Wickeds Scandal by Kathleen Ayers

7

“My dear, Miss Dunforth, how absolutely charming you look this evening.” Mr. Runyon greeted Alexandra, bending over to brush a kiss upon her knuckles.

Alexandra smiled back. “The peonies you sent yesterday were lovely and so thoughtful.”

“Did you enjoy the book on Roman history?”

Alexandra nodded with enthusiasm. “Of course.” She enjoyed everything Mr. Runyon chose for her. Over the last two weeks, some small token from Mr. Runyon arrived at her uncle’s nearly every day. Flowers, books, even a charming print of an etching of the Parthenon, found their way into her hands. Mr. Runyon appeared just as often, coming for tea and once escorting her to a play at the Royal Theater. While she did not desire marriage to him, her false courtship by Mr. Runyon certainly bore benefits. Helmsby Abbey was safe, at least temporarily, and her uncle brought her no other suitors. “The book was fascinating. I fear I read it in one evening!”

“Your mind is as inquisitive as my own. Perhaps we are destined to be together.” His hand cupped her elbow as he guided her down the hall.

Alexandra ignored the sudden stab of guilt.

“How kind of you to invite my uncle and me for dinner.” Alexandra quickly changed the subject. She used this gentle, intelligent man for her own ends and it did not sit well with her. Alexandra focused her attention on the beautifully decorated entryway.

Art niches were set in the walls at various intervals and each seemed to contain a tiny statue or urn of some sort. A vase of white roses, extremely rare this time of year, sat on an expensive looking table to her right.

Alexandra turned her head and a curl spilled free. Her coiffure needed attention before they dined or it would likely fall down during the soup course.

“Mr. Runyon? Is there an area where I can see to my hair?” Her hand ran up to a group of curls threatening to break free of the carefully placed pins.

His gaze flickered over her hair in appreciation. “I would adore your hair down, Miss Dunforth. But I suppose you must repair it.” He said the last regretfully and squeezed her elbow. “Down the hall is a small sitting room, possessed of a large mirror with which you can make your adjustments.”

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 had taken on a soothing quality and the shy, polite man she’d come to like returned. Tucking her hand securely in the crook of his arm he urged her forward. “Come, Miss Dunforth.”

Alexandra felt a bit foolish. Mr. Runyon’s art had only surprised her. There was nothing sinister about him, he was simply an art collector. Yes, the paintings were a bit obscene, but Alexandra’s knowledge of the arts was rather limited. She did not wish to seem naïve.

Observing Mr. Runyon from beneath her lashes she surmised that her own guilt was giving her misgivings where there should be none. The man next to her had been nothing but kind. Polite. Courteous. Mr. Runyon did not deserve such quick, harsh judgment.

“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 blond 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 that my lack of exposure to the arts may have made me a bit judgmental.”

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 uncle’s side. The butler’s eyes remained flat 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, though 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 accidentally 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 to be well under way, 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 Cambourne.

Alexandra exhaled slowly, closing her eyes. She could hear the whisper of Lord Cambourne’s voice as he said her name. Alex. Alexandra had not seen him since that day. She played their two meetings over and over. She relived 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 Cambourne. “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 townhouse 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 was expensively tailored and set off his coloring to perfection. Mr. Runyon appeared to have stepped out of a painting himself. Perfect. Surreal.

Too perfect.

Unease filled her before she firmly shooed it away. 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 Cambourne, 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 Cambourne 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. 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 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. In fact, Mr. Runyon barely made mention of his family, only speaking in a vague way of his father and a cousin. 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. Mr. Runyon may well be the only person who could help her.

Watching her host from beneath lowered lashes, Alexandra wondered once more why Mr. Runyon 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.

I am being foolish.

Alexandra reached to the table before her and casually picked up the book on India she noticed earlier. Flipping open the front cover, she noted that the binding of the book was stiff, as if it had never been opened. The sherry made her bold. “Are you enjoying this book on India, Mr. Runyon? I’ve read several on the Far East. The area is of particular interest to me. I’ve heard all sorts of tales of Macao—what a wicked place it is. Have you –”

“Alexandra!” Her uncle sputtered. His moonlike face took on a horrified look.

Mr. Runyon’s pale eyes held an icy chill. A light purplish flush crept up from the top of his cravat, ruining the perfection of his skin.

What had she said? Both men regarded her as if she committed murder.

“I beg your pardon, Runyon.” Odious Oliver apologized. “My niece speaks before thinking. This is what comes from overeducating women. Letting them read and have opinions.”

Mr. Runyon took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment as if composing himself before addressing Alexandra.

“Mr. Runyon?” She leaned forward in concern. She put down her sherry.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” His eyes opened, and an apologetic look came over his face. “My stomach can be contrary at times and I fear that the sherry,” he swished the dark liquid in his glass, “does not agree with me on an empty stomach. Shall we?” He stood and offered his arm to Alexandra. “A bite of food and some of the excellent Madeira I’ve chosen for dinner will no doubt put me to rights.” He patted her hand and leaned closer. “And I find your opinions on everything quite to my taste.”

Alexandra stood and bit back the retort she was about to fling at her uncle, but she didn’t wish to upset Mr. Runyon. Soon. Soon she would reach Mr. Meechum. Mr. Runyon would assist her. Then she would be rid of Odious Oliver and return to her beloved Helmsby Abbey. She lowered her eyes, afraid her thoughts would show, as she allowed Mr. Runyon to lead her to the dining room, in as docile a manner as she could muster.

* * *

What a lovely dinner!Alexandra swayed slightly with the movement of her uncle’s carriage as they pulled away from Mr. Runyon’s elegant home. The conversation over dinner ran the gamut of politics, art, and history. Alexandra delighted in showing off her knowledge of history, enjoying her uncle’s discomfort. Oliver had little to contribute. Her uncle was ill suited to any type of conversation that didn’t involve food or drink. She knew he detested educated women. She quoted Plato just to annoy him. Odious Oliver sat in terror all evening, fearful that her display of intelligence would put off Mr. Runyon. It had been delightful to see the fat man fidget about in his seat.

The carriage hit a bump and she flopped back against the squabs, head spinning a bit as she giggled to herself. Mr. Runyon kept her glass full of Madeira all through dinner while regaling her with tales of his travels. The name of the wine escaped her just now, something Spanish, but it tasted delicious, like ripe blackberries. Wine was never served with dinner at Helmsby Abbey. Her aunt thought it a luxury. A pity. Wine gave one such a different view of the world, a wonderful feeling of lightness, and whimsy. She decided that when she returned to Helmsby Abbey, wine with dinner would be a necessity.

An excellent host, Mr. Runyon seemed truly interested in her opinions on a variety of topics. Alexandra was surprised to find that she enjoyed his company immensely. Perhaps she should marry Mr. Runyon. True, he might be considered a bit bland, but bland was safe. Comfortable. He was nothing like Lord Cambourne, the dark Marquess, who made her want to throw off her clothes, and act wanton. And Mr. Runyon hadn’t compared her to an ill-tempered rodent all evening. She thought that a huge point in his favor.

“You got on quite well with Runyon, Alexandra. He will make you an excellent husband. You’ll be well taken care of.”

Her uncle’s words surprised her. First, because she was sure he cared nothing for her happiness, and second because she assumed he had fallen asleep as soon as the carriage left Mr. Runyon’s elegantly furnished townhouse.

A self-satisfied smile stretched across his face. “Well?”

Apparently, the fat man wished her to converse with him. She decided to have a bit of fun. “Yes, he’s quite amiable.” Alexandra frowned a bit and tapped her temple with a finger, pretending to contemplate something. “Although, Uncle, he did tell me that when he agreed to the match, he did not realize exactly how educated I was. He claims you failed to mention I was a bit of a bluestocking.” Alexandra frowned slightly. “I hope it does not put him off.”

Her uncle sat up so quickly she thought his backside was on fire.

“What do you mean, girl? Put him off? You got on well at dinner.” Spittle formed at the sides of her uncle’s mouth.

Alexandra widened her eyes in an innocent manner, enjoying her uncle’s dismay. “Oh, just that he said I was a bit more opinionated than you led him to believe. He said I didn’t appear to be, now what was the word he used? Pliable. Yes. Pliable. He actually needs a more pliable wife, although he certainly enjoys my company. I took that to mean he thought me a bit too bookish for his taste.” Kind Mr. Runyon said no such thing to her. Her uncle, so consumed with eating everything on his plate, missed most of the dinner conversation.

She could hear her uncle’s labored breathing, as if he’d run down the street. The wine emboldened her. “I’m sure he meant nothing by it, Uncle. After all, Mr. Runyon does not strike me as the type of man to go back on his word.” She smiled sweetly. This was by far the best evening she’d had since arriving in London.

* * *

Oliver Burke watchedhis drunken niece teeter up the steps of his townhouse. If he pushed her down the steps, her neck would snap, and he could end this ridiculous charade. The fingers of his hand curled into a fist. He should have gotten rid of her instead of trying to marry her off. But that damn solicitor of Eloise’s checked on the girl at regular intervals. Oliver had convinced Meechum that Alexandra wished to marry so the solicitor would advance funds for Alexandra’s debut. If she suddenly disappeared, suspicion would fall on Oliver. Besides, now he needed her.

Had she put Runyon off? Oliver didn’t think so. He’d tried to pay attention to their conversation this evening, but honestly, talk of history and what Parliament voted on bored him to tears.

Sweat broke out on Burke’s forehead as he contemplated the exorbitant amount of money he’d lost to Runyon playing faro. Runyon held Oliver’s fate in his hands. But Runyon was desperate, too. Estranged from his father, Runyon needed a bride of unimpeachable virtue to present to his elderly father. Oliver did some checking on Runyon. None of the families of the ton would give him their daughters, and Oliver knew why. Runyon found Alexandra, his worthless niece, attractive enough to take her in payment of the debt. She was perfect, Runyon said, for his particular needs.

Oliver watched Alexandra ascend the stairs and wave goodnight to him. He prayed for her to trip. She looked so smug. Assured.

Little bitch.

She wouldn’t be so confident once she was married to Runyon. He waddled down the hall to his study. An evening of his niece’s company and his acting her concerned guardian called for a drink. Perhaps he could induce Tilda to join him. He had known Tilda for near twenty years, when she had been a gin whore near the docks. She was never too busy to spend some time with Oliver.

He walked into his study and ignored the chipped furniture and the worn Persian rug. Eloise. This was all her fault. What remained of the Dunforth money and even Helmsby Abbey, should be his. Eloise’s only use to him had been her money. Why else would he have married some squire’s daughter in Hampshire?

Oliver smoothed back the few strands of gray hair that sprang across his eyes. How he hated Eloise. Two years ago, Oliver snuck back to Helmsby Abbey to see his wife as she lay dying. He spent his monthly allowance almost as soon as he received it. He was tired of the duns beating a path to his door. Tired of begging Eloise for money. Her father, crafty old bastard, hadn’t trusted Oliver completely. Eloise held the purse strings. As he stood over Eloise pale and stinking of death, Oliver decided he’d had enough. He would never have to ask her for money again. Eloise laughed at him. “Not everything.”

Oliver took out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from the top of his lip, pausing to run a finger through his mustache and twist the ends into points. The action helped calm him. Oliver detested being laughed at. Before he realized it, he had a pillow over his dying wife’s face. He just wanted to shut her up. He didn’t mean to actually kill her, but he was vastly relieved she was dead. Oliver slipped out before Alexandra and the ancient servants even noticed his presence.

The notice of his wife’s death the next afternoon prompted an immediate visit to Meechum & Sons for the remainder of the Dunforth fortune. Oliver was informed that while he would certainly receive a vast sum, Helmsby Abbey and the remainder of the Dunforth money was Alexandra’s upon reaching her majority. Oliver heard nothing after Meechum said vast sum. He directed the solicitor to send the money to Oliver’s bank account. Burke cared nothing for his niece and even less for Helmsby Abbey, and thus pushed them both out of his mind. He walked out of Meechum & Sons without a second thought, already deciding how to spend the Dunforth money.

After paying his creditors, Oliver focused the remainder of his attention on spending the money he’d long waited for. He celebrated the death of Eloise by taking a mistress and gambling. Unfortunately, he was a terrible gambler. The plump whore on his lap urged him to play faro with Runyon. An unwise decision. Runyon let him win several hands and Oliver, drunk and filled with overblown confidence, bet everything. The whole of the Dunforth money went to Runyon on the turn of a card. Oliver was ruined. Then he remembered his niece and that pile of rubble in Hampshire. But time was running out.

Oliver waddled into his study and over to the massive oak desk. Opening the drawer, his sweating hands closed over a small blue bottle. How fortunate that Runyon, who was as rich as Croesus, needed a wife. Runyon would forgive the debt. Oliver could keep Helmsby Abbey and Alexandra’s money. But Alexandra must marry Runyon. Now Oliver was about to lose everything because that little twit possibly offended Runyon at dinner. She was always trouble. Even as a child. Always mouthing off. He suspected she thought to outsmart him. He knew perfectly well her birthday was still two months hence. After all, his entire life depended on knowing the terms of his guardianship. Silly, stupid, little girl. Her marriage to Runyon would take place well before her birthday.

Alexandra would awake tomorrow with a headache from the enormous amount of wine she drank tonight. Oliver, as a concerned uncle, would send for a doctor who would prescribe medicine. The doctor would explain to her that her headache was the result of nerves from the move to London and her still unresolved grief over Eloise. He would prescribe medicine for Alexandra.

Alexandra would be biddable. She would marry Runyon. Oliver would keep the rest of the Dunforth money and sell Helmsby Abbey. His only regret was that Eloise was no longer alive to witness it.