Page 15 of Mr. Notorious and the Nefarious November

And there was the rake she knew. But his invitation wasn’t the splash of cold water she’d expected it to be. She was sorely tempted to accept. She liked the feel of his hand holding hers, the scent of him in this enclosed space, the warmth of his body beside hers.

She hated to leave, but it was time for another test.

Beatrice didn’t need to see a watch to know the time had come for the planned interruption. Thus, when she heard the tap and then the curtains parted to reveal a footman in the Notley livery, she only pretended to be surprised.

Munro stood immediately and went to speak to the servant, who gestured to Beatrice and spoke in hushed tones. She counted to twenty then rose and joined the two men. “What is the matter?” she asked, as though she didn’t know exactly what the footman would say.

“I’m so sorry, madam, but Lady Notley has taken ill and requests your return from the theater.”

“Of course. I’ll gather my cloak and come right away.”

“I’ll send for my coach and drive you,” Munro offered.

Beatrice pretended to look concerned. “That will take time. Perhaps I should take a hackney.”

“Absolutely not,” Munro said.

“Lady Notley sent her coach. It’s waiting just outside the door to the theater,” the footman said.

“Perfect.” She turned to Munro. “You stay and enjoy the opera, Mr. Notley. I’m so sorry to cut our evening short.”

And with that farewell, she swept out of the box and was downstairs and in the carriage before Munro could object. As the conveyance pulled away, she looked back and actually hoped Munro would resist the test she’d set for him.

Ridiculous thought. He would never be able to resist tonight’s temptation.

Munro sighed and went back to his chair. The box felt large and empty now, and though he suspected dozens in attendance had been watching him throughout the evening, he felt their opera glasses on him keenly now. He didn’t want to be here without Beatrice and a quarter hour after her abrupt departure, he strode out of the box, along the corridor where he’d first kissed her, and down the stairs to call for his coach.

By the time it arrived, twenty more minutes had passed, and Munro was in a foul mood. He could return to Notley house, but then he’d spend the rest of the night alone. He’d been spending every evening alone for the past week. Or he might go to his club. Surely there was some scandal that Society would find more interesting than the gossip inThe Rake Review. Did he dare venture out and test the waters?

The coach arrived, and the footman opened the door. The lanterns were out, and Munro climbed into the dim conveyance and sat back on the squabs as the coach pulled away. He rested his head on the velvet then froze as he felt a hand on his knee and long fingernails rake up his thigh.

“Munro Notley,” a feminine voice purred. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Munro froze. For one brief moment he thought the voice might have come from Beatrice. He thought she might have been waiting for him in the coach. But that flame of hope was extinguished when the woman behind the voice moved beside him on the squabs. She smelled of roses and wine—scents he favored, but not the apples and vanilla he associated with Beatrice. She was taller than Beatrice as well, and considering the way she was pressed up against his arm, he could also determine that she was quite well-endowed. He reached past her as the carriage started away and yanked the curtain open. In the dim light from the receding theater, he stared at the beautiful woman beside him.

Her face was what one would call handsome with a strong nose, wide brown eyes, and a lush mouth. She had hair a color that rivaled his, though he did not presume hers to be the color she’d been born with. It suited her though, as did the low-cut gown she wore. The wisp of a bodice showed off her ample cleavage.

“You are Munro Notley?” Her accent told him she was from London. It wasn’t an upper-class accent, but one he’d expect to hear at his tailor’s or in the bookshop.

He cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away from her chest. “Yes. And who are you?”

“Rebecca Montcrief.”

If that was truly her name, he would eat his cravat. “Mrs. Montcrief—”

“Do call me Rebecca.”

“Rebecca, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Is there a reason you are in my coach?” Munro was well-aware now that the coach was moving through London, and not in the direction of the Notley town house.

“I thought you might like some company.Wouldyou like some company, Mr. Notley?”

Her gaze met his, and she touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip.

Munro swallowed then glanced, again, at her bosom. He took a shaky breath and let it out again. No doubt at all this was another test from Beatrice. Rebecca Montcrief was most likely a courtesan Beatrice had hired to wait for him and seduce him in the coach. Beatrice had probably told the footman to come and fetch her at a certain hour with the story that Judith was ill.

She was clever and resourceful, no doubt. And she’d chosen well with Rebecca Montcrief. Munro was tempted. Very tempted.

“I would like some company, Mrs. Montcrief,” Munro said.

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