The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(133)

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.

Anne had observed the expression before. “You don’t approve of my friends.”

“As ever, you presume to read my mind.”

“I’m not reading your mind. I’m reading your face. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you think of my friends.”

Hartford’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Shall I tell you what I think?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “You use your friends as a shield.”

She scoffed. “I most certainly don’t.”

“You travel with them in a pack—a pack that grows with every passing season.”

She opened her mouth to object, but Hartford ploughed on, unconcerned with her protestations.

“First there was only Miss Wychwood,” he said. “Then there was Miss Hobhouse. And now Miss Maltravers.” His smile turned wry. “The Four Horsewomen.”

“Yes, yes, it’s quite diverting, I’m sure.” To someone with a pea brain, she added silently.

Four Horsewomen indeed.

Though Anne supposed it was preferable to the tired epithet he’d previously used. Until Miss Maltravers had arrived in London, Hartford had been calling Anne and her friends the three Furies.

“Not diverting,” he said. “Merely interesting. I wonder why you need their protection.”

Her chin ticked up another notch. “I’m here, aren’t I? Unescorted. Unprotected.”

She hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

Julia was somewhere in Yorkshire, a prisoner of the evil Captain Blunt. Evelyn Maltravers was in Sussex awaiting the arrival of her beau, Mr. Malik. And Stella Hobhouse—dear Stella!—was presently cloistered with her dour clergyman brother in George’s Street. Newly returned from accompanying him to an ecumenical conference in Exeter, she’d been tasked with transcribing his mountain of notes.

Not that Stella would have understood Anne’s reasons for calling at the Earl of March’s residence. When it came to Felix Hartford, Anne preferred to hold her secrets close. Nothing good could come of sharing them, not even with her dearest friends.

“Unwise of you,” Hartford said. “You should have at least brought a maid.”

“To visit an aged family friend? Your grandfather is no threat to my reputation. That’s why I asked for him.”

“In hopes that I’d show up eventually?”

“You always do where I’m concerned.” The words were tantamount to an accusation. Anne’s stomach trembled a little to say them aloud.

His smile faded. “What do you want of me, my lady?”

“What I want,” she said, “is for you to write something very particular in the next column you publish in the Spiritualist Herald.”

He stilled. A look of uncommon alertness flickered at the back of his eyes. “I don’t have a column in the Spiritualist Herald.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “Of course, you do. You have columns in several publications. The Spiritualist Herald, the Weekly Heliosphere, Glendale’s Botanical Bi-Monthly. I could go on.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I’m not. You’re Mr. Drinkwater, aren’t you? And Mr. Bilgewater, and Mr. Tidewater. You know, you really should diversify your pseudonyms—and your turn of phrase. It’s recognizable to anyone who knows you.”

His gaze sharpened, holding hers with an air of unmistakable challenge. “And you know me, do you?”