnes Dobson’s ball remained unanswered, as well as the note she sent
yesterday.  She could not travel to Meechum & Sons without arousing
her uncle’s suspicion and he would certainly not allow her to make the
trip.  Her gaze fell to Mr. Runyon.  She would have to ask his
assistance. He was a kind, decent man. Honorable.  Unlike Lord Reynolds.

Alexandra exhaled slowly, closing her
eyes.  She could hear the whisper of Lord Reynolds’s voice as he said her
name. 
Alex
.  Alexandra had not seen him since that day. She
played over and over in her head their two meetings.  Re-lived the erotic
kiss of his lips, the smell of cinnamon that swirled about him and the green of
his eyes. 

“Miss Dunforth?  I fear my
conversation is dull for it appears I am putting you to sleep.”

Alexandra’s eyelids flew open.  For
a moment, she had been back in that hallway, a warm hand running down her spine
while a dragon’s tail wrapped itself around her.

“No, Mr. Runyon,” she sputtered,
embarrassed to be caught daydreaming.  Especially about Lord
Reynolds.  “That delicious aroma I smell put me in a trance.  I must
confess I am looking forward to whatever your chef is serving.”  She
sniffed the air.  The smell
was
delicious.  Her stomach
grumbled in hunger.  Odious Oliver ate most of his meals at his club and
the cook he employed at his townhome could barely prepare anything that might
be mistaken for a meal.  Alexandra thought perhaps her uncle attempted to
starve her into submission.

Mr. Runyon clapped his hands in
delight.  “You will be more than pleased, Miss Dunforth.  I
promise.”    Mr. Runyon dipped his wheat colored head.  His
hair looked recently trimmed.  A single lock of gold fell across his
forehead, artfully curled and put in place.   The dark blue jacket
and lighter blue waistcoat set off his coloring to perfection.  The suit
itself, tailored and expensive, fit him to perfection.  Mr. Runyon
appeared to have stepped out of a painting himself.  Perfect. 
Surreal.  Too perfect.  She pushed aside the unease she suddenly
felt.  She was being ridiculous.  So what if Mr. Runyon was a bit of
a dandy?  A cultured man, like Mr. Runyon, paid attention to his
appearance.  He did not have the unearthly male beauty, or the sense of
exotic danger that clung to Lord Reynolds, but that did not detract from his
masculinity.  Alexandra gave Mr. Runyon’s styled hair another glance and
sighed.  She really must quit thinking of Lord Reynolds and comparing the
two men.  She had Helmsby Abbey to save.  The attractions of a rake
were something she could ill afford.

“As you can probably tell, or smell in
this case, my chef has prepared an outstanding dinner for you this
evening.”  He held out his glass for the butler to refill.  “I found
Henri quite by accident, cooking in the villa of an impoverished nobleman’s
family in Tuscany.  He was about to return to France, since the family could
no longer afford to keep a chef of Henri’s talent.  Apparently their
daughter,” Mr. Runyon frowned, “was promised to a wealthy suitor.  But the
girl preferred to run away with the estate’s groom.  Much to her family’s
horror. The family was counting on the marriage to rescue them from dire
straits.”

“How sad.   Did they ever see
their daughter again?”  Alexandra asked.

“Alas, no.  The daughter was found
dead of a broken neck shortly after she fled her family.  The groom
disappeared.  The authorities assume he murdered her.”  Mr. Runyon
shook his head sadly.  “I did what I could to help the old man.  In
fact, several of the statues you admired were from his private
collection.  I purchased them from him.  Paid way too much I’m
afraid.”  His smooth brow wrinkled in consternation.  “I wish I could
have helped them more.  But I did manage to rescue Henri and his marvelous
way with Cornish game hens.”    He waved a hand at the tall
butler. “Hobson, please ask Henri if dinner is ready.  I cannot have Miss
Dunforth wasting away!”

What a nice man!  Alexandra felt the
flash of guilt again.  She would make it up to him.  She would assist
him in his search for a bride once her uncle’s guardianship ended and Helmsby
Abbey safely in her hands.

Hobson emerged from the shadows by the open
parlor door and nodded respectfully to her host.   He turned, staring
at Alexandra.  A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“That will be all, Hobson, until you call
us for dinner.”  Mr. Runyon said softly, though his voice held a hint of
steel.

The butler twitched. He lowered his eyes
to the floor and shuffled from the room.

“Hobson is a decent enough butler,” Mr.
Runyon explained, “but I keep him mostly out of pity.  He’s quite simple,
you see.”  Mr. Runyon tapped his temple with a finger.  “I need to
constantly remind him of his manners.  Sometimes he forgets his
status.  He is one of life’s unfortunates.”

“Your care of others is apparent in all
you do, Mr. Runyon.”  Alexandra took a sip of sherry, letting the cherry
taste slide down her throat.  “It speaks well of you to offer such charity
to others.”

Uncle Oliver chuckled from his position
by the fireplace.

Mr. Runyon shot him an ill-concealed look
of dislike.

Uncle Oliver grinned into the
fireplace.  Obnoxiously merry this evening, she expected that he was
simply anticipating shoveling a five-course dinner into his mouth.  
Alexandra envisioned him choking on the game hen.   That would
certainly solve her problems quickly.  Odious Oliver grunted, rubbing his
stomach in anticipation. 

Mr. Runyon sighed.  He threw a look
of disgust in her uncle’s direction.

She knew exactly how he felt.

“I try to be of a service to others when
I can, Miss Dunforth.  Especially those less fortunate than myself.”

Alexandra nodded and took another sip of
sherry as she surveyed the room. The art, paintings and knickknacks on display
were all lovely and expensive.   She and Mr. Runyon sat on finely
made Chippendale furniture, easy to recognize by its exquisite lines and
elegant upholstery.   A book on India lay on the table before her.  Dark
green curtains, velvet and quite expensive, hung from the windows.  A fire
warmed the room, crackling merrily in the hearth. The room, as comfortable and
cheerful though it was, bothered Alexandra.  The fire, the way the
furniture was situated, even the tassels of the curtains, gave the impression
of being all
too
perfect. Staged.  Nothing in the room showed the
least bit of wear.  The room, immaculately clean, did not feel used or
lived in. It struck her that she saw nothing personal in the room.  No
portraits of Runyon ancestors.  No pipe or reading glasses.  The
feeling of unease returned.  Something was odd here, but she couldn’t
quite put her finger on it, and wasn’t sure she wished to.

She watched Mr. Runyon from underneath
her lashes, wondering again why he wished to marry her.  It didn’t really
matter of course, since she had no intention of actually becoming his
wife.  It was a pity, since Mr. Runyon would likely make an excellent
husband for any woman.  He was kind, possessed a quick mind and wit and
was thoughtful and intellectual.  Exactly what Alexandra, had she any
desire to marry, would wish for in a husband.  She glanced again at the
too perfect room.  An ugly thought crossed her mind.  Stubbornly, she
pushed it aside.