Page 30 of The Sound of Seduction
Pippa beamed, her delight unmistakable. “Hardly everything. But between Nick’s counsel and your steadiness, I know it will succeed. Andre is there already and Nurse Shira and Dr. Phil Rosen, too. With all your doctor friends from Harley Street, this will be the grandest establishment in London.”
The carriage slowed, the jarring halt of the wheels signaling their arrival. Outside, she could see the entrance staff assembled, and the faint din of workers echoed from somewhere beyond. Wendy’s heart nudged forward in her chest, quick and unsure, as she shifted in her seat. It might’ve been Pippa’s vision—or something she hadn’t let herself name—but the house bristled with newness.
“Welcome back to reality,” Wendy murmured to herself under her breath as the footman reached for the carriage door,though her voice held no bitterness. Nick must have heard because he chuckled as he stepped out and extended a hand to her and Pippa to exit the cabin.
She would step forward, as always, steady and prepared. Whether for dreams to take root—or for them to be left behind entirely. The air in London was unlike that at Pippa’s country estate, laden with the faint tang of damp stone and chimney smoke.
Back to work, Wendy! Time to exchange that shiny ballgown for a proper white apron and to help people.
Her heels clicked softly on the stone as she walked the few steps up to the door. The glow from within signaled that someone was inside, which didn’t strike her as unusual since Andre was supposed to tend to any emergencies until she and the others returned. When she entered, the warmth inside greeted her, along with the faint scent of cloves and witch hazel lingering from treatments conducted earlier in the day.
The butler arrived and Pippa instantly gave a slur of orders. Nick seemed instantly distracted with some mail the butler handed on a silver platter and Wendy snuck into the corridor where the new treatment rooms were being set up.
“Andre?” she called softly, shutting the door behind her when she found the second on the right which was supposed to be his. The house stood quiet, but faint voices carried from the corridor leading to Andre’s treatment room—a low, familiar cadence coupled with someone else’s more clipped tones.
Curiosity drew her forward, and just as she reached the hallway, a figure emerged from the shadows of the dim light. Wendy froze mid-step, her breath catching audibly in her throat.
“Stan?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I mean, Your Royal Highness.” She curtsied deeply.
The man before her looked both strikingly familiar and painfully altered. His usually proud posture was diminished; hisleft arm rested in a sling, cradled close to his chest. The pristine tailoring of his coat was out of place against the pallor of his face and the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the light. His hair, often perfectly arranged, fell slightly out of place, and dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
Stan turned his head sharply at the sound of her voice, but the movement drew a visible wince from him. He quickly masked it with a strained smile. “Nurse Wendy,” he said, his voice hoarser than she remembered.
“What happened to you?” she burst out, stepping closer. The soft light drew sharp lines on his face, and her eyes darted unbidden to the sling, to the tired slump of his shoulders. “Your arm—did you break it?”
He gave a small, dismissive gesture with his good hand, though the motion looked more like surrender than reassurance. “It’s nothing,” he said. “A mere… complication. I didn’t know I would find you here. Did you just return to London?”
“Yes.” But all that mattered was her prince.
He’s not your prince.
“Complication?” she repeated, her brows knitting. “You look dreadful.”
His lips twitched, as though her bluntness amused him despite himself. But before he could answer, she noticed something else—a faint, unnatural flush to his cheeks that stood out against his otherwise pallid complexion. And then there was the faint jitter in his hand as it dropped to his side.Tremor.
Her heart tightened with worry. She narrowed her eyes as she went over the symptoms in her mind. He looked strained but bowed and she dutifully extended her hand. When he reached for it, his palm felt cool and moist.
Clammy skin and sweat. Fever.Calor.
He’d winced when he moved the arm in the sling. Pain.Dolor.
“How were you injured?” she pressed, stepping even closer as she studied him.
Stan exhaled, glancing towards the hallway like he was willing someone—Andre, perhaps—to interrupt and save him from the inquisition. When it became clear no one would, he relented. “It was the night we left for London,” he began, his voice deliberately measured. His eyes met hers, steady but shadowed with unease. “List’s men—or likely them. They had a Prussian accent—”
“List?” she interrupted, frowning. “List’s men attacked you?”
“Not me,” he said tightly, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “My sister. They took her.”
A princess?The thought barely had time to settle before another wave of confusion followed it. “She was abducted? But how—why?”
Stan’s shoulders stiffened—a reflex of frustration, perhaps, or defensiveness. It was hard to tell. But when he spoke again, his tone carried an edge of weariness. “Their agenda is unclear, though I have no doubt it involved ransom. The timing was deliberate. They knew exactly when to intercept us.” He shifted on his feet, his free hand balling into a tense fist. “They cornered us on the road. I took care of one of them, but… there were three.”
“How—what about this?” she asked, gesturing toward his injured arm.
“Oh, this?” Stan gave a faint, rueful smile, though it fell short of any genuine amusement. “Just a slice in my shoulder. It’s already healing.”
Slice? Princess abducted?
