Page 22 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

A t the same time, Wendy was on the way back to London with Nick and Pippa.

The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones, the steady rhythm weaving through the faint hum of conversation inside.

Wendy sat opposite her brother and sister-in-law, her gaze flitting between them as they spoke.

Pippa leaned slightly forward, her hands clasped tightly together, as though her excitement couldn’t be contained any longer.

“The workers should have started this morning,” Pippa said, her voice bright and lilting.

“The architects promised to oversee every phase, but I told them I’d be there as often as possible.

I need to keep an eye on the progress myself.

It’s not just about construction—it’s about creating something with purpose. ”

Nick’s mouth curved into a fond smile as he adjusted the cuff of his jacket. “And you don’t trust their competence unless you witness it firsthand?”

“Not that,” Pippa insisted with a good-natured laugh. “But yes. I want to see the rehabilitation center take shape. To know it’s becoming real—what we’ve worked toward, what we’ve dreamed of. Can you imagine it? A space like Cloverdale House, transformed to help so many?”

Wendy studied her sister-in-law, noticing the light blush on Pippa’s cheeks, the fervor in her expression.

Even as Wendy’s thoughts lingered elsewhere, Pippa’s enthusiasm softened the tightness in her chest. It was clear Pippa’s heart was firmly invested.

The idea of the home, once lavishly idle, now repurposed for something meaningful—it was admirable.

Nick reached across the space and covered Pippa’s hand with his. “It’s beyond generous. Opening Cloverdale to high-ranking officials for treatments when it could be rented or sold for some grand profit… Not every woman would choose so selflessly.”

Pippa wrinkled her nose as though dismissing the thought entirely.

“What use is fortune if it can’t help those in need?

And think of the officers who served to protect us—of the families breathing easier knowing their husbands, sons, and brothers will be treated with dignity, surrounded by beauty.

Most soldiers never return. But those who do?

We will never turn them away. Healing isn’t a small thing.

I’d like to put my inheritance to good use.

Plus, we owe them since they defended us and the hegemony of powers in Europe.

” Pippa waved as if it were nothing, giving up one of London’s largest estates for the purpose of a sophisticated hospital, even if this was not what they’d call it.

Nick’s nod carried quiet pride.

Wendy smoothed the folds of her plain dress, her gloves lying unused in her lap. For a moment, Wendy felt a tug of wistfulness—and then quickly tucked it away.

The ball four days ago felt like a dream now, a fleeting moment of effervescence, and one she could no longer afford to entertain. The cobblestones gave way to a smoother path, and Wendy stole a glance through the carriage window as Cloverdale House came into view.

Though she had visited before, seeing it now stirred something new within her.

The facade, bathed in the pale morning light, stood tall against the bustle of the surrounding streets.

The muted grandeur of the home felt inspiring, not ornamental, as though steeped in the promise of what Pippa envisioned, and Wendy would be part of, in converting the estate into a true rehabilitation center.

Wendy tapped the crunched-up gloves she held lightly against the seat, waiting for the carriage to roll to a stop.

“I only hope it will be safe with the new guards,” Nick added after a beat, his voice slipping into a lower, protective tone. “Not everyone agrees with the changes to Cloverdale. Some see its use as a rehabilitation center as an affront to its history.”

“Isn’t it the opposite if it becomes a place where those who defended what’s good and right come to heal?” Wendy asked.

Pippa’s lips curved slightly in response, but she swept a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a flicker of determination flashing in her hazel eyes.

“Then they can argue with results. Time will prove us right.” Turning to Wendy, she softened her tone.

“And you’ll tell me the truth, won’t you, Wendy?

If you see something that doesn’t work?”

Wendy blinked, brought back fully into the moment. “Of course,” she said, nodding. A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “Though you hardly need my advice. You seem to have thought of everything.”

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; his left 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?

Keep your distance, Wendy. You manage the injury but not the royal mess of his life.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring. Not about the little nagging voice of reason but because of her concern for her prince.

Still not your prince, Wendy.

“Wait, what healing? Stan, you winced just now. You’re in pain!”

“It’s nothing,” he insisted, though the strain in his voice betrayed him when he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. If anything, his attempt to move his arm in demonstration only deepened the grimace etched on his face. He quickly abandoned the effort, his pride clearly battling his pain.

She touched his forehead, her concern overriding all propriety. “You look fevered—have you rested at all? Has Andre given you anything for the injury?”

He hesitated, and that singular pause spoke volumes. Wendy could see the tension in his stance—the stubborn determination not to show weakness clashing with the very real signs of exhaustion etched into him.

“Andre’s in there with my sister.”

“Is she injured, too?” Wendy asked, ready to go to Andre and assist him.

“No, she’s perfectly fine now, but if they don’t come out of there, he might be—”

“Oh!” Wendy’s hands flew to her mouth. Andre and a princess?

“Oh indeed.” He arched a brow and there was a glint of boyish mischief that sent Wendy’s heart into a wild flutter. But then it melted away as if the fever burned his spirits.

Without fully realizing it, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of his sleeve just above the sling. The warmth radiating from him confirmed what she already suspected. Her throat tightened as worry tunneled through her.

“Your Royal Highness,” she began softly, her voice steadier now despite the storm of emotions fighting for space in her chest. “You need to rest. Whatever this is—whatever you’ve endured—you can’t simply push through it.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his dark gaze lingering on hers in a manner that made her heart stumble.

There was gratitude there, though unspoken, hidden beneath layers of pride and fatigue.

Finally, he dipped his head, just a fraction.

But even as he conceded, she noticed the faint hint of defiance still glittering in his eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said quietly. “But first… I need to speak with your brother about the guards.”

Wendy pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to argue further. Instead, she gave a short nod, watching him closely as he straightened, visibly steeling himself against his weakness.

But as she followed him down the corridor, her mind churned with questions and a growing unease.

The Stan she knew was always composed, unshakable.

But tonight, she had glimpsed something else entirely—a man who was, perhaps for the first time, pushed to the brink.

And she couldn’t shake the awareness that he hadn’t told her the whole truth.

But what could the prince, who clearly suffered from an infection, hide from her, a mere nurse?