Page 21 of To Catch a Viscount

Ithadn’t been a question. Not really. It had been another of Rutland’s familiar warning growls.

The man was deuced loyal and had a friendship with the Viscount Wessex that went back some years, the origins of which no one—certainly not Andrew—knew or understood.

Swallowing once more, Andrew nodded. “Of course.”

Rutland lightened his grip and then thumped him hard between the shoulder blades.

The music came to a stop, and as the dancers streamed from the dance floor, and a new set of partners took their places, Andrew’s family left.

Yes, he was here. He’d shown up at yet another polite affair, as he only ever did when pressed to be there for Marcia. Their families were closely entwined, but it was really his friendship that brought him here.

Andrew did a sweep, desperate for another drink. These events had that effect on a disreputable chap.

His gaze landed on a servant with a silver tray aloft, and Andrew started in his direction.

Nearly there.

A figure stepped into his path, cutting off his pursuit.

“At last,” Wakefield exclaimed, exasperation rich in his tone.

“You, too?” Alas, it appeared another drink was not to be this night. Andrew stared wistfully at the servant now scurrying off in the opposite direction, handing out flutes to other more fortunate fellows. “I didn’t know my presence was sought by so many.”

“It’s for her,” Wakefield said tightly. “It is important that we show support for the young lady.”

“You mean Marcia?”

His friend went ruddy in the cheeks, and he stole a glance about. “It’s hardly proper to use her Christian name,” he whispered.

Andrew eyed him. “Normally, I’d concur, but this is the same girl who insisted on baiting our hooks because she was better at spearing worms.” This was Marcia.

“Well, she isn’t a girl, Waters,” Wakefield said, sounding about as close to exasperated as Andrew had ever heard the usually measured man. “She’s a young lady whose name is now being dragged through the mud, and she is in desperate need of—”

“Friends?” Andrew drawled, lifting an eyebrow.

His friend nodded. “Yes, friends.”

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that friends generally use one another’s Christian names and don’t go about referring to one another as ‘ladies’ or ‘gentlemen.’”

“Waters,” the other man said, his voice strained.

“Oh fine.” He was always the more focused of the pair. “And I’m here, aren’t I?” Andrew looked about for the young woman at the heart of their uncharacteristic debate. “Where—”

“She is missing.”

When Andrew didn’t immediately respond, Wakefield’s brows dipped. “Did you hear me? I said Miss Gray has gone missing.”

“Smart girl,” Andrew said under his breath, and the earl either opted to ignore him or pretend he’d not spoken.

“Someone should check on her”—so that was what this was about—“to see if she’s all right, and I—”

“I’ll do it,” Andrew said with a sigh. Tugging his gloves off, he stuffed those articles into his jacket.

His friend cocked his head. “Youwill?”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Andrew bristled. After all, he knew better than anyone where to find the lady when she was hiding. “I assure you I’m quite capable, ol’ friend.”

Nor was he being entirely altruistic. There was the matter of stealing some freedom from the stuffy crowd he found himself amongst.

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