Page 57 of The Sound of Seduction (Miracles on Harley Street #4)
W endy’s skirts brushed the tiled floor as she pushed the door into the dim bathroom, revealing Violet curled on the ground, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her trembling was faint, nearly imperceptible, but the sight hit Wendy with the force of a blow.
The usually opinionated and energetic Countess of Langley was on the tiled floor, her face looked ashen, her lips dry, and her eyes were wide with horror.
“Violet,” Wendy said softly, her voice calm despite the panic pressing at the edges of her mind.
She crouched down, the layers of her gown shifting as she settled on the cold floor beside Violet.
The chill of the tiles seeped through the fabric, a stark contrast to the warmth of Wendy’s hand as she reached out, brushing a few damp strands of hair from Violet’s face. “I’m here now.”
Violet turned her head slightly, her lips parted as though to speak, but no sound came.
Flushed skin.
Clutching her stomach.
Wendy’s fingers moved instinctively, pushing her pearl bracelet up and clasping Violet’s thin wrist. She pressed two fingers to the pulse point, her practiced touch catching the weak and uneven thrum beneath Violet’s skin.
Her other hand pressed gently against Violet’s cheek—clammy and far too cold. Wendy’s jaw tightened.
The symptoms were…confusing.
“Oh, the baby. What about the baby?” Violet half whispered and half-cried.
“Breathe with me,” Wendy murmured, her tone deliberate, soothing. “Can you do that? Nice and steady.” But Violet’s faint shaking continued, and Wendy’s sharp eyes caught the faintest hint of greenish pallor beneath her jawline. Her mind hummed with focused energy, filing every detail, every clue.
“May I?” Wendy reached toward Violet’s stomach to feel for the baby.
The muscles were tense, and the belly felt hard.
“Are you bleeding?” Wendy asked but Violet shook her head.
Good.
Except that this meant something else was amiss. At five months, miscarriages were rare… unless the baby would come too early.
“Did you exert yourself too much dancing?” Wendy asked.
Violet shook her head again, covering her mouth with one hand. “Not even one whole dance.”
As Violet exhaled, Wendy’s stomach churned—a bitter, metallic scent tickled her senses. Her lips pressed together in a thin, firm line. No. This wasn’t a mistake. This was intentional, methodical. Poison.
Wendy let go of Violet’s wrist and she brushed the fabric of Violet’s dress down to touch her stomach. Her calm expression did not falter, though her heart thudded with urgency when she realized how tense her stomach was.
Distress in pregnancy could harm the fetus.
Wendy helped Violet turn to her side, rested her hand gently over the small swell of her belly again. Often, the uterus relaxed sideways, and the baby would shift.
Nothing.
The child. Her thoughts steeled, cutting through any hesitation like a surgeon’s blade.
“Violet,” Wendy began, her firm yet soothing voice pulling Violet’s glassy eyes toward her.
“What did you eat or drink?” Wendy asked.
Violet froze for an instant. She looked at Wendy but didn’t seem to see her. And then, she grimaced, and began to cry.
“Tell me what happened!”
“Sofia von List… the punch… it smelled bad.” Violet cried and curled back up, clutching her belly, and rocking back and forth. “Oh, Henry was so happy to have a child. Perhaps even an heir.”
But Wendy didn’t let her drop back on the floor.
Her next motions were brisk and decisive. She grabbed the bowl from the wash basin with one hand, poured the water into the bucket in the corner, and held the bowl in front of Violet.
“We’ve got to get the poison out before it reaches the baby.” Wendy positioned herself behind Violet so that she could support her chest for the heaving she knew would come.
But Violet sobbed, barely holding her limp form up.
“Violet, we’ve got to do this now.”
A heart-wrenching squeal escaped Violet as she cried even more, but nothing happened. She didn’t cooperate.
“Andre?” Wendy called. “Andre!”
She heard footsteps. The door opened to reveal both Andre and Stan standing in the doorway.
“She’s been poisoned.”
Andre came to her side, placing one hand on Violet’s belly and the other on her carotid artery. “Faint pulse. Tense abdomen.”
“If it had reached the baby, the muscles would have relaxed. But the baby may still be alive.” Wendy attempted to push Violet up, but she was too heavy for her. Then Stan caught her, lifting her gently yet swiftly and positioning her over the bowl.
Wendy’s eyes were wide open when she watched the prince in all his finery hold her patient up, positioning her as if he’d done this before so they could get her to expel the poison.
“Military. I told you,” Stan said and nodded as Andre took Violet’s hand.
Then Andre explained what Violet had to do. She cried in protest, but Wendy couldn’t let any more time go by. “Violet, your child’s first breath depends on your strength right now—it’s the only chance the baby may have to live.”
Violet gave a faint nod, her trembling subsiding just enough for Wendy to note the flicker of trust in her weary gaze.
Wendy didn’t need words for what she saw there.
It was enough. She gathered what she would need—a pitcher of water, linens to prepare for what lay ahead—and when Violet finally complied with Andre’s instructions, Stan’s hands were already steady, and Wendy pushed a wet cloth against Violet’s forehead as they steadied her.