Page 45 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)
T he early light revealed too much—his unbuttoned coat, his disheveled cravat, and likely the flush of a man who had just climbed down from a lady’s window.
He straightened his spine, meeting Wendy’s brother and his band of allies directly.
There wasn’t much left of his dignity, but he’d spend every last scrap fighting for hers.
“I know what this looks like,” he began, his voice even, though his chest tightened with every second Nick’s cold, unyielding gaze stayed locked on him.
Nick tilted his head, his expression as clear as a loud sermon in a silent chapel. He wasn’t looking at Stan as royalty, a prince, or even as an equal. He looked at Stan like a common thief—one who had dared to enter his house to steal a treasure: his sister Wendy.
It was true, wasn’t it?
Stan dragged his gaze away from Nick’s hard stare to Alfie.
He was supposed to be still basking in that warm newlywed glow of love that softened other edges.
But no. Alfie’s mouth was a grim line, his eyes sharp and contemplative.
It was a gaze Stan recognized all too well—the same look Alfie had the night he measured out drops of truth serum with chilling precision to extract information from Baron von List. Alfie had weighed that decision then, and Stan could sense he was weighing something now.
Only this time, Stan realized, Alfie appeared to see him as the threat.
Stan swallowed and looked next to Felix.
Quiet, steady dentist Felix. Reliable, even soothing, until you put tools in his hands.
The thought made Stan’s palms sweat. Felix looked as calm as always, though his lips pressed together tightly, his gloved fingers curling lightly at his sides.
Stan didn’t need to guess what he was thinking—Felix’s gaze was sharp as a scalpel and full of warning.
A man who carved teeth and hammered gold into them for a living clearly didn’t mind a bit of blood if necessary.
“I have a sister, too,” Stan said into the charged silence, his voice steady despite the tension curdling in his gut. “I know what you must be thinking.”
Andre, standing at Felix’s side, tilted his head and arched a single dark brow, as though to say, Do you now? Stan’s jaw tightened, but before he could try again, Nick cut in, his voice like a blade.
“Wendy didn’t come home last night.” He wasn’t speaking to Stan. He didn’t even look at him. Instead, he spoke to Alfie, Felix, and Andre as though laying out evidence in a courtroom. But each word hit Stan hard enough to stagger him. “I thought she was looking after patients at Cloverdale House.”
All four men turned their heads in unison, gazes snapping to Wendy’s window above. Stan’s pulse thundered in his ears. He followed their stares, though every fiber of his body told him not to.
Then he saw it.
A slender leg—perfect, undeniably feminine—emerged from behind the curtain, clad in nothing more than the sheer sheen of stockings.
Her foot slid, audacious and teasing, against the brick wall as though searching for a steady foothold.
His breath halted somewhere between his chest and throat, the sound catching faintly.
All at once, the air seemed to buzz with disbelief.
Nick’s sharp intake of breath punctuated the moment like a musket shot; his boots scraped against the gravel, grounding him as though preparing for battle.
Stan fought the urge to step back, the sound alone thick with the promise of judgment.
But then Nick froze, motionless as a statue carved from righteous fury, and his eyes—all their eyes—stayed glued upward.
Stan knew better than to follow their gaze this time, though curiosity pulled at him like a fisherman’s net. He already half guessed what they were seeing. He just didn’t want to confirm it.
“Oh, bloody—” Alfie’s mutter cut the tension, sharp but low, his expression a half-step between alarm and exasperation.
Felix tilted his head, one gloved hand hovering near his face as though to shield his eyes—or perhaps his dignity—as the movement above caught the light. “Is she…?” he murmured, but his voice trailed off as Andre, too, leaned forward for a better view.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint scuff of silk on brick as Wendy— Wendy! —hooked her foot against the wall, the dainty toe of her stocking catching, slipping, catching again, refusing to stay still.
Nick’s hand shot out, jabbing toward the window, his face twisting as words finally boiled to the surface.
“What in the devil’s name is she doing?!
” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation hurled at the group around him, as though he had somehow convinced his sister to clamber out of a second-story window.
“She’s climbing, I think,” Andre supplied dryly, his voice lined with equal parts amusement and disbelief.
He crossed his arms and watched, almost intrigued, as Wendy’s other leg appeared, pressing against the brick in an awkward attempt at maneuvering.
She wiggled farther out—too far, in Nick’s mind, judging by the controlled snarl that escaped him.
“Gwendolyn Folsham—if you step one inch more—!” Nick’s voice rang out, brittle with a fury so tightly restrained it nearly shook. Whatever was left of his composure threatened to snap as he turned, throwing Stan a look so venomous, it burned. “ This is your fault.”
Stan opened his mouth, floundered, and closed it again. He tried not to wince as Wendy, above them all, raised an arm—was she waving?!—as though utterly impervious to the storm brewing below her.
“I’m going to fetch her,” Felix called as he darted into the house, remarkably calm, though his brow furrowed as if silently judging just how far Wendy would fall if her grip slipped.
“Or perhaps a straitjacket before Nick throttles someone?” Andre said, walking closer to the wall, as if he were estimating where she might fall—if not from the second floor, then surely from grace.
There was no question in their minds, she’d fall. And if—no, when—she got hurt, it would all be Stan’s fault.
“I’ll throttle you if you don’t stop enjoying this,” Nick snapped, turning back to the scene above, his arms flailing in something caught between despair and rage. “Wendy! Get back inside this instant!”
Her answer came in the form of another wiggle, more determined this time, that sent her skirts shifting precariously against her legs.
The slight flash of skin underneath shot through the group like a lit fuse, and Nick visibly reddened—though it was hard to tell if it stemmed more from anger or embarrassment.
“I swear —” Nick’s mutter dissolved into incoherent sputtering before his voice rose again.
“Tell her to stop!” he barked at no one in particular.
“She’s your sister,” Alfie quipped, his tone far too relaxed for the moment as he leaned just slightly away from the inevitable eruption. “I think that’s your job.”
Nick whirled around, pointing an accusing finger at Stan, his face thunderous. “ You! What did you do to her?!” His voice practically cracked under the pressure of sheer, unbridled protective instinct. “If she falls, I’ll—”
But no one finished the sentence. Because at that very moment, Wendy paused her descent just long enough to glance downward at all of them—a shy little tilt of her head, her hair spilling over one shoulder like innocent curls on a child, though there was nothing innocent about the way she dangled there, smug as a cat who’d caused a vase to fall.
Stan should have protested. He should have spoken, thrown himself on what little mercy existed, or even tried to offer an explanation.
Yet, all he managed to do was stare, his chest tight with some unnamable blend of concern and outright admiration.
Because when Wendy grinned—a flash of delight that dared everyone below to stop her —he knew that no one, not even Nick, had a chance of reining her in.
*
Wendy gripped the windowsill, her fingers curling tight against the cold wood.
It felt higher from here, far higher than it had seemed when she’d looked at the same spot from the safety of the sidewalk.
Her stomach shifted uneasily, a hollowness settling in as she glanced down.
The air seemed thinner up here, and the sudden rush of nerves prickled along her arms. This was probably not wise.
But it was decidedly too late to reconsider how to go about this.
Her foot scrabbled against the brick outside, the smooth stockings proving of no help.
She winced as the abrasive surface scraped her toes.
Her ears caught the faint murmur of voices from below, though the words were too distant to make sense.
Wendy adjusted her grip on the window frame, her gaze dropping cautiously—and then she froze.
She only expected to see Stan.
Instead, there was Nick? Alfie? Andre? And Felix ?
Her stomach clenched, a mix of panic and disbelief rushing through her in equal measure. What on earth were all of them doing there?
Her fingers tightened on the sill as her eyes darted from one familiar face to another.
Nick’s rigid posture radiated authority; his arms crossed in a way that transformed his disapproval into a weapon.
Beside him, Alfie appeared equally angry, though his expression was sharper, as if he were calculating exactly how much of his scorn she deserved for this spectacle.
Andre stood closer to the wall, directly below her, his mouth twitching as if tempted to smile but too puzzled by her presence to do so.
But it was Felix—Felix!—whose calm demeanor sent a fresh wave of mortification through her.
He tilted his head slightly, observing her with an unruffled air, his lips pressed into a thin line of quiet judgment.