Page 20 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

A t Cloverdale House in London, Stan clenched his jaw against the faint sting of antiseptic, the sharp smell mingling with the sterile chill of the bed chamber that had been converted to a treatment room as Andre methodically unraveled the bandage from his aching shoulder.

The late afternoon light caught the edges of Andre’s instruments, all neatly arranged on the table nearby. Andre fussed over them, his sharp gaze darting between Stan and the tools he’d brought.

On the desk sat the letter from home, its broken seal a silent rebuke.

It had arrived days earlier at Langley Hall and was forwarded to Cloverdale—another problem added to the pile.

But Stan’s pain was not just his shoulder.

His failure to stop List gnawed at him harder than the wound.

List was still out there, bleeding Transylvania dry.

Yet, here he was, bleeding instead of fighting, no closer to capturing the man responsible.

Andre cleared his throat, dragging Stan from his turmoil. “You look terrible, and you’ve been avoiding me since you received your post. You must rest or it’ll all hurt worse than it already does.” His tone was brisk, but Stan caught the thread of worry beneath it.

Stan managed a dry smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It already does.” He glanced back at the letter, his mother’s words pounding at the edges of his mind.

He will begin by erasing the women who stand beside the men.

But Thea wasn’t the only woman close to him anymore. List’s target.

Wendy.

Stan clutched his heart instinctively, as if he’d already been shot.

If Mother knew the full truth—Thea’s close calls, his festering wound—would she rage?

Collapse? Demand the impossible? List’s men were stripping the mines bare, their greed draining not only the earth’s riches but the lifeblood of the people his family had sworn to protect.

How could they protect anyone when they couldn’t even shield their own?

But she was right in that he needed a stronghold in England, an embassy perhaps.

Stan shifted to give Andre better access, wincing as Andre poured a strong-scented liquid over the wound.

Andre’s sharp eyes surely didn’t miss the flinch, but Stan tried to ignore the burn.

Only four days since the ball, and it had all unraveled—Wendy’s laughter echoing faintly behind the chaos.

He should have said something. Done something.

Sent flowers? No—that would have been unwelcome.

Nick would never forgive him for drawing Wendy into his chaos, not when his shadow carried the threat of a criminal who could so easily make her collateral damage in List’s schemes.

A war was coming. Nick would never allow Wendy to be caught in its crossfire.

Stan had to catch List, stop him, but how?

He had no idea. Perhaps it already was too late.

Before the thought could fully form, a sharp tug on his shoulder forced a wince from him.

“Have the guards arrived yet?” Stan asked.

“Yes, Nick and Andre showed them everything. I hope they’ll be trustworthy,” Andre said, laying his hand carefully on Stan’s shoulder but Stan nearly jumped from the pain of even the lightest touch.

“Is it really necessary to change the bandage again?” Stan snapped, his irritation spilling over.

Andre didn’t glance up, his focus locked on the dressing as he peeled it away. “Unless you’re keen to have the infection take its course and spare you all future worries—yes. I don’t re-dress wounds for sport,” Andre drawled, though his tone stayed even. “This is not a trifle injury.”

Stan scowled, biting back a retort, but the hiss he couldn’t suppress as the dressing pulled from raw skin said enough.

“Thought so,” Andre muttered. “It tore open again when they attacked you the second time.” He gestured lightly at the wound on Stan’s side, an injury he’d gotten when List’s men took Thea after the wedding ball.

The latest skirmish when Thea had been taken to the woods had aggravated it, leaving it raw and angry.

But Andre had saved her then and was now setting his healing hands on Stan.

Andre’s movements, as always, were precise.

If it hadn’t been for him, that second attack on Thea could have turned out far worse than leaving her with the shock of it altogether.

Moreover, since there had been a second attack, Stan feared for a third.

“I’m aware,” Stan said tersely. His voice dripped with bitterness, his frustration flaring. “It’s difficult to forget being tossed aside like a ragdoll while two men tried to drag my sister away.”

“I prevented that—”

“And I’ll be forever grateful. But they will be back.”

Andre paused briefly, then turned to dab a cloth soaked in medicinal oil along the inflamed edges of the wound. Stan tensed his jaws against the sting.

“It’s worse than I feared,” Andre said, a note of concern sliding beneath his usual calm. “Stan, have you noticed you’re burning up?”

“No,” Stan lied, though every breath he drew seemed to feed the heat suffusing his body. He could feel it crawling beneath his skin like fire licking at dry kindling.

“Mm-hm.” Andre’s brow lifted, unconvinced. His hand pressed against Stan’s forehead, an action efficient but bordering with exasperation. “You have a fever,” Andre confirmed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Not that Stan didn’t try.

“And what of it?” Stan shot back.

Andre surveyed him as if he were a particularly stubborn case study.

“What of it? You’re flush with fever, your shoulder’s inflamed, and you’re sitting here asking ‘what of it.’” He stepped a pace back, his hands falling to his hips in disbelief.

“People with infections of this magnitude don’t typically sit upright, Stan.

Most certainly not while barking orders. ”

“I don’t have the luxury of being laid low,” Stan bit out, leaning forward despite the ache in his muscles.

“Not while von List’s men are still after Thea.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

” He trailed off, shaking his head. The words curdled in his throat, pressing hard against his chest. He would not remain idle, awaiting yet another misfortune to befall them, for twice was already more than enough.

Andre’s expression softened—slightly. “You said yourself they shoved you aside. What happened wasn’t a failure,” he said evenly.

“It wasn’t me who saved her, Andre. But thanks to you she’s safe.

” Stan’s voice dropped, the words tangling with his guilt and frustration.

“Do you understand what that’s like? Two men came into that house and made me powerless.

They laid their hands on her, my sister.

” His fists curled on instinct as though the memory alone required a physical response. “And it’s all because I took on List.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of bandages in Andre’s capable hands.

“With your fever and that shoulder, I’d hardly call standing upright a failure,” Andre finally said dryly, though the edge of his voice softened in reproach. “Most men would be halfway to a grave by now. The fact you were upright at all is nothing short of a miracle.”

“I don’t dream of miracles; I need solutions,” Stan muttered, the fire of his anger dimming slightly, smothered out by exhaustion. His shoulders sagged momentarily, though the fight in him persisted.

Andre tied off the fresh bandage carefully. “A good start might be resting for more than an hour between brooding sessions,” he offered lightly, though his gaze grounded Stan. “And letting the wound air might do better than wrapping it again.”

Stan gestured dismissively, the idea of surrendering to rest agitating him further. “I can’t.”

“You won’t ,” Andre corrected without missing a beat.

Stan ignored the comment, his thoughts drifting to familiar territory—the face he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind. Wendy’s smile flickered in his memory, her tone soft but steady. For days now, she’d lingered at the edge of his every thought like sunlight through a haze.

“If anything had happened to Thea that day…” Stan began, then cut himself off, his mind catching the parallels before he could stop them.

Could he bear to involve Wendy further when his own life was this volatile?

Nick certainly wouldn’t approve, and Stan could hardly fault him for that.

He’d nearly unraveled entirely when List’s men took Thea.

To bring Wendy any closer felt like folly.

And yet…

“I need a private nurse if you want me to stay locked up till the fever breaks,” Stan said abruptly, breaking the tension with the force of the confession. He hadn’t intended it to come out quite like that, but Andre stilled, his attention now wholly on him.

“A nurse,” Andre repeated, measuring his words. “And by that, you mean?”

“Miss Folsham. Nurse Wendy,” Stan said evenly, though the heat climbing his neck betrayed him. “At Cloverdale House. If I’m to recover, it must be someone I can trust—and someone with skill that you approve of. It’s safe here with the new guards in place.”

Andre’s mouth curved faintly, a subtle shift that could have passed as indifference, yet Stan felt the air tighten between them. Their eyes locked, and the room stretched quiet except for the muffled ticking of the mantel clock. Nothing was said, but the silence resonated louder than words.

Stan stiffened, his shoulder aching, but the discomfort barely registered.

His thoughts pulled sharply to Wendy—her steady voice, the way she met his gaze without flinching, her gentleness wrapped in an iron will.

Andre had always spoken highly of her, but now Stan understood the depth of that admiration.

It was more than appreciation. It was protectiveness—sharp and uncompromising, woven into every careful motion of Andre’s hands as he adjusted Stan’s bandages and tied off a sling to support his arm.