Chapter 4

Chapter Four

B eatrice did not disappoint, Munro thought when he saw her descend the staircase of Notley House. She'd not chosen the green dress that made her eyes look even larger and greener than usual by accident. Her olive skin was golden and lovely, and as they reached their box for the evening, his mouth went dry when she revealed that expanse of skin again after sliding her cloak off. No question that she intended to tempt him with those long curls over her shoulder. He wanted to wrap one about his finger, tug her close, and claim that plum-colored mouth of hers.

Instead, he tried to focus on what she was saying with that lovely mouth—something about the opera on the Continent. Notley made certain she was comfortable in her chair and then gave her his full attention.

"Or did you not take time from your busy schedule of debauchery to attend any operas?"

"I attended several," he said, "though I prefer plays to the opera."

Her brow furrowed. "We should have gone to Covent Garden or Drury Lane."

"Why, when you prefer the opera to plays?"

She blinked. "You remember that."

"I remember everything about you." He'd meant the statement as a show that he cared about her, but he saw the flash of suspicion in her eyes and knew he'd sounded too much the scoundrel in that moment. Munro wished he knew how to seem less of a rake in her eyes.

"Of course, I went to the Paris Opera," he said, and was pleased to see she leaned forward with interest. "I had to go more than once as it was so beautiful that I could hardly take it all in. The sights, the smells, the colors—and then there was the theater itself."

She laughed, a genuine laugh, low and throaty. "I'm sure the Parisiennes know how to make an appearance."

"So do the English," he said, glancing at her. "But I think my favorite opera house was Teatro La Fenice."

"In Venice?"

"I heard the most beautiful singing there. I'm not in favor of male castration, but when you hear a castrati sing, the sound is…I don't know how to describe it. It's otherworldly. It's like the sound of an angel."

She nodded, her gaze locked with his. "Yes, that's the perfect description. I heard the great Velluti once. The entire audience was enraptured by him. The sound was so pure and innocent and yet it possessed so much depth." She put her hand on his arm, and Munro didn't think she even noticed. In that moment, he hardly noticed anyone else in the theater. It felt as though the rest of the world had faded away. "Do you think the castrati sing with so much passion because they have suffered so terribly?"

"The intersection of art and pain is always part of any great performance, but particularly so with a man who has given up his life and his manhood for his art."

"Yes. That's it exactly."

"Munro Notley!"

Munro was jolted back to the present by the booming voice behind them. He and Beatrice turned to see Lord Charles Cheltenham standing at the rear of the box. Munro stood and went to shake his friend's hand. They had been at school together, first Eton then Oxford.

"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 you were at 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 that can be verified." Her gaze drifted back to him.

He shook his head. "Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice. I didn't think you , of all women, would be curious about that rumor."

"Is it only a rumor?"

"Would you like to see for yourself? Mayhap we should move to a darker corner of the box, and you could investigate."

Her cheeks colored. "No, thank you. We were discussing Lady Charles."

He'd quite forgotten. "Were we?"

"Yes, your friend had her locked up in the countryside."

Munro sat back. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. A few years after he wed her, he took up with one of the demimonde, and I believe Caroline took issue with the relationship. He tired of her complaints, labeled her hysterical, citing her enjoyment of novels as proof, and had her locked away in some remote property he has in the west of England. No one has heard from her for at least two years."

Munro didn't doubt a word she said. Husbands had done much worse. "What about her grandfather? Can he not exert his influence?"

Beatrice sighed. "As though the old marquess would take the side of a female."

This too made sense. Most men only concerned themselves with their sons and heirs. Daughters and granddaughters were an afterthought, if one thought of them at all.

"And you wonder why I refuse to marry again. I'm fortunate her fate isn't mine."

The chatter in the opera house began to dim, only slightly, as the singers took their positions and the orchestra began to play. "Solomon would never have done that to you," Munro said, not certain why he was defending her late husband. In the end, the two of them had been rivals for her affections.

"You don't have any idea what Solomon would or would not have done," she said. "I don't think any of us knew what he was really like. Until it was too late."

She could see her words troubled Munro. She couldn't claim she'd spoken them by accident. She'd wanted to hint at her late husband's cruelty and judge the reaction of his former best friend. Had Munro known that side of Solomon or had he reserved it for behind closed doors?

On stage, a woman sang an aria in Italian, her voice rising and falling in feigned sadness. The emotion in the music was what had always resonated with Beatrice. She felt it in her entire being.

Finally, after several minutes of silence, Munro leaned over to whisper in her ear. "I didn't want you to marry him because I knew he'd never be faithful. But I swear on my father's grave, I had no idea he could be cruel. Did he hurt you?"

She glanced at Munro, meeting his eyes, now quite dark with what she suspected was anger. "He's dead now. Let's not resurrect his memory."

Munro's face fell as she all but confirmed her mistreatment at Solomon Barnet's hands. But she was still surprised when she felt Munro's gloved hand take hers. No one in the theater could see their clasped hands, but Beatrice still felt a slight thrill of excitement at the thought that she was doing something even remotely inappropriate. But then Munro always brought out her reckless side.

"You remember this theater was where we shared our first kiss?" he whispered to her, his gaze on the stage and not on her.

Of course, she remembered that. She was surprised he remembered that first kiss. Surely, he'd kissed so many women he couldn't keep count. She said as much, and his lips actually formed a pout.

"You think I would forget the first time I kissed you? I remember everything about that night."

"I remember my father wouldn't allow you to enter our box. He sent you away, but you waited to ambush me when I stepped out to go to the ladies' retiring room."

"I was merely enjoying the relative quiet of the corridor outside Baron Haddington's box. Opera has never been my favorite, though I've grown to appreciate it more. It was mere coincidence that we met in the corridor like we did. And might I add, your maid certainly abandoned you quickly enough. I don't recall you begging her to stay and protect your honor."

"I was quite smitten," she admitted. "How could I not be when you always looked so adorably disheveled? Your hair was always too long and hanging over your brow. I wanted to sweep it back and out of your eyes. That or straighten your cravat. Really, your valet should have been taken to task."

Munro laughed. "The poor man had his hands full between Dudley, Arthur, and me. You, on the other hand, never looked anything less than perfect. You wore my favorite gown that evening, the peach silk with the white lace. You always looked so beautiful in that."

Beatrice felt her breath catch in her throat. She tried to take another breath, but it felt as though a hand squeezed her lungs. "You remember what I wore?" The words sounded choked as she forced them through her tight throat.

"Of course. And you had those little white flowers in your hair. You know I plucked one out and kept it pressed between the pages of a book."

She stared at him. Munro Notley was the absolute last man she would ever expect to do something so sentimental. She told herself to end the conversation there. She had a plan for the evening, and she was already regretting that she would have to leave early. She'd enjoyed Munro's company more than she'd thought she would. Moreover, she did not want to know the answer to the question lingering in her mind. She would not ask it. She would not bring it up.

"Do you still have it?" she asked, mentally kicking herself for asking it anyway. "The flower?"

"It's in my copy of Byron's The Corsair . Come to my chamber later, and I'll show you."

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 in The 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. Would you 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.

The courtesan put a hand on his chest and began to inch toward the waistband of his trousers. Munro clenched his jaw and forced his hand to stop her progress. She looked up at him, lush mouth parted. Munro lifted her hand to his lips, so he didn't kiss her tempting mouth. "You are lovely, madam, but not the company I was hoping for."

"Are you certain?" she raised her brows.

No. No, he was not certain at all. "Is there somewhere I might have my coachman drive you or"—he glanced out the window—"are we speeding that way now?"

She glanced out the window, turning away from him and giving him a moment to take a breath and fortify his resolve. "My flat is just around the corner. I planned to invite you inside."

"I'm afraid I must decline. I hope you don't take offense."

She sat back, removing her hand from his. "I think my pride will survive."

"I'm sure the blow is softened by the fact that you've already been paid."

She smiled. "I didn't say a thing about money, but someone wanted you to enjoy yourself tonight, sir. I planned to make certain you had a very enjoyable evening."

Munro's throat went dry. The coach slowed, and the courtesan gave him a last hopeful look. In answer, when the footman opened the door, he stepped down, offered his hand, and assisted her out. He bowed and kissed her hand again. "Good evening, Mrs. Montcrief."

"Goodnight, Mr. Notley."

Resolutely, he climbed back into the coach. He didn't wait for the footman, but pulled the door closed. He sat in the darkness for a long moment then lowered the window and leaned out. "Notley House, straightaway."

"Yes, sir."

The coach lurched away, and Munro let out a soft groan. The woman's perfume still lingered. At one point in his life, he would have taken what she offered without a qualm. He might have done it tonight. He could certainly pay her double whatever Beatrice had paid to report back that nothing had happened between them.

But he didn't want Rebecca Montcrief. He had learned that he didn't want anyone save Beatrice.

And now Beatrice would pay.