Page 1 of Mr. Notorious and the Nefarious November

Chapter One

People were staring at his trousers. Men and women alike were ogling him. Munro Notley had been on English soil approximately thirty-two hours before that blasted column had been published and since that moment, the first thing anyone did upon encountering him was stare at his cock. If he ever discovered the identity of the so-called Brazen Belle, he would unleash a torrent of words so vile, her ears would ring for a week.

He stood just outside the ballroom at Notley House, the family town house in Berkeley Square, one of the most fashionable addresses in London’s Mayfair. He’d been summoned here by his eldest brother, Viscount Notley, to celebrate the impending nuptials of Arthur’s first-born, Lavinia, to the Duke of Ramsbury. Munro wouldn’t have heeded the summons except that his brother had threatened to call in every favor the powerful viscount possessed to ensure Munro was turned away from every inn, posting house, and hotel between London and China.

And so Munro had taken the first packet back to England, telling himself he could survive three weeks. Twenty-one days,give or take. The banns must be called three times and then his niece could marry her duke, and Munro could slink back to the Continent.

Arthur’s butler announced the couple just in front of Munro, and the two swept into the ballroom, arm-in-arm. The orchestra continued to play a lively reel, and no one seemed to take notice. Munro supposed now was as good a time as any to make an entrance. If he were fortunate, the music would be too loud for anyone to hear his name.

He stepped forward, offered his card. The butler took it, stared at it for a moment, then glanced at Munro.

“Hullo, Frobisher. I believe His Lordship is expecting me.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler’s gaze dropped to Munro’s breeches.

“Not you, too, Frobisher.”

“Sir?”

“Eyes above my waist, if you please.”

“Of course.” The butler cleared his throat then shouted in a clear, loud voice, “Mr. Munro Notley.”

Clearly, Frobisher had missed his calling. He might have made a fortune treading the boards with that projection and enunciation. Every single head turned Notley’s way, even that of the members of the orchestra. One violin screeched, and the music fell silent. And then every eye dropped from his face to his breeches, and Munro could feel their gazes burning a hole through the fabric in their efforts to catch a glimpse of his cock.

He wanted to position a protective hand over his manly member. Instead, he gave the assembled company a courtly bow and forced his own gaze not to roam the faces gathered before him for her face. He had no hope of avoiding her this month. She was the viscountess’s sister—the sibling of his sister-in-law. Beatrice Haddington—no, she was Beatrice Barnet now, Solomon’s widow—would be present at every single function Munro would be forced to attend.

“Uncle Munro!”

He looked up from his bow to see a dark-haired young lady dressed in an ivory and silver gown coming toward him across the dance floor. He had a moment to wonder who this child might be, and then he recognized her, and his face broke into an enormous grin.

“Lavinia.” He caught her up and lifted her, turning her about in his arms. She was eighteen now and too big for such antics, but he couldn’t stop himself. He set her down, took her shoulders in his hands, and studied her face. “You’ve grown up,” he said.

She laughed. “Of course, I have. That’s what happens when you don’t come home for six years.”

“The last time I saw you, you were this high and wore your hair in plaits.”

“The last time you saw me, I was twelve!”

And yet, surely she was too young to marry. She still looked like a child, her expression sweet and her eyes innocent. What could his brother be thinking, allowing her to marry?

“I am so happy to see you, Uncle. I told Papa my one wish was that you would return for the wedding. You’ve always been my favorite uncle.”

Considering his brother Dudley was her only other uncle, this was no surprise. Dudley was an avid collector of antique footstools who took every opportunity to expound of the virtues of his collection.

“I would not miss your wedding for the world,” Munro said, genuinely glad he had come now that his niece was before him. She, at least, did not look at his breeches, which meant she had probably not been allowed to readThe Rake Review.

Lavinia took his hand and pulled him into the throng of guests. The orchestra had begun to play again, and the dancers, realizing he wasn’t about to drop his breeches and show themthe appendage on everyone’s mind, were slowly taking positions for a quadrille.

“I must introduce you to Ramsbury.”

The Duke of Ramsbury was her betrothed. Munro knew of the duke, of course. He was a man nearing fifty with a daughter just a few years Lavinia’s junior and no heir. Clearly, he was marrying again to secure that son and heir. Munro would have preferred the duke marry someone other than his eighteen-year-old niece. Again, what could Arthur be thinking?

But, of course, the viscount was thinking his daughter had the good fortune to attract a duke. She would be a duchess, the mother of the next Duke of Ramsbury, and her future and that of her offspring would be secure.

As Lavinia tugged him across the room, Munro couldn’t quite stop himself from perusing the faces he passed for Beatrice’s lovely visage. He had no idea what she looked like now. He hadn’t seen her in seven years, since the night before her wedding, when she’d refused to elope with him and insisted on marrying his best friend instead. He could still remember the tears shimmering in her green eyes. He’d left saying, “Those tears are only the first you’ll shed. Mark my words.” Munro sincerely hoped he’d been wrong and Solomon had been a better husband to her than Munro expected.

Munro couldn’t quite stop himself from seeking out Solomon Barnet’s face too, even though the man had been dead almost three years. It hardly seemed possible London could exist without the tousled blond locks of Solomon. He had been every inch the rake Munro had been, but Solomon’s angelic face and charming smile made everyone fall in love with him and forgive him any sin.Hehadn’t been given a sobriquet. But Munro, with his ginger hair and unwittingly sardonic smile, had been christened Mr. Notorious. The name was one Munro stillhadn’t been able to shake, if the Brazen Belle’s column was any indication.

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