Page 39 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Wendy’s earlier delight lingered on her features, her cheeks faintly pink from the cold—or perhaps from their shared breathless moments in the carriage.

Her smile was so unreserved, so vivid, it tightened something in Stan’s chest, though he didn’t dwell on it.

He offered his arm, and she took it lightly, her fingers brushing his sleeve as though this was where they were meant to be.

Stan pushed open the door, the bell above chiming softly.

A gust of sweetness enveloped them—a blend of citrus and faint floral notes mixed with the spicy undertone of cinnamon wafting from behind the counter.

Wendy blinked, slightly off balance as her gaze swept across the shop.

Rows of neat jars and tins lined the pastel-painted walls, their contents etched in neat lettering.

Beneath glass-domed trays on the polished counter sat the famous ices in appetizing hues—pale creams, soft yellows, delicate pinks—half-melted under the warmth of the lamps that lit the space.

Stan took in the tiled floor patterned with faint geometries, the meticulous order of the display, and the weary clerk wiping his hands on a linen towel behind the counter.

“Sorry, we’ve just closed,” the clerk said, his tone matter-of-fact but not entirely unkind. “Was just about to lock up for the night.”

Stan stepped forward without hesitation, Wendy keeping pace at his side. He stopped when they looked at the counter, his hand steady on the frame of the door, holding it open as though to leave no room for negotiation.

“Can we purchase the mandarin ice with rose and take some with us, then?” Stan asked.

The clerk hesitated, glancing toward the glass-domed trays across from him. His eyes lingered on the emptying remnants within. He sighed softly, finally bending to retrieve a small tin. “We have a little left,” he admitted, his tone reluctant but yielding.

“I’ll pay double,” Stan said plainly. There was no bravado in his voice, only the quiet conviction of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

Before the clerk could respond, another voice broke through, jagged and unfamiliar.

“No, I’ll take the last of it.”

Stan’s spine stiffened at the grating accent threaded through the words.

It was peculiar and harsh, each sound fractured and scraped against the warm cocoon of the shop.

He recognized it immediately, but he refused to react too soon.

Instead, he turned slowly, his composure unshaken but his senses on full alert.

The long-fingered hand pushed the door open, slipping past Stan’s grip and catching his attention first. It was wrong—bluish, cold, too still. Stan’s eyes moved upward, taking in the figure now standing a step too close.

Baron von List.

The coat fit him well, it’s dark tailoring cut to his tall, broad frame, but there was no mistaking how alien his presence felt within these walls of civility and comfort.

His face was almost sickly pale but sharply angled, his cheekbones high and hard against skin that seemed to glisten under the lamplight.

Deep-set eyes locked onto Stan’s, with more disgust than respect, though his faintly blue-tinged lips twisted upward in what might have been amusement or danger.

Wendy shifted next to Stan, her fingers tightening reflexively on his arm. He felt her tension and adjusted his stance to shield her from List without thinking.

“You’ll find another flavor,” Stan said evenly, his voice cutting through the space between them.

He held List’s gaze, unflinching. This wasn’t just about ice—it was about drawing a line, here and now.

When my love wants mandarin rose, she gets mandarin rose ice.

He didn’t dare look at Wendy, not now—not when the weight of what she meant to him had just been exposed in the worst way possible.

List’s lips curled faintly, though there was nothing pleasant in his expression.

His cool blue eyes swept over Stan once, lingering only briefly on Wendy, and that was enough to set Stan on edge.

“I doubt the others will suffice,” List replied smoothly, his accent slicing through each syllable.

“Mandarin happens to be the Baroness’ favorite.

She’s expecting, you know.” List arched both brows as if he’d accomplished something fantastic, but Stan knew that his wife was no better than List, and they’d hatch nothing better than the devil’s brood.

Stan did not move. The icy calculation in List’s tone was not unfamiliar, but it set Stan’s resolve deeper.

His hand fell casually to his side, steady as he positioned himself more fully in front of Wendy.

The clerk remained frozen at the counter, the tin in his hand seemingly heavier with every passing second.

“I’m afraid the ice has already been claimed,” Stan said, his voice cool but bordering on sharp. Each word carried a warning he dared List to test.

“Has it?” List countered, his tone laced with mock astonishment. He gestured subtly toward Wendy. “And the girl as well?”

Stan’s spine went rigid. Every instinct screamed to strike—but not here, not with Wendy watching, not with witnesses.

“If you would like a reminder of proper decorum, I would be glad to educate you,” he spoke in a low, deliberate, and menacing voice.

“Starting with how to address me—as Your Royal Highness.”

The faintest flicker of something passed through List’s gaze before it was buried under cold indifference. He moved his weight slightly, his coat shifting as though to reassert his presence.

The room went silent. The clerk’s nervous shuffling echoed in the stillness that followed, even the distant sounds of the street outside drowned out by the thick tension in the air.

Finally, List’s lips curved again, his gaze settling coldly on Stan.

“We’ll meet again,” he said, his accent curling over the words like a veiled threat.

“Hopefully at your funeral, if not sooner.” With calculated ease, he turned and retreated toward the street, the bell above the door offering a hollow jingle as it closed firmly behind him.

Stan stood motionless, the air heavier in the baron’s absence.

The scent he left behind clung to the shop like smoke, a sickly mix of decay masked by something sweet.

His chest tightened, tension uncoiling in his shoulders but refusing to dissipate completely.

The urge to act—to strike out at such a festering evil—still burned in his veins.

Wendy’s hand rested lightly on his arm, a tether, soft but secure, that held him steady in the storm of his thoughts.

Her voice cut through the dense silence, quiet but laced with disbelief. “Do you think he’s ever truly killed anyone?”

Stan’s jaw tightened as he glanced down at her, the grave question mirrored in her wide eyes.

Slowly, he nodded. “I know he has.” His voice dropped, each word a damning weight. “More times than I care to count. And he’s brought his depravity to London with him.”

Wendy’s gasp was barely audible, but her fingers curled against his sleeve, clutching tightly as though trying to anchor herself from the horror of it. “And no one stops him?” she whispered, her voice trembling with both anger and unease.

“He’s like smoke,” Stan murmured bitterly.

“You see him, you smell him, but try to grasp him, and there’s nothing there.

He’s always gone before the noose can tighten.

He slips through every law, every border.

And now he knows who you are to me.” He forced himself to unclench his fists, though the tension remained locked within him.

“He bribes, he threatens, he bends men to his will. No matter what he’s done, there’s always a greater devil willing to protect him if it favors their cause. ”

Wendy’s brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line as her gaze shifted toward the door, as though she could still see the shadow of him slipping into the night. “How can someone so vile go unpunished?”

Stan’s chest rose with a deep breath, but still, the weight didn’t lift. “Because men like him wield power the honorable cannot fathom.” His words were quiet but hard, steeled with the bitterness of truth.

The baron’s shadow weighed heavily on them both, a stain on the quiet of the night.

He turned toward the counter again, his tone steady once more. “Now, shall we finish arranging the ice and leave?”

*

Wendy hugged the cool paper-wrapped tin close to her chest as Stan assisted her into the carriage. The sweet scent of mandarin and rose mingled with the cool night air, and she allowed herself a moment to savor it. Once she was settled, Stan followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

The carriage rattled to life, its wooden wheels clattering softly against the cobblestones as they headed toward Hyde Park.

Wendy glanced at Stan from the corner of her eye, noticing the tension in his posture despite his efforts to hide it.

His jaw was tight, his gaze distant, and his usually calm demeanor seemed eroded by something far heavier.

She reached out, her gloved fingers lightly brushing his. “Everything felt almost… normal until he appeared,” she ventured softly.

Stan looked at her then, his expression softening marginally. He sighed as though the weight of the evening rested firmly on his shoulders. “It is my job to be certain that nothing touches you, nothing as dangerous as him.”

“Baron von List,” she said, testing his name as if it might make sense of the cold shiver he caused.

Stan gave a curt nod. “List is not a man to trifle with, Wendy. He’s a coward and doesn’t get his hands dirty but his intentions are rotten.” His gaze darted briefly to the window before returning to her. “I should have seen this coming.”

“Why was he so important that you came to London?” she asked gently.