And he’d proposed to her.

But Anne refused to think of the past. Never mind that, living in London, reminders of it were daily shoved under her nose. “You’re not going to be difficult, are you?” she asked.

“That depends.” He strolled into the room. “To what do I owe your visit?”

“Presumptuous, as always,” she said. “For all you know, I’m here to see your grandfather.”

“My grandfather is in his greenhouse, elbow deep in chicken manure. If it’s him you’ve come to speak with, you’re in for a long wait.”

She suppressed a grimace. There was no need for him to be crass. “Really, Hartford.”

“Really, my lady.” He advanced into the room slowly, his genial expression doing little to mask the fact that he was a great towering male bearing down on her. “Why have you come?”

Anne held her ground. She wasn’t afraid of him. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

His mouth curled up at one corner. “Better and better.” He gestured to a stuffed settee upholstered in Gobelins tapestry. “Pray sit down.”

She nimbly sidestepped him to sink down on the cushioned seat. The skirts of her black carriage gown brushed his leg as she passed, silk bombazine sliding against fine wool in an audible caress of expensive fabric.

Her pulse thrummed in her throat.

She daren’t look at him, instead focusing on the business at hand with renewed vigor. Withdrawing her copy of the Spiritualist Herald from beneath her arm, she smoothed the wrinkled pages out onto her lap.

He remained standing by the fireplace. “What do you have there?”

“First things first.” She forced her gaze to meet his. “You’ve doubtless heard of Captain Blunt’s abduction of Miss Wychwood?”

His brow creased. “Abduction? That’s quite a charge.”

“Do you dispute it?”

“I haven’t enough of the facts to do so. Still—”

“Allow me to enlighten you.” She sat rigidly on the settee, the dire facts of her friend’s unfortunate situation putting starch in her spine. “Captain Blunt, an ex-soldier of dubious fame, has spirited away a vulnerable heiress and married her against the advice of her friends and her family, possibly against her own will. If that’s not a crime—”

“He’s a war hero,” Hartford said, as if that excused everything.

“He’s a villain,” Anne countered. “He stole her from her sickbed. Did you know that? Quite literally carried her away from her parents’ house in Belgrave Square and conveyed her to his haunted estate in the wilds of Yorkshire, just like some rogue in a penny novel.”

“Miss Wychwood’s circumstances were far from ideal. And she had no objection to Blunt, not on the few occasions I saw them together. Given that, your conclusions are hasty at best.”

“I don’t require you to validate them. Miss Wychwood is my friend, not yours. It’s my duty to see that she’s all right. I won’t rest until I can assure myself of the fact.”

A shadow of irritation ghosted over his usually humorous countenance.