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Berkeley Square
Mayfair, London
20 June 1810
Two days later
Stan was betrothed to Ophelia Breckensole. They were to wed seven days hence.
He should be euphoric and celebrating his victory. Marriage to Ophelia was precisely what he’d wanted—what he’d striven to achieve for weeks. She would make an exceptional duchess.
His vibrant, intelligent, intriguing, lovely duchess.
Except, a joining under scandalous circumstances cast an oppressive pall over the union. He’d never know if she would’ve consented to be his bride willingly and of her own volition.
If naught else, Ophelia was pragmatic. Another trait Stan admired about her. She’d known from the moment she’d looked over his shoulder and seen the gathering crowd of titillated or shocked onlookers that her life had irreversibly changed.
The choice of whom she’d marry had been taken from her.
Oh, Pennington would’ve continued to provide for Ophelia. Stan hadn’t a doubt about that, but le beau monde wasn’t known for its benevolence. She would’ve become an outcast through no fault of her own.
Stan didn’t believe curiosity about a noisy bird—he hadn’t had the opportunity to tell her it was actually a raucous squirrel—deserved a tainted reputation and ostracism. The upper ten thousand were eager to judge others while those same prideful elites hid their myriad of sins. If that wasn’t the height of hypocrisy, he didn’t know what was.
Hadn’t he used his knowledge of peers’ shortcomings to his advantage? Never to the point of extortion or blackmail—he was a man of honor, after all. But a subtle hint did wonders to persuade a reckless earl or a spendthrift marquis to make good on their legal debts, usually from gambling. Debts which Stan had purchased for pennies on the pound and then collected the entire amount plus interest from the wastrels.
As the coach rounded a corner, he checked his timepiece. Pennington expected him at two of the clock to sign the settlement papers. Afterward, Stan would join the family and a few close friends to formally announce his betrothal to Ophelia.
Despite the circumstances compelling her to marry him, his pulse accelerated in anticipation of seeing Ophelia. He’d given her two days to recover from the incident on Gipsy Hill, though he’d sent flowers, sweetmeats, and a short note each day. And a pair of peach-faced green lovebirds yesterday.
Stan had no idea why he’d done the latter. But Ophelia had seemed so fascinated by the “bird” that had landed her in the mischief to start with, he thought she might enjoy the lovebirds.
He’d also used his reputation as The Dangerous Duke to partially stifle the gossip filtering around the clubs and upper salons about the incident. Not that the juicy tidbit could be eradicated entirely. The most he could hope to do was marginally temper the consequences.
Likewise, Stan had used the time to set a runner after the gypsy who’d accosted Ophelia. As expected, the blighter had left his tribe, and no one knew where he’d gone.
Rot and rubbish.
At least that was what the Bow Street Runner had been told upon questioning the Roma. The runner had discovered Django Bostock was the gypsy king’s nephew and was well-liked amongst his clan. He was also the best wrestler in their troupe and brought in considerable funds from wagers on the outcome of his matches.
Stan would be bound that Bostock had merely gone ahead of his tribe and would await them somewhere along their usual route.
A few minutes later, a pleasant-faced butler invited him inside the house. The ivory marble floor, gilded frames, and bouquets of fresh flowers within the foyer bespoke Pennington’s wealth in a tasteful, understated way.
“I am Reeves,” the butler intoned as one confident of his rank and position. “His grace awaits you in the study. May I be the first of the staff to offer my congratulations on your upcoming nuptials?”
“Thank you, Reeves. I am a very fortunate man.” Stan followed the short, stout butler who made up for his height with lofty self-importance.
“Indeed, sir. Most fortunate.”
Reeves marched along, his focus straight forward, but Stan couldn’t help but think the diminutive man had something pressing he wanted to say.
Reeves cleared his throat.
“Miss Ophelia is a rarity—a jewel among jewels. As beautiful on the inside as she is outwardly.” Reverence and fond regard weighted the servant’s words. “We all hope she is very happy as your duchess.”
And there was a distinct warning in Reeves’s carefully modulated tenor as well.
The Dangerous Duke would’ve taken umbrage at such impudence. Stan, however, did not. This new person he was attempting to become must be more tolerant and forgiving.
