Page 2 of A Touch of Charm (Miracles on Harley Street #3)

T he night sky covered the countryside like an inky shroud as the landau carriage rumbled back to London along the dirt road. Andre leaned back against the plush seat, a soft smile playing on his lips as he recalled the joyous celebration of Alfie and Bea’s wedding mere hours ago.

“What a day.” Prince Stan’s declaration startled Andre in his reverie. His unlikely but welcome companion sat across from him, staring out the window absentmindedly. “A lovely affair,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the clatter of hooves.

“Indeed,” Andre replied, his gaze drifting to the dimly lit countryside. He felt every bump in the road, his overindulgence at the wedding feast making itself known in his queasy stomach. He fidgeted, trying to ignore the sensation. What a marvelous day, he mused, glad for his friend Alfie and his newfound happiness with his lovely bride. Could he also discover a woman who would cherish him with the same intensity as Bea adored Alfie? With such devotion and warmth?

Andre had never thought about getting married, especially after that terrifying night in Florence when he ran for his life.

The marriage of Nick, the oculist, to Pippa brought about changes. Then Alfie, the apothecary, had married Bea. At night, when Nick returned to his townhouse on the same street, the practice at 87 Harley Street would be less crowded, leaving only Felix, the dentist, and Andre. Even Nurse Wendy had moved out since she was Nick’s younger sister and lived with him and Pippa at the townhouse now.

Andre sighed, pondering the day once more.

Stan’s demeanor swiftly changed. His eyes sharpened, and he frowned, peering into the darkness. Andre’s heart skipped a beat.

“What’s happening?” he asked, but Stan didn’t answer.

The sound of distant hooves reached Andre’s ears, different from the rhythmic trot of their horses. His pulse quickened as he strained to listen. The hairs on his neck stood up when he heard screams in the distance.

Stan hurried, locking the carriage door and balling his fists. The carriage jolted to a halt, the horses neighing and stomping in fright. Shouts filled the air, none of them in English. German, but not the familiar kind from Vienna. Prussian? Andre swallowed hard, fear creeping into his chest. He tried to remain calm, but the tension in the air cut his breath off. His senses sharpened, every rustle and creak amplified in the dark just like that night in Florence…

“Do you have a pistol?” Stan asked.

Andre shook his head vigorously. He never had a pistol. Knowing the wounds those guns inflicted, he hated them. Andre had removed bullets and gunpowder from flesh more often than he could count.

A sudden blow echoed through the night, followed by the sickening crack of bone breaking. Andre flinched; the familiar sound sent a shiver down his spine.

“Get out!” a voice bellowed in Prussian.

Andre’s heart raced as he understood the command and the criminals knew they’d understand—they had not been chosen by chance; they’d been expecting them—why else would they speak Prussian in the deep dark woods in England? The door handle rattled, and Stan pushed Andre back but positioned himself, ready for combat. Stan’s years of military training and his sense of responsibility as a prince showed. His movements were precise, his posture unyielding, and his gaze steady, as if every step carried the weight of duty and discipline. The way he instinctively shielded others, even in the smallest moments, spoke volumes of a life shaped by command and obligation. But Andre’s fear intensified—he despised violence and the lasting damage it could cause.

The door flew open, and chaos ensued. Stan jumped out of the carriage and launched himself at a man whose features Andre couldn’t make out. It went too fast, and Andre ducked. As soon as he stepped out of the carriage, he saw the shadows of a fist swinging at him. He saw figures grappling in the dim light, punches landing brutally. A woman pulled away from one of the dark figures, her hands fumbling to tear free the sack that covered her head. Andre blinked, straining to see in the dark. Another figure launched himself at the prince, but Stan fought back, grunting with effort. Amid the confusion, a woman grabbed Andre’s arm. She shook wildly.

“Protect her!” Stan shouted urgently.

Andre instinctively wrapped his arms around her, offering the little comfort he could. She burrowed into his chest, her soft hair brushing against his chin. A tiny figure clung to his leg—a little girl. Her brown eyes were wide, and she was sobbing with fear. Tears glistened in the moonlight as they ran down her cheeks, her sobs piercing the night. Around him, shadows morphed and flickered in the frantic dance of the carriage’s lantern light, the shouts and clamor spinning his senses into a dizzying whirl. The world felt as though it was teetering between reality and a nightmare, each breath laden with the weight of uncertainty and the urgent need to protect.

“Stan!” the woman shouted when he grunted with pain in response to a blow from one of the men. Something shiny caught the moonlight, and Andre’s heart froze when he realized it was a blade.

The woman tried to pull herself away from Andre, but he held her tight just as Stan had told him. Was she trying to help Stan?

Andre’s heart pounded like a drum as he gazed at the woman trembling in his arms. Her delicate frame quivered, and an almost primal need to shield her from the chaos surged through him. The girl clung tighter to his leg, her tiny fingers digging in as if she could anchor herself to him. Instinctively, he gently touched her head, shielding her hair against the dirt kicked up from the road as the men fought.

Time stretched. Each moment was an agonizing test of endurance. The gritty clash of bodies assaulted Andre’s ears, the metallic clang of a blunt weapon, perhaps the back end of a pistol, and the desperate, high-pitched whinnies of horses. Dirt from the road grated against boots, a harsh, abrasive sound that made him grimace and pull his shoulders up as if he could shield his ears while bending over the woman and the girl to protect them with his body.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear, a pungent mix that erased the usually comforting earthy scents of the countryside. Andre tasted the dirt kicked up in clouds, its gritty tang invading his nostrils, mingling with the acrid stench of liquor. The girl whimpered softly, a sound so fragile it seemed ready to shatter at any moment, and it pierced Andre’s heart like a knife. He could feel her shaking, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps, each one a desperate plea for reassurance as she clung to him.

He couldn’t bundle them into the carriage for fear that the attackers would take control and whisk them away. Andre considered how long they’d been traveling—they were too far to walk back to the castle.

Finally, the sounds of struggle began to fade. The attackers retreated, their voices growing distant. Andre loosened his hold on the woman, feeling the tension in his muscles slowly ebb away. Stan stood at the open door, panting heavily, his knuckles bruised and bloodied, but he held two pistols and a knife in his hands. He’d removed the highwaymen’s weapons and stuffed them in his boots.

“ E?ti r?nit? ” Are you hurt? Stan asked the woman in Romanian, his voice gentle yet firm.

Andre understood the question; though he could not speak Romanian, he recognized it quickly. He had heard Romanian many times when he studied in Vienna. It was the closest Romance language to Latin, which he knew, and several students spoke it at the faculty of medicine. That was when he discovered that he could easily understand most Romanian, a combination of his mother tongue, Italian, plus the language of medicine, Latin.

The woman shook her head, her eyes filled with gratitude and fear. She let go of Andre, her body still trembling, and she collapsed into Stan’s arms. Andre instantly missed her touch but didn’t have time to dwell on the sentiment when the little girl looked up at him and lifted her arms with the plea to be picked up, her tears beginning to run rapidly down her cheeks. Andre lifted her and instinctively hugged her, hoping to ease their fear. He didn’t know the girl, but he knew children. And this one needed his help.

Stan’s expression softened as he took in the scene before him, clutching the woman against his chest. “You’ll be safe now,” he assured them, his gaze lingering on Andre. “We must get back to London quickly.”

Andre nodded, his mind racing with questions. Who were these attackers? Why had they targeted their carriage? And most importantly, who was this woman who suddenly appeared and seemed to know Stan?

*

Thea blinked at her brother barely able to believe that it was him.

“How did you find me?” Stan asked her in Romanian, his voice gentle yet firm once they approached the carriage.

“They did! They pulled a sack over my head and said I’d make a handsome ransom,” Thea tried not to cry when she said the words, but she was still shaking with fear. “I didn’t know what they’d do to me or where they were taking us. And Mary, I am responsible for her safety. I only told her we’d face our fears because of the branch in the window—” Thea heaved for air. “What have you done that they need to blackmail you with my life?”

“How did they even know—” Stan paused and then kicked the dirt on the road. “List!”

“That’s why he was there uninvited!” Andre said. “List’s connection to the Prussian attackers is obvious and yet we have nothing against List to report to the authorities.”

“Again!” Stan growled.

Thea shook her head, her eyes filled with gratitude and fear, but she wasn’t sure she could tell her brother the truth before the stranger—certainly not in front of Mary.

“You can speak, he’s trustworthy,” Stan addressed her unanswered question. Then he turned to the man and said, “She is my sister.”

She had been astonished that Stan had trusted this man so much that he had thrust her into his arms, he was a stranger to her after all. But when she felt his embrace, she knew there was an unspoken truth and wisdom in relying on him. He was a pillar of a man, muscular, warm, and exuding strength beyond muscle—not the strength he’d used to hold her but the feeling of comfort he emitted.

“I lost my bonnet,” Mary cried.

“We will find another for you—a new one. With more lace,” Thea said, unsure how she’d make good on the promise. What was worse, she’d have to explain to Mary’s parents how the last bonnet was lost…

Stan’s expression softened as he took in the scene before him. “You’ll be safe now,” he assured them, his gaze lingering on Andre. “Andre, there’s no time to waste. We must get back.”

So that was his name, Andre.

“They were expecting us. They spoke like List. Who was that?” Andre asked, but Stan didn’t answer. He smacked his lips as if the truth tasted too bitter to say it aloud.

Then Stan ushered them back into the carriage. Thea nodded, her mind racing with questions. Andre handed her the little girl but didn’t follow them into the carriage. Looking out of the open cabin door, she saw Andre tending to the coachman.

“Can you move it this way?” He lifted the man’s arm, and the coachman nodded.

“He’s a doctor,” Stan said, eyeing Mary sternly as the little girl settled into the seat. “Who’s the child?” Stan asked in Romanian, and Thea was sure Mary didn’t understand. She’d been tasked to teach her a little French and a lot of Latin, but her skills did not follow their conversation.

“I’m her governess. It pays for the passage. How would I have a six-year-old daughter in less than a year since you last saw me?”

Stan harumphed and shifted uncomfortably. “So, you did run away?”

“I came to find you.”

Stan sighed. “Why?”

Thea had forgotten how well he knew her. Of all their siblings, Stan was the closest in age, and they’d been inseparable as children until he left for university in Vienna.

“Can’t a sister miss her big brother?”

“Not if she’s supposed to marry the Habsburg prince this year. I’m not your escape, Thea.”

I’ll be the judge of that.

“Well, what I am supposed to do, and want to do, rarely overlap.”

Stan slumped into the seat and rubbed his knuckles. Thea noticed they weren’t bleeding this time; he’d been in worse fights.

“He needs a splint, but he can take us to London.” Andre climbed into the carriage, then sat next to Stan. “I’ll have to take him to the practice first.”

Stan nodded.

Andre’s demeanor had changed, and he seemed entirely in control now. He was enviable, thinking several steps ahead with a calm mind and the poise of a man with a clear path. Even a commoner had more control over his life than Thea ever had.

“Which practice?” she asked in fluent English, which seemed to take Andre by surprise, judging from his eyes that darted in her direction.

“87 Harley Street. London,” he said curtly.

The carriage resumed its journey, the night air cool against Thea’s flushed skin. She remained close to Mary, who’d put her head on Thea’s lap and soon fell asleep.

It was uncanny how Mary could sleep after the night’s excitement, but it was still night, and long past her bedtime. Thea’s heart was still pounding from the shock of the attack. Despite the chaos and fear, Thea felt a strange sense of trust. The road ahead remained uncertain, but one thing was clear—this encounter had changed everything.

She glanced up at Andre, his eyes steady and reassuring. She knew she would do whatever it took to protect Mary and stay close to her brother, but she couldn’t help but wonder about the man who had shielded them with his body.

“Who is he exactly?” Thea asked Stan in Romanian.

“I can speak for myself,” Andre answered in English. There was a sweet lilt to his pronunciation.

“Italian?” she whispered, pressing a hand over Mary’s ear; the other was already against Thea’s thigh.

“Dr. Andre Fernando is from Florence.” Stan said.

Thea shot her brother a glance. “What are you doing colluding with the Florentines?” she reverted to English since there didn’t seem to be a language left the handsome stranger couldn’t understand.

Stan rolled his eyes. “He’s not one of them. He studied in Vienna, and he’s a friend.”

“A commoner,” Thea said and arched a brow and wondered what else there was to the connection between her brother and this doctor. Even in the dim light in the carriage, she could see his intelligent eyes and bright smile, and she’d felt his muscles when Stan thrust her against his chest. Like her brothers, he was strong. Stan, Alex, and the other two had been trained for combat. War. She’d never met a doctor as strong as a warrior.

“What kind of doctor are you?” Thea asked.

“Orthopedist. Bones, and—”

“I know what an orthopedist is. Orthos is Greek for straight or correct, and paideia means education.”

“It’s a term coined by the French physician Nicolas Andry. I studied his original treatise.”

“In French?” Thea wondered why the muscular doctor was handsome and spoke French and German since he studied in Vienna. Most doctors didn’t have such a broad education.

“Both. There’s a slight inconsistency in the translation from French but the German edition had invaluable citations.”

Thea quirked a brow.

As if he’d guessed her skepticism, he explained. “I’m not of noble blood, but I assure you, Your Royal Highness, I’m all but common.” Andre arched a brow, and Thea’s heart leaped.

He was far too handsome and witty for her to be comfortable near him. As a princess, she’d been taught to keep her distance from rakes—especially the charming ones. He was charming, and this new curiosity about his persona unsettled her.

“All right, let me clear the air here.” Stan leaned forward. “Princess Josephine Theodora Andrea von Hohenzollen-Sigmaringen, I’m pleased to present my dear friend, Dr. Andre Fernando, to you.” Stan gestured grandly—as if they were not in a tight cabin of a landau in the middle of the night on a dirt path but in the throne room back at Bran Castle. “He knows about the gold mines at home and Baron von List.”

Thea dropped her head back against the cabin side. Somehow the Prussian baron had managed to use the political instability in Transylvania to cover up his exploitation of the gold mines.

“Have you been able to intercept any gold yet? Any evidence?” Thea asked but Stan merely shook his head in resignation. So List was still plundering the country’s resources and had so far gotten away unscathed.

“So, why did you run away?” Stan asked.

“I drafted a charter,” she mumbled.

“What kind of charter?”

“Charta ad opes extrahendas, per licentias a regia monarchia concessas moderata.” Thea reluctantly named the title of her charter draft.

“What?” His eyebrows shot up, carving deep lines across his forehead, while his mouth parted slightly, as if words had been snatched away before they could form. Suddenly, he winced and rubbed his shoulder.

“She drafted a charter for extracting resources, regulated through licenses granted by the royal monarchy?” Andre asked Stan.

“Why ask him? I drafted it.” Thea pointed at herself.

Andre paused momentarily, and she wished it weren’t so dark that she could better make out his expression. Could it be that he was angry because she, just a woman, dared to draft a charter aimed at correcting the political imbalance that drove her father to marry her off for alliances?

“You drafted a whole set of laws in Latin?” Andre asked.

“Yes,” Thea said, holding her breath, waiting for his reaction.

“What does it say?”

Oh! He was the first to ask about the content of her charter.

How flattering!

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she was glad the darkness hid her reaction.

“It sets up a licensing system so that the local resources cannot be exploited without reimbursing the local government for the extracted ore by weight.” She paused when he leaned forward, and the moonlight shining through the carriage window illuminated his face for just long enough so she could choke on her words. He was handsome.

And she had his attention.

Why was it so hot in the cabin all of a sudden?

“I set up three levels of controls so that nothing can be removed without a signature and ultimately a royal stamp before export papers are granted.”

“So that List’s smugglers can be caught before they bring him the gold?” Andre said and then turned to Stan. “That’s brilliant!”

Thea’s breath hitched.

Brilliant. He’d said she was—no, her charter was—brilliant. And he was the first man to give her ideas credit.

Her lungs filled with renewed hope and a sense of pride she thought she’d lost when she ran away from her life at Bran Castle.

“The Habsburgs won’t sign it if it means that we’d get the last say about the mining,” Stan said.

Andre clapped his hands. “Still, it’s a grand idea.” Then he leaned forward. “Princess Josephine Theodora Andrea—”

“Just Thea, please,” she said, acutely aware of her brother’s disapproving snort.

She wasn’t sure how to act in this context, so she did as she’d been told, held her hand out for him to kiss it, and was surprised with how he did. Andre bowed from his seated position, took her hand, and kissed solemnly on her knuckle lingering for just a fraction of a second too long.

It felt as though he were bending the etiquette on purpose.

A jolt of prickling shot through her, and she withdrew her hand quickly.

He’s dangerous… OH, this is going to be fun.