Page 13 of Mr. Notorious and the Nefarious November

“I haven’t seen you for ages, old boy. Didn’t even know you were back on English soil.”

Munro ushered Lord Charles into the box. “My niece is marrying in a couple of weeks. I couldn’t miss it.”

“Best wishes to her,” Lord Charles said.

“You know Miss Had—” But of course, she was not Beatrice Haddington any longer. “Mrs. Barnet.”

Lord Charles took Beatrice’s offered hand and bowed over it. “I am sorry for your loss, madam. Barnet and I always got on.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him, a rather tight smile, in Munro’s opinion. “And how is your wife?”

Munro wasn’t aware that Charles had married, and he was curious as to why the man’s face immediately colored. The man cleared his throat. “Lady Charles is doing quite well. The country air is good for her.” He turned back to Munro. “We must have a drink, old boy. Reminisce about our school days and all that.” He slapped Munro on the back, bowed, and made a hasty retreat.

Munro took his seat beside Beatrice. “He couldn’t leave the box fast enough.”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault. I brought up his wife.”

Munro saw the way her lips pursed and met her gaze. “Who is his wife?”

“Caroline Huxley, daughter of Mr. Reginald Huxley and Lady Elizabeth Effingham. Do you remember her? She came out a year before me, I think.”

“Granddaughter of the Marquess of Silsbury? Yes, pretty girl, though a bit too well-chaperoned for me.”

She raised her brows. “I never knew you to allow a chaperone to spoil your plans.”

“I was never a debaucher of virgins,” he said, his voice more strident than he’d intended. “You, of all people, should know that. I won’t say I never stole a kiss—”

“You did more than kiss me, Mr. Notley. Your hands wandered.”

Just remembering the incidents in question made him smile. “When a lady looks like you do, it’s hard to resist.”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you think you are charming.”

“It’s the truth, but”—he held up a finger—“you will admit that if you didn’t go to your marriage bed a virgin, it wasn’t me who deflowered you.”

“Fine. You are not the worst sort of rake.”

He leaned close until he could smell the cinnamon and apple scent on her skin. “What if I told you I’m not a rake at all? Not anymore.”

“I’m not sure I’d believe you.”

He was pleased that she didn’t pull back from him. They were now so close they might have whispered. “Because of that ridiculous column?”

“The Brazen Belle seems very well informed. Do you dispute her facts?”

“Yes. I’d be dead of the pox if I’d really visited every brothel in half the known world. But how am I supposed to prove I didn’t frequent brothels?”

“Are you claiming you were not the source of a riot that began at a Venice brothel?”

He blinked as he hadn’t thought of that incident in years. “How did you—never mind. That was a misunderstanding.”

“But youwereat the brothel.”

“I was drinking and gaming with friends. That’s all.”

She glanced away, seeming to consider whether she should believe him. “I suppose there are other claims the Brazen Belle made thatcanbe verified.” Her gaze drifted back to him.

He shook his head. “Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice. I didn’t thinkyou, of all women, would be curious aboutthatrumor.”

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