Page 1 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

She could do it all.

But not the one thing she longed for—to speak to the prince.

Nonsense , she thought to herself and yawned as she tied her white apron in the back.

Princes were not for nurses, except in fairytales.

Work called to her as it always did, but a whisper of restlessness stirred at the edges of her thoughts, only partially drowned out by the day’s demands.

With a stack of freshly laundered towels and bandages in hand, starched so stiff they practically stood on their own, she made her way to Dr. Andre Fernando’s treatment room, the orthopedist at the practice.

Andre’s skeletal chart loomed on the wall in all its bony glory and Latin terms, perched like a sentry over his latest invention.

“Oh, fresh bandages and towels, thank you, Wendy,” Andre’s eyes lit up as he spotted her.

A smile broke across his features, and his voice was rich with warmth as if her arrival had brightened his entire day.

“Thank you for always bringing me everything I need before I even know I do.” He gestured to the empty cabinet where only one small towel remained.

He wasn’t her brother—only Nick held that title—yet Andre, the orthopedist, Alfie, the apothecary, and Felix, the dentist, had all earned an honorary version of it.

They had made it their business to shelter her as though she were their little sister.

Sometimes too much so, like when they insisted she couldn’t shop alone on Regent Street or when each of them came to wish her good night, taking turns as if she weren’t perfectly capable of tucking herself in at two-and-twenty.

“You’re welcome, Andre.” Wendy’s gaze landed on the small contraption atop the table. “Is it finished?” She leaned closer, curiosity flaring.

“Yes.” He picked it up, his hands deftly adjusting the splint to show how it articulated at the hinges.

“It’s for a little boy with rachitis. He’s coming today.

” Rachitis , he said, not the common rickets most would use.

He addressed her as though she were a colleague, not merely a nurse, and the respect in his tone felt like a cherished compliment.

“The poor child—his legs barely hold his weight. He’s never played outside like he should.

” Her throat tightened. Wendy thought about how many carefree days she’d had playing outside with Nick when they were children…

before their parents died. Freedom had always been something she’d taken for granted—until now.

At the thought of the young boy whose legs couldn’t hold him, her shoulders slumped, and she stared at the floor, blinking rapidly as her chest tightened.

“Andre, how will it work exactly?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the intricate device.

“The splints are designed to stabilize his legs while still allowing movement,” Andre explained, gently turning the contraption to demonstrate.

“The hinges here mimic natural joint articulation, so he’ll be able to walk more steadily without locking his knees.

It’ll give him the chance to build up strength. ”

“So, he’ll be able to walk?” she asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice.

“Yes,” Andre replied with a slight smile. “With some practice, he might even play outside like other children.”

Wendy gently traced the leather strap with her finger, admiring the careful craftsmanship. It was ingenious, truly. “Will you make more?”

“I must. There are so many children like him in London. Some call it the English disease .” His voice dropped with quiet frustration.

“I remember in Florence when I played with my brother and sister. The children there ran free, and their legs never bowed. They basked in the sunshine, healthy, strong. It’s not right that children who seem otherwise well suffer a life indoors. ”

“It isn’t,” Wendy agreed softly, touched by the tenderness in his gaze as he stared at the tiny splint. He carried a protectiveness born of grief because he missed his family, a side of Andre that always left her humbled. Perhaps that was why she was drawn so deeply to this practice, to this place.

And she’d never leave, she thought.

At 87 Harley Street, their clothes were plain, their pockets often empty, but their hands never stilled—operating where others didn’t dare, treating those who had been said to be incurable, binding open wounds, planting seeds of hope for healing, offering light in the darkest corners.

But still, something shifted within her. Was this all she would leave behind one day? Splints, glasses, and tinctures?

“I might accompany you to Regent Street this week,” Andre added nonchalantly, interrupting her thoughts.

“No need,” she replied with a touch of levity. “Bea and Pippa are coming with me for the modiste to fit my gown.”

For a moment, the wedding idea lingered warmly in her thoughts—until it soured.

With Nick and Alfie’s marriages to high-born ladies, things had already started to change.

Besides, there’d be a ball after the wedding, an unusual celebration, and worse, there would be dancing. And she still didn’t know how.

That unspoken chill of embarrassment pressed on her.

When would she have had the time to learn dancing?

It was a life for debutantes, aristocrats, and people like Pippa and Bea.

Not a nurse. Yet, she couldn’t deny the brighter side of the event—celebrating Alfie and Bea’s wedding, the elegance, the promise of people whose lives seemed so impossibly larger than her own. It was a glimpse of a fairytale.

“Here comes the groom,” Andre said with a smirk.

“Good morning, Wendy. Andre.” Alfie’s cheerful voice broke into her reverie as he entered carrying several porcelain pots on a metal tray. His arrival brought a faint bittersweetness as she eyed the salves inside. Some were for children whose skin chafed against their braces and splints.

“Stan needs our help with Baron von List,” Alfie declared with a tone bearing bad news as he set the tray aside.

Andre’s grip faltered, and the splint slipped from his fingers. Wendy caught it effortlessly, her reflexes honed by years of far messier mishaps. Andre’s voice was sharp. “Not again.”

“Yes, again. And I’m concerned. That truth serum we gave him…

List is bound to retaliate.” Wolfgang von List, with ties to the King of Bavaria—a confidant of Napoleon Bonaparte—was a man without scruples, preying on minorities, women, and those too burdened by honest labor to see the leech that thrived on their toils.

It was generally known that List viewed Europe’s fragile post-Napoleonic peace as a prize for his gain and that he was the kind of man whose presence could tip the scales of empires.

And although Wendy had never confronted him personally, his name was not a name meant to rest idly in anyone’s mind.

Her breath caught. Not from fear—but from calculation. It was only a matter of time before they were all pulled into the crosshairs of the discord between von List and the Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen royals.

One misstep, one whisper of impropriety, and List could twist it into a scandal—or worse—war. Not just for her—but for the clinic. For Nick. For Alfie, Andre, Felix. For Cloverdale House.

Wendy didn’t have to strain to follow their words.

She had heard the tale, the whispered accounts of the night at the card table when Prince Stan had outmaneuvered the notorious Baron von List using Alfie’s alchemy.

List had tipped his hand, revealing secrets he couldn’t afford to lose.

He wouldn’t forget this humiliation and the information he’d involuntarily shared.

Just then, the murmur of voices down the hall sent shivers up Wendy’s spine, and without turning, she knew.

Prince Stan was here. Perhaps it was the creak of the floorboard or perhaps simply an instinct she couldn’t seem to suppress.

Her pulse betrayed her, quickening as though each beat announced his presence.

Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen—Stan, to those fortunate enough to stand beside him as equals or have earned his friendship—entered with a sweep of motion like a man who commanded not just attention but respect.

His shoulders were pleasingly broad, his stride purposeful, and his hair defied the principles of civility as though no crown or comb could tame it, and Wendy found herself drawn in by the storm of contradiction that was Prince Stan.

Power and poise wrapped in mischief and rebellion.

If Prince Stan were a book, she’d not only read her copy but wear it down till the pages fell off the binding.

But this was no fictional fairytale prince.

He had no spine of glue but a straight back and warm eyes.

His front wasn’t a mere gilded cover but a breathtaking display of masculine splendor.

And his backside was not to be hidden behind dusty book covers but wrapped in the finest tailored wool coats that barely covered the perfect backside…

oh, who was she jesting? He was perfection.

Too perfect. Too tempting. And far too dangerous.

She took a step back instinctively, willing herself to focus. She wasn’t some giddy girl at a Mayfair ball. She was a nurse. One misstep—even a misread glance—could unravel everything.

She couldn’t afford to long for him. Not when her name was tied to Harley Street, and one rumor could taint the very place she loved.

“Good morning, Miss Folsham.” His voice reverberated through her bones as if she were a tuning fork that had only waited for him to set her in motion.

Still, Wendy straightened, willing herself to stay composed. She knew her thoughts were foolish; her dreams of him were nothing more than fantasies whispered to her pillow at night. Yet when his gaze wandered briefly to her, the intensity of being seen left her exhilarated and unnerved.