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In all likelihood, her somber mood was due as much to leaving her sister as entering into a rushed marriage. Theirs wasn’t a forced or arranged marriage, but neither had it been a love match. Stan had never anticipated marrying for love, but Ophelia was a romantic.

He knew that much about her. That was why he fully intended to keep wooing her.

Following a small wedding by way of a special license at the Penningtons’ house and a sumptuous breakfast, Ophelia had tearfully bid her twin farewell.

Other than the Duke and Duchess of Pennington’s honeymoon, the sisters had never been apart for any length of time. Stan had decided it best if he and his new bride began their lives together away from London and the tattle still filtering around le beau monde regarding their rushed marriage.

It wouldn’t be long until a new scandal took center stage, and the reason for his and Ophelia’s hasty marriage was forgotten. He had another much more pressing reason for wanting her away from London, however.

The first note had been waiting for Stan when he’d returned home from the betrothal party.

So, you are to be married.

You think you deserve happiness?

After you’ve destroyed so many lives?

Sleep with a lamp burning, Your Grace.

Unsurprisingly, there had been no return address. When Stanford had questioned his butler about the missive, Atherton had furrowed his substantial beetle brows. “A street lad delivered it after you departed this afternoon. The boy scampered off before I could ask him who sent it. He seemed quite frightened, Your Grace.”

Three more notes had arrived since, and each time, the urchin raced off before he could be questioned. The last had literally tossed the missive on the floor the instant Atherton had opened the door.

Each letter contained subtle threats. Whoever was sending them knew enough about Stan and Ophelia to raise his alarm. Out of fear for Ophelia’s safety, he’d determined a stay at Kenclere Hall, his grand country house, was in order.

Never one to take unnecessary chances, he’d put the word out that they were honeymooning in Northumberland. His harasser would find themselves on a wild goose chase should they journey there. Taking Ophelia’s safety one step further, he’d asked the small number of people who knew they were at Kenclere Hall to keep that knowledge to themselves.

A determined sort could easily discover the whereabouts of Stan’s estates, but honestly, it had been some time since he’d made a new enemy. One of his old adversaries might be out to exact revenge, but only a few of them still owed him a balance for their outstanding debts.

In fact, he’d forgiven the remainder of Lord Lionel Willoughby-Elliot’s debt with the birth of the chap’s sixth daughter. With that many daughters to dower and marry off, Willoughby-Elliot had been most grateful for the reprieve and vowed to never gamble again.

Hopefully, he’d keep his word.

Stan had also contacted the Bow Street Runner still searching for Django Bostock without luck and asked him to hire two men to watch Stan’s GrosvenorSquare house and another three to monitor Kenclere Hall. Not one to take chances, he’d sent word ahead to Kenclere Hall and had Filson, the majordomo, hire a half dozen men from the village to act as guards.

They were to pretend to be gardeners and laborers around the estate so that Ophelia would not become alarmed or suspicious. The seven footmen in residence at Kenclere Hall had been advised to be alert and have a weapon ready should the need arise.

In truth, Stan didn’t think there was any real peril. Over the past decade, he’d received many hot-winded threats. Always from frustrated and angry wastrels, whose debts he’d purchased and demanded payment for.

It never ceased to astonish him how many peers felt it perfectly acceptable to run up gambling and other substantial debts and then believe themselves too lofty and privileged to honor their obligations. He hadn’t restored the duchy’s coffers by permitting those who owed him monies to continue with that delusion.

Regardless, Stan wasn’t entirely without a heart. No man with a family had been put out of his only home, although Stan had acquired multiple deeds to other dwellings jackanapes had gambled away. Yes, some irresponsible lords and other elites had been forced to sell their horses, carriages, jewels, and other valuables to pay their debts.

But none had been put out on the street, and all had food to fill their family's bellies.

In recent years, Stan had stopped buying the debts of others. He’d made enough enemies to last a lifetime, and he didn’t enjoy his reputation as The Dangerous Duke. Unfortunately, given his tendency toward dourness and cynicism, the label had stuck. He’d resigned himself to living with the unflattering moniker.

With diligent management of his estates, he had obtained enough wealth and felt the duchy’s future was secure. That didn’t mean there hadn’t been uncomfortable moments when he’d run into a peer at a social gathering whose debt Stan had called in. There had been many, in truth. He always approached it as a business arrangement: professional, unemotional, and detached.

That was probably why he’d been accused of having bloody ice in his veins several times.

But being a pragmatic man, Stan confronted the issue with logic. He was not the villain. He’d seen an opportunity and taken advantage of it. The merchants and gambling establishments were happy to receive a partial payment when the likelihood of getting any funds was minimal.

One of the birds squawked, and Ophelia lifted the cloth. “Shh, Viola. It cannot be long now,” she assured the disgruntled bird.

“In truth, Ophelia, we’ve been on Kenclere Hall lands for the past twenty minutes.”

“We have?” She perked up at that. After recovering the birds, she leaned forward and peered out the window. “Is that your stables?”