Finally, he sighed. “On my way back from Delforte’s Hell”—he never shied away from naming the establishments he visited with her pamphlets—“I happened upon a scuffle in an alley. The man…what happened to him, by the way?”
“He leapt out the window.” Patience gestured toward the open bank of windows at her back. “Crawled down the side of the house and fled.”
“Oh, interesting.” The earl shook his head. “Well, I happened upon him and another man, a true n’er-do-well, in an alley. It appeared the thief had set upon him, and I stepped in to assist. Brought him here so Dr. Durpentine could see to his injuries.”
The physician chuckled, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “It appears I am no longer needed.”
Her father clapped the man on his back with a laugh. “Appears not. I’m confident he’ll find a way back to the Albany. We can’t help those who do not want our help, now can we?”
“We cannot, my lord.”
“Please close the window and run along back to bed, sweet pea.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and ushered the doctor from the room. “May I offer you a drink for your troubles?”
Patience stared at her father’s retreating back as he and the physician crossed the threshold and their footsteps retreated to the stairs.
Nothing about her father’s detached attitude shocked or concerned her—it was his way of things. However, bringing a stranger—a man, no less—into their home in the middle of the night was very concerning.
Belatedly, she realized she’d forgotten to ask her father for the man’s name.
Chapter 2
Sinclair—Sin—Chambers, the sixth Earl of St. Seville, pushed through the door of the Albany without waiting for the footman and took the three steps down to the walk below as he stared up at the clouded sky above. Bloody hell but his head ached. His lip and nose had swollen during the early hours of the morning, as well. He should have stayed abed for a few more hours. Yet, lying about nursing his cuts and bruises was not a luxury he could afford. At least not if his wounds were little more than a busted lip and a crooked nose. His injuries notwithstanding, Sin had an appointment with Coventry at nine o’clock sharp—and he was much looking forward to speaking with the rascal, especially after last night.
Set upon by a thief. Sin scoffed.
He had no time or funds to play games, nor did his purpose in London include being set upon in a dark alleyway. He’d asked Lord Coventry to arrange a boxing match for him, not have him accosted by a ruffian after Sin had enjoyed several drinks at a local tavern that sold pints of ale for a fraction of the price at the Albany or any of the establishments in Mayfair.
Damnation.
He glanced down the street, mostly deserted at this time of day, and sighed. The breath leaving his mouth stung his lip, and Sin tentatively flicked his tongue along the split to make certain fresh blood hadn’t sprung forth. Thankfully, the cut hadn’t opened again.
The bloody thug from the night before had gone so far as to steal Sin’s coat before fleeing the alley. As if he had the funds to purchase another. Sin only hoped he remembered the directions to the Wicked Earls’ Club correctly or he’d be wandering the street. It wasn’t as if Coventry and his lot had a sign posted outside declaring the club’s name, and London was a new and foreign city to Sin, vast compared to Brownsea Island.
A hackney pulled to a stop before Sin. “Where to, m’lord?”
He thought hard, visualizing the letter from Coventry he’d received at his estate on Brownsea Island. What had the address been? “Bedford Place.”
“I know where ya mean.” The driver nodded. “I be take’n many fine gents ta 276 Bedford Place.”
Yes, 276 Bedford Place.
Sin still had trouble believing that the establishment existed. A club solely for earls. No stuffy, pompous dukes or newly wealthy barons to contend with. Not that Brownsea Island had any of those. It was only Sin, his mother, younger sister, and their people who inhabited the small land mass off Dorset. If it weren’t for his current situation, Sin would have gladly remained on the isle, removed from society, content to till the land with his people and take care of his estate.
Unbeknownst to Sin, his father had made that impossible.
The man who’d fled London after his marriage to live out his days in peace and solitude with his family had drained the estate coffers, allowing the land to fall fallow and neglecting those who depended on him. His father had been a private man, a lord who spoke rarely of his estate and their financial stability. Though Sin had witnessed his father corresponding regularly, by post, with his man of business. He’d said it was about this shipping venture or that manufacturing endeavor, but Sin had occupied himself around the estate, not tending the books. By the time Sin had inherited everything, dire straits had already settled on the island folk—and the St. Seville estate.
His only comfort was knowing that even his mother, Sin’s constant companion, hadn’t known the grim precipice the St. Seville estate was positioned upon.
“Ye be need’n a hack or no?” the driver prodded when Sin remained quiet.
“How far is it from here?” Sin replied, thinking about his ever-dwindling coin. “Can I walk?”
“I wouldn’t be advise’n that, m’lord.” He glanced down at Sin’s new Hessians, his meaning clear. “If’n ye don’t find any trouble, it’s near a forty-minute stroll ta Piccadilly.”
Sin relented and climbed aboard the hack, the chilly morning breeze burrowing straight through his old coat. He still couldn’t believe the bloody man had stolen his new coat. Sin’s outrage ignited anew.
Thankfully, the driver hadn’t mentioned Sin’s battered face and swollen nose.
Sin leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in his temples, as the hack pulled away from the Albany. The least Coventry could do when Sin arrived on Bedford was offer him a drink—or two—to combat the aches in his head and shoulders.
He could not believe the situation he’d found himself in the previous night. Climbing out a window, clawing his way down the side of a townhouse, and fleeing into the night. It was the actions of a rakehell departing his ladylove’s abode to avoid being caught by her husband. Perhaps he would have enjoyed the moment more if that had been the case—not that he’d ever found himself enamored with a woman who was already spoken for.
With his golden-brown hair, dark skin, and muscular body, Sin never had any trouble attracting the notice of unattached women.
Images of the ethereal beauty from Desmond’s house floated through his mind. Long hair of the darkest brown had hung down her back, her eyes were a cloudy blue that Sin would argue was gray in color, and her skin…its olive complexion had confused him slightly, rendering him unable to speak. Her skin was not dark from the sun as Sin’s was. No, it was as if the tone had been inherited. Yet, Sin knew it hadn’t come from Desmond’s lineage as the elder man was as pasty as a newborn babe—or a prim English rose.
What shocked him most was that he’d been more frightened of her than she was of him. In fact, as her hard stare had traveled the length of his body, Sin hadn’t detected even the slightest hint of apprehension. Imagine happening upon a stranger in your home and, instead of sounding the alarm, demanding to know their business.
Sin chuckled quietly, his chest aching from the punches to his rib he’d sustained during the scuffle in the alley. The woman’s beauty, poise, and pensive bent had piqued his interest, but he couldn’t risk remaining at Desmond’s home a moment longer. Not even to verify what he thought was true—the lady was Desmond’s daughter. There was too much on the line for Sin to have a man such as the earl asking questions—or worse, summoning the Night Watch to lodge a formal complaint of the attack.
It was best not to occupy his thoughts with the woman or her father; his time and energy were better spent elsewhere.
Sin was in London for one thing, and one thing only.
To save his family and hi
s people from ruin. It was more than financial ruin, though. It was far more imperative that he succeed at his mission than gain mere money. His people would starve if he did not. His mother and sister would be left without a proper home. There would be no funds to tend the land. His people would have to move away from their properties and find work on the mainland. Families would be broken up, lineages spread across England, and it would all be Sin’s fault. If it were in his power to restore security to everyone who called Brownsea Island home, then he would risk everything for that cause.
His father had let everyone who depended on the earldom down, and it was Sin’s responsibility to prove his worth to his people. His mother had begged him not to leave Brownsea, his sister had cried as he rode away, and all the while, Sin told himself he needed to fix what his father broke.
It was a solitary mission only he could achieve.
And to do that, Sin had to put his trust in Coventry to secure him an introduction into the group of men who organized the grand, bare-knuckle boxing matches that were set for large sums of money. He was a skilled pugilist and took great pleasure in besting all the men on Brownsea Island. Now, it was the simplest means of gaining the large sum of money he needed to keep his people fed and the land around his estate bearing crops.
The hack creaked and groaned as it stopped before a bleak, non-descript building made of sandstone. “This is it?”
“Yes, m’lord,” the driver confirmed. “Will ye be need’n a hack home?”
Sin dug into the pocket of his trousers for the few meager coins he’d brought with him. “Ah, no. No, thank you, mate.”
For Sin’s troubles the previous night, Coventry would be responsible for seeing him back to the Albany—and perhaps giving Sin a meal to go with the scotch he desperately needed.
He flipped two shillings to the driver and hopped down to the walk to stare up at the building.
The gathering place for the Wicked Earls’ Club—formally, The Earls’ Guild.
His father had often spoken of the place: a sanctuary where men could find a proper meal, a card game, a fencing match, or far more illicit pastimes.
Not that his father had been the type of man prone to debauchery, even in his youth. Spending all the family coin, yes, that he’d done. Enjoying nights of unsavory entertainments, no. It seemed that unwise and impractical business ventures were Sin’s father’s crutch. It was only years later that Sin realized it allowed his father to remain hopeful despite the crushing failures that continued to plague his every investment. Had his father and the Earl of Desmond met within these very walls? Had they shared meals together or played billiards?
With those questions came the realization of how truly alone Sin was in London. Besides his correspondence and meeting with Coventry, he knew no one. And in turn, that made him an unknown to anyone in London. Thankfully, Coventry had insisted that he knew a gentleman who would back Sin and help him acquire a few boxing matches, putting up the funds necessary to participate.
The door to the club opened, and a servant offered Sin a welcoming smile.
“The Earl of St. Seville, I presume?” the servant inquired, his speech not that of a common servant but cultured, bordering on educated. When Sin nodded, the man continued, “This way, please. Lord Coventry is awaiting your arrival.”
Sin stepped into the building and immediately regretted not tying his long hair back from his face—or having it cut in a proper fashion. He also lamented wearing his tattered, well-used coat—not that he had any other option. The luxurious interior of the club was unlike anything Sin had ever seen. The sheer amount of wood was enough to keep several servants busy for days polishing, and the floors glistened beneath his boots.
He was lucky he hadn’t been turned away and denied entrance.
But then he remembered the reason he was without his finely tailored new coat and the twenty pounds tucked in its inner pocket. His temper simmered, and Sin suspected it would be a task to keep it under control until his meeting with the earl concluded.
He needs must remember, despite what had occurred in the alley, Coventry was his only ally in London—at least until he was introduced to someone who could fix him up with matches worth large purse money. Then…then Coventry could go to the devil with his backhanded surprise and take his fancy club with him. Sin was an earl, but these were not the men he was used to associating with.
Sin followed the servant through the main room toward a long, narrow hall, staring at the many men reclining in overstuffed armchairs in groups or sitting before the open hearth, reading the London Post, conducting business, or simply enjoying a meal.
As he passed a room with the double doors thrown wide, he noted two men embroiled in a gravely serious billiards match. He had the urge to stop and watch—perhaps even join them. To be a man unburdened by the responsibilities of family and his title was something Sin hadn’t experienced in many, many years. To be a gentleman with genuine friendships, men—and even women—whom he could speak to of his many hardships and ask for advice, knowing the words spoken came from a place of kinship, was something Sin might never encounter. Taking on the burden meant that others were free of the weight that threatened to crush him. And for that sole reason, Sin would endeavor to keep those he loved disencumbered.
“Lord Coventry’s office is down this hall,” the footman said, gesturing away from the club’s common areas. “If you will follow me.”
Sin turned away from the two men and did as instructed.
He was shown to an office, though it nearly mirrored his father’s study from Brownsea Island. Books lined every wall, and the earl’s desk was neat and organized.
The lord did not stand when Sin entered the room, simply gave a vague nod of welcome as the man’s green eyes fixed on him. Was he taking in Sin’s size? Perhaps regretting his decision to have Sin set upon by the ruffian? Coventry seemed more than a bit startled by the man before him, and Sin couldn’t help but grin. The earl was not what Sin had expected either. The man was at least a decade older than Sin had presumed with his hair already turning a salt-and-pepper grey. His advanced age and greying hair seemed not to diminish his boyish appearance, though, and Sin understood why the man surrounded himself with young earls.
“Have a seat.” Coventry gestured to the chair across from him, and Sin noticed for the first time that the coat that had been stolen the night before was laid precisely over the back. “We have much to discuss, and I am a busy man.”
Sin responded by collecting his jacket and sitting. He must remember that he was here for a purpose. If he allowed his temper to flare, it could very well ruin any chance he had of winning the prize money he so desperately needed.
That Coventry knew how desperate Sin was only added to his disadvantage.
He was at the earl’s mercy.
Sin knew it. Coventry knew it. And he only hoped that all of London didn’t know the extent of his family’s financial situation.
When Sin laid the coat across his lap, something shiny and gold caught his eye in the folds of his lapel.
“Welcome,” Coventry said as Sin fumbled with his coat to get a better look at what was attached to the newly tailored material.
The bloody garment had cost him more than a year’s worth of seed for the field behind his stables. The land would have grown enough wheat to keep his entire estate fed with fresh bread for over six months.
“What is this?” Sin unclasped the gold W that’d been secured to his coat lapel as he attempted to keep his shock hidden. The pin itself was no doubt made of pure gold and worth five times more than the bloody coat. “And what do you mean, ‘welcome?’”
Coventry reclined in his seat, and his smile widened. “Welcome to the Wicked Earls’ Club.”
Sin barked a sharp laugh and immediately regretted it when his lip pulled, the wound likely reopening. “I did not come to London to join some club full of arrogant rakehells, Coventry.” And why would the earl be foolish enough to think that Sin would tr
ust him after the previous night?
“Come now, my lord…or can we do away with formalities? St. Seville, is it not?”
“Sin, I am called Sin,” he grunted.
Coventry slapped his open palm against his desk and chuckled, obviously not noticing the tension lacing Sin’s neck and shoulders. “See, my good man, with a name like Sin, you are everything the Wicked Earls’ Club was established for.”
“I am not in London to meander about town carousing, drinking, and playing billiards, my lord.” Had the man deceived him with his letter offering his help? Had Sin been lured to London for ulterior motives? “I will remain in town only long enough to secure the funds needed for my family and my people. If you cannot help me, I will bid you ado and find someone who can.”
When Coventry remained silent, Sin pushed from his seat.
The earl held up his hand to halt Sin from leaving. “Sit down, Sin,” he hissed. “As I said, we have much to discuss, and from what your letter said, your estate on Brownsea doesn’t have much time.”
Sin crossed his arms over his chest, his coat clenched in his fist. The fabric would likely wrinkle, but he knew enough about garment care to press them out—that was if a servant at the Albany would allow him use of a press.
“Why did you contact me, and how did you know about my estate’s financial troubles?” Sin asked the question that had remained unanswered since he’d received Coventry’s letter weeks prior. “My family—and title—is not well-known. We, along with all the St. Seville people, live a quiet, peaceable life on the isle.”
Earl 0f St. Seville (Wicked Earls' Club Book 11) Page 3
