Page 55 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)

Violet chuckled softly, her cheeks flushing. “It would be most ungenerous of me to deny you.” She offered her free hand, and Henry then glanced toward Stan.

“I can hold this,” Stan said, lifting the glass carefully from her grip before Henry led her toward the dance floor.

Stan lingered momentarily, watching as the music swelled and Violet surrendered with graceful ease to Henry’s arms. They swayed seamlessly among the other couples, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissolve.

But not for Stan. His hand tightened slightly around the glass as he turned, his gaze restless once more. The ballroom remained as it had—alive with motion, beauty, and decorum. Yet, it lacked her.

By now, Violet had entirely disappeared into the whirl of silk and music, her dress catching the motion of the floor as Henry spun her lightly.

A nearby clock chimed faintly, and Stan checked the time.

It was nearing nine. This kind of evening, he reminded himself, was still early.

Yet the ache for Wendy, as sharp as it had been all those months ago, seeped into his chest like it had been born from years of waiting.

She wasn’t here—or not yet. Still, the moments stretched until it felt like a lifetime.

The scream was sharp and raw, slicing the air with a ferocity that silenced everything—the music, the laughter, even the sound of his own breath. It shattered the moment into jagged fragments that clattered to the marble floor.

Stan’s shoulders stiffened, his pulse hammering in his ears as faces turned toward the dance floor, confusion giving way to dread. Slowly, the dancers peeled away, skirts brushing urgently against polished floors, their hurried movements forming a widening circle at the ballroom’s center.

“Move,” he murmured, his boots striking heavy against the marble as he pushed through the huddled onlookers. His heartbeat filled his chest, choking him, louder with every step he forced forward. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the crowd dissolved completely, and he saw her.

*

The chill of the night air clung to Wendy’s pelisse as she stepped into Lady Ashford’s grand entryway, her hands instinctively brushing against the soft velvet trim.

Nick and Pippa were in front of her, their careful steps barely making a sound against the marble floor.

But it wasn’t the usual hum of anticipation she felt at a ball.

No music filtered through the house. No laughter or shuffle of dancers’ feet.

The silence was unnatural, pressing against her like a hand on her chest—ominous, too still, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

“Are we too late?” Pippa whispered, untying the navy ribbons of her cloak but hesitating to remove it completely.

It couldn’t be, it was after nine o’clock at night.

Wendy’s gaze darted to the sweeping staircase where Alfie and Bea rushed upward, their movements too hurried, too frantic to belong to the polished elegance of a Regency evening.

Alfie’s face was tight with worry, Bea clutching at his sleeve as though urging him to move faster.

Wendy’s stomach knotted. Something was terribly wrong.

Before she could fully take in the moment, Nick caught sight of Andre across the hall. “There.” His voice came low but firm.

Andre appeared out of shadow and light, his cravat undone, his coat askew.

He glanced back, his expression taut with urgency.

“Oh, you’re here!” he called out, relief flashing briefly across his face before he turned and bounded up the stairs two at a time, his coattails flying behind him.

The knot in Wendy’s stomach coiled tighter.

She didn’t need confirmation—something was very, very wrong.

The heavy slam of a door upstairs echoed through the house.

“What’s happening?” Nick demanded, already moving after him.

Wendy didn’t think. Her body moved on instinct, darting up the stairs behind Nick.

Pippa’s uncertain voice called after her, but Wendy pressed forward, her slippered feet sinking into the thick carpet as she took the steps quickly.

Her heart raced harder with every muffled voice and cry ahead of her.

At the end of the corridor, she caught up to Nick, Andre, and the others. They had gathered outside a guest bedroom, the heavy oak door slightly ajar. From the other side came the unmistakable voice of the Earl of Langley. It cracked with emotion—fear.

“Violet!” he cried out. A loud thud followed, as if something had struck the door. “She locked me out!”

Wendy inhaled sharply, her focus narrowing. Violet. Oh no! Her pulse quickened as she pushed further, slipping past an uneasy Lady Ashford and an ashen-faced Stan. Princess Thea had just arrived in the hall, her skirts swishing faintly as she looked from face to face, wide-eyed.

The Earl stood near the doorway, his normally controlled demeanor breaking under strain. One gloved hand pressed hard against the doorframe, his other clenched uselessly at his side. “She locked herself in the bathroom!” His voice faltered, his frustration edging toward alarm.

Wendy’s gaze shifted across the gathered group, her sharp senses cataloging every detail. Alfie hovered by the Earl, Bea gripping the edge of his sleeve. And then… Stan.

She’d seen him brave, composed, charming. But this? This was vulnerability. Real fear.

He stood in the corner, near the edge of the room. His hands trembled faintly at his sides; his usually composed stance fragmented. His face was pale, his jaw slack as though he couldn’t reconcile the moment playing out before him. It hit her suddenly—he wasn’t just shocked. He was afraid.

“What happened?” Wendy’s voice cut through the tense room, even and calm, though her heart thundered in her chest. She strode toward Stan, her movements precise, her mind already turning ahead to assessment. “Stan?”

He blinked at her voice, his unfocused eyes snapping to hers.

Then, raking both hands through his hair, he let out a shuddering breath.

“I—I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low and uneven.

“One moment, she was fine. She spoke to me about—about the Lists. She even teased about the smell of the punch. And then, she danced with Langley. Everything seemed… normal. A moment later, she collapsed into his arms. He carried her here, and now…”

His words trailed off, a flicker of helpless frustration crossing his face.

“And now she won’t open the door,” Andre finished grimly, moving to knock firmly against the wood. “Langley, did she lose consciousness when you carried her here?” His voice was steady, probing for detail, though his expression betrayed his growing unease.

Langley nodded toward the door, his hand curving into a fist that rested against the panel. “No,” he said hoarsely. “She came to as I brought her upstairs. Fought me, said no one was to follow her. And then…” He threw a helpless glance toward the door. “She bolted it.”

Andre rapped again with more force. “Lady Langley. Violet,” he called firmly. “It’s Andre. Please, open the door.”

But silence stretched thick and immovable from the other side.

Wendy’s chest tightened, her mind racing through possibilities, discarding and grasping for explanations.

Langley’s panic was sharp and rising, and Andre’s hands curled into tight fists against the frame, his steady composure cracking inch by inch.

Wendy closed the distance, placing her hand lightly on Andre’s arm.

Wendy stepped forward and rapped her knuckles firmly against the bathroom door. “Lady Violet,” she said, her voice calm but edged with determination. “It’s Nurse Wendy. Please, speak to me. I need to know you’re all right.”

Wendy pressed her ear against the door and heard a rustling of fabric.

Good, she was conscious.

Uncooperative, but alive.

Behind her, the Earl’s ragged breathing cut through the silent room as he dug his fingers into the doorframe.

“You are the only ones who can,” he said hoarsely, his gaze fixed on Nick as if the weight of his words couldn’t be borne alone.

“I… I thought it would never happen. Years. Years of nothing, and then you helped me and then Violet… she told me… and now…” His voice cracked, and his hands trembled before he slammed a fist against the wall, his restraint snapping.

“If something happens to the baby because of this—or to her!” He couldn’t finish, his words swallowed by despair.

Nick placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying the man as Langley’s composure threatened to unravel entirely.

Wendy didn’t turn, but her hands curled tightly over the doorknob, the Earl’s grief pressing against the air like an invisible storm.

The stillness from behind the door felt unbearable, every second stretching too long and too far for any of them to breathe normally.

She exhaled deliberately, grounding herself as she turned her attention back to the closed door. Whatever had happened to Violet—whatever had led her to lock herself away—Wendy knew one thing for certain.

They didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

She could not let emotion cloud her. Not fear, not love, not the impossible decisions her heart begged her to make about Stan. Not now.

Duty first.

Always.