Earl 0f St. Seville (Wicked Earls' Club Book 11)

by Christina McKnight

  “Time to go, gentlemen.” Coventry dabbed at the corners of his mouth before laying the cloth on his empty plate. “If Sin is tardy, he will certainly have little chance of besting Parsons.”

  “Better than no chance, I suppose,” Davenport said, following Coventry from his seat. “Has anyone seen Grayson of late?”

  Sin trailed Coventry away from the table, uninterested in Harrington’s answer. Another man Sin had never heard of nor cared about; though no doubt a lord with problems as grand as Sin’s troubles. Was that what connected all these men more securely than their station as earls?

  He tapped his foot in anticipation as they waited for their jackets. Never would Lady Patience bore him with talk of people he was unfamiliar with. They had trained for nearly five hours the previous day, and not once had they broached a subject not to Sin’s liking. Every moment, he was enthralled with either her words or the way her trim body executed moves his larger frame could not manage.

  Neither did she deem his financial problems as anything unsolvable.

  Lady Patience Lane had faith in him, Sinclair Chambers, the Earl of St. Seville.

  Perhaps more faith than anyone he’d yet to meet. Even his mother had been leery of his decision to travel to London. But this woman did more than just believe in him, she gave him a new sense of hope—or at least, the belief that it was possible to rectify his problems.

  “Let us be off.” Coventry clapped Sin on the back, startling him. “Do not mind Harrington and Davenport, they run the odds in every wager. Pays off most days. But this time, I suspect they shall suffer a loss.”

  “That would make two people who have faith in my abilities,” Sin mumbled.

  “I do hope we aren’t made to look the fool.” Coventry started for the door, and Sin realized the earl thought Sin had been talking about himself.

  Sin might be an utter fool; however, Lady Patience had proven herself to be anything but.

  Chapter 14

  Lady Patience held a rose-scented kerchief to her nose as they rode deeper and deeper into the West End past Covent Gardens, the aromas of the muck-filled streets invading the carriage. The sun had set several hours before, and the deserted pathways were only infrequently invaded by a lone figure on foot or horseback. How the men and women here survived in such a harrowing, violent area, Patience was uncertain.

  Thankfully, the match had been set up in Seven Dials as opposed to St. Giles, where rumors circulated that gang violence had increased tenfold since autumn. It made little sense to Patience that a mere handful of blocks could make such a difference. What made territory in St. Giles worth clashing over, while Seven Dials was left miserable and contemptible? The rookeries—Whitechapel, St. Giles, and Seven Dials—were not places for any respectable woman; however, Patience would not forsake Sin.

  She pulled the drape back a mere inch to peek out at the hazy, dark night to see few lights burning in the windows as they traveled down a pothole-ridden dirt alley. The hardships of the people who sought the rookeries as their home was no secret to Patience. They were her countrymen, though they hailed from many parts of the world. A plan formulated as she allowed the drape to fall back into place. Perhaps her pamphlets would be better received and understood if there were more illustrations to help those who were not adequately educated. How had she not thought of this before now?

  “Are you certain we are going in the correct direction?” Merit shifted on the bench next to her. “The smell is horrendous, and my back is aching from the jostling.”

  “I did not force you to accompany me,” Patience retorted.

  Valor extended his legs into Patience’s sparse space and crossed his ankles. “I hadn’t any plans for this evening anyways, though I would be put in a dour mood, indeed, if I were to be pinched while in such an unsavory area.”

  “Father would replace your coins,” Merit chuckled. “Though he could not restore your mettle.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Valor kicked at Merit, blessedly giving Patience room for her half boots once again.

  Oftentimes, Patience was hard-pressed to believe that Valor was the eldest sibling, especially when he allowed Merit to tease him to anger so easily.

  “Do be quiet.” Patience rubbed her temples. “The pair of you is giving me a headache. I am as anxious as you to arrive, for then I will have the freedom to be away from you two.”

  “And I thought Merit most resembled Father.” It was Valor’s turn to prod Merit to irritation.

  “I can see why you returned to London so quickly.” Patience dropped her hands back to her lap, knowing that no amount of massaging would relieve the tension in her head. It wasn’t only her brothers’ bickering that caused the ache, but the thought of Sin facing another opponent when he wasn’t ready. A handful of lessons was not enough to learn what took years to master. Even she had dedicated years to gaining the skill she possessed, and many fighters spent decades training. How could Sin compare after only a few days? Part of her feared she was sending him into a losing battle. “You likely went on like schoolboys at the country party, and the host ended the gathering early just to be away from the pair of you.”

  Merit stiffened next to her even though he shook his head at her words.

  “Where, exactly, are we going?” Valor pulled a flat, tall bottle from his inside jacket pocket, twisted off the cap, and took a long sip before handing it across the space to Merit. “You have been awfully secretive about all of this.”

  Patience ignored his question and grabbed for the bottle, snatching it before Merit could. Bringing it to her nose, she sniffed, immediately regretting her decision. The vile odor of spirits invaded her senses, bringing a sudden and punishing sting to her nose.

  “Is this”—She took another much smaller sniff of the bottle—“gin?”

  Valor sat up straight, his shoulders thrown back. “It is none of your concern what we, proper gentlemen of the ton, take as our libation.”

  “Besides, Father won’t miss one bottle of gin,” Merit said, his words more hopeful than his tone. “If we decide to partake in spirits, it is our business.”

  Patience stoppered the bottle and slipped it between her hip and the side of the coach. Perhaps her father sheltered them all a bit too much. Valor, at twenty-five, should be concerned with wooing a wife, preparing for his place in Parliament, and securing the necessary associations in society to see himself a formidable lord—when the day came he inherited the Desmond earldom. And Merit, though four years Valor’s junior, should be making his way in London and finding a path for his future as the second son. Perhaps a commission in the Navy or investment in profitable merchant ventures to the New World.

  Instead, they were more concerned with attending extravagant country parties, gambling, and drinking. At least neither had taken up with a wedded woman or courtesan, Patience reminded herself.

  Merit huffed, and Valor trained his narrowed stare on her, most likely thinking to intimidate her into returning the bottle.

  “Our destination is a building on Queen Street in Seven Dials,” Patience said, satisfied to see both men lose their dour expressions. “Having our wits about us is important. The match will be attended by many wealthy, titled men, but also by the thieves, panderers, and debauched drunkards who call Seven Dials home.”

  Both men turned to gaze out their side windows and, not for the first time, she wondered how they could possibly be siblings. Patience had taken on her mother’s, and father’s, tendency for helping those less fortunate than them. Her brothers had embraced their station as the sons of the Earl of Desmond. There was little doubt that Valor, once he inherited the title, would join Coventry’s coven of misfit earls.

  With Merit in tow, they would spend their time drinking and gambling away the fortune their father had amassed for them.

  Perhaps it would be wise for Patience to find a husband, wed, and collect her dowry before her brothers found a way to flit it away. Her father would not be so naive as to not safegua
rd her portion of the money left to her by her mother—and what was settled upon her by the earldom.

  Marriage.

  Patience snorted at the notion.

  Had times turned so desperate that she actually considered taking a man to husband as a necessary means to secure her future? The idea hadn’t crossed her mind, let alone taken root and become in any way appealing to her, since before her mother died—back when her future had been bright. Before the clouds of sorrow and loss had obliterated any picture of what her future could hold.

  With the loss of her mother came the stark knowledge that her future would not be that of what little girls dreamed of.

  Her sisters, Verity and Temperance, were the proper ladies who took after the Desmond side of their lineage, while Patience had always aligned with her mother’s family. Not that she—or any of her siblings—had ever met their mother’s kin; however, her sisters’ tendencies to go about town spending obscene amounts of coin and dressing in gowns that cost more than the sum of an entire boarding house in Seven Dials seemed misguided and foolish to Patience.

  And here they were, returning to the borough Ivory Bess had called home until her twentieth birthday. Odd, that it was the same age Patience currently was. She could not so much as fathom the squalor her mother had endured until she was rescued by the young, dashing Earl of Desmond. It was the reason her father stored gin as opposed to brandy or scotch. It had been his wife’s favorite.

  Perhaps that had been why Patience insisted on attending the prizefight with Sin. Not because she feared for him but because she searched for a connection to her mother that did not revolve around pain and sorrow.

  Her motive was certainly not solely the Earl of St. Seville—a man as devilishly handsome as his moniker.

  Win or lose, he would return home soon enough, and their brief association would be forgotten.

  Though she did fervently long for him to best his opponent, even if that meant he collected the prize and held to his promise not to fight again—and his imminent departure from London. This was exactly what she wanted, so why was it unappealing now?

  The carriage dipped suddenly, knocking Patience off balance and into Merit before their driver pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake.

  Her trepidation at the coming fight coursed through her once again. The entertainment her brothers offered had been welcome while it lasted, but now, they’d arrived. There was no way to distract her from the coming match.

  “We have arrived, my lady,” her driver called. The conveyance shifted, and the door swung open, followed by her footman setting down the steps. Due to the location of the prizefight, Patience had insisted that a footman accompany their driver. “We shall wait here for your return.”

  As Patience collected her handbag, Merit and Valor departed the carriage, neither waiting to assist her down. She swallowed to keep her irritation at bay as she took the driver’s hand and stepped to the walk—nothing but a dirt walkway alongside the dilapidated, windowless building. Against the decaying wood at the bottom of the building were piles of rotten waste and what appeared to be a forgotten wool blanket.

  Glancing up and down the street, Patience noticed an open door with light pooling out onto the street beyond as two men, collars raised and hands deep in their pockets slipped inside.

  “This way,” she bid her two brothers, once again taking the lead. As they neared the open door, loud voices floated out on the cool night breeze: laughter, carousing, and conversation. Not unlike many of the prizefights she’d accompanied her mother to in the past. Thankfully, her blood didn’t freeze in her veins upon entering the building as it had when she arrived at the match in Bedford Square. The building was teeming with men and women from all classes, some dressed as fine London dandies, others garbed in merchant attire, and women with gowns so scanty that their bosoms threatened to fall from their tight bodices.

  There was nothing like war and prizefights to bring together every class of Englishmen and women.

  Patience turned to lecture her brothers about the importance of…

  But they were already gone, weaving their way through the mingling crowd. Likely headed toward the makeshift bar in the corner of the room to procure themselves drinks.

  In a heartbeat, they’d disappeared from view.

  Patience lowered her head and pushed into the crowd when she noted two men, their eyes locked on her, moving quickly in her direction. Did they think her a woman of ill repute—a lady who preferred the entertainments of the night?

  There was no blaming them, Patience mused as her eyes darted from one scandalously clad woman to the next. It was not only the prizefighters and wager takers who were working this night. Her heart ached for the women who’d been forced to find their way in life by selling their bodies.

  That could have been her own mother’s fate had she not met the Earl of Desmond. There were limited means for survival for women who’d grown too old to fight—or lacked the expertise to train others.

  Patience scanned the crowd as she pushed her way toward the fighting area in the middle of the large, open warehouse, though it was made difficult by her slight height. There were several men she recognized from around London—the young, handsome Duke of Chastain, the aging father of Lady Haversham, as well as Lord and Lady Maddox.

  How had Holstrom managed to gather so many of London’s upper crust in such a dubious location?

  Still, she did not see Sin or Lord Holstrom as she reached the edge of the pugilist area. For a brief moment, she feared Sin hadn’t received her note and still awaited her arrival at the Albany, but a feverish applause rang out as the entire room erupted in cheers. From the far side of the room, the fighters, Sin and Parsons, entered the warehouse, both already stripped to the waist. Holstrom was not looking to bolster wagers—there would be no delaying the prizefight while men scrambled about the room cataloging and collecting coins.

  If she had to guess, Holstrom and his ilk had been collecting wagers in far more wealthy locales. Bets had been placed long before the beau monde departed their fine London townhomes and elegantly adorned clubs, for the seedy, licentious West End.

  Patience gave a quick wave to Sin as he strode toward the gathered crowd, pushing and shoving to gain a better view of the match to come, but his narrowed, pensive glare never landed on her—or anything, as much as she could tell. His mouth remained pressed into a firm line as he ignored the comments from his opponent. Sin stood close to Parsons, and his shoulders were equally as broad, as their shadows, cast from the light behind the fighters, stretched all the way to the toe of Patience’s half boots. His hair was tied back securely with a length of twine, and the stubble that had dusted his face the day before had doubled in length overnight.

  Sin appeared fierce…the dark circles under his eyes only adding to his intimidating nature. Even his busted lip made him look rugged and brutal, though he’d gotten the injury at a fight he’d lost.

  The clamor of hushed whispers behind her said the crowd was having the same reaction to Sin as she.

  In a striking correlation, Parsons stood at Sin’s left, taller than Sin with muscles straining at taut skin. Two Corinthians facing off in a bare-knuckle match was certain to lessen the impact of all she’d taught Sin.

  Muscle and sheer size would mean nothing in this ring as they each possessed an overabundance of both. A fighter worth their weight in gold needed cunning and agility.

  Despite his opponent’s size, confidence radiated from Sin—the same unbridled brashness that had led to him lose against Povolti.

  While she was infused with an alarming amount of dread.

  Yet, Parsons stood with similar self-assurance as Lord Holstrom strode into the open area and raised his arms, signaling for silence.

  “Gentlemen, ladies…and”—Holstrom paused, holding his hand to his forehead as if blocking out the bright rays of the sun—“my good countrymen!”

  It was all the crowd needed to break into another round of cheers a
nd jeers.

  Patience spotted her brothers, ale tankards in hands, howling from about twenty paces to her left. They’d also pushed their way to the front of the gathering. Did they not have the same sick feeling rolling through their stomachs at the very thought of the upcoming match?

  Valor and Merit were older than she…they’d had more years with their mother, and yet they’d so seamlessly—almost effortlessly—moved past her loss.

  Everything within Patience was in turmoil. Her stomach tightened at the same time the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end with excitement. Her palms grew clammy at the same time her heart pounded with anticipation. Excitement and anticipation. The two overwhelming sensations that’d coursed through her when she and her mother had waited at the side of the ring as the pugilists took their places and prepared for the match—just as Sin and Parsons did now.

  Sin, all toned, defined muscle.

  Parsons, boiling with unspent endurance.

  During her years in the schoolroom, Patience had snuck from her studies to watch the fighters, marveling at their discipline.

  In that moment, she could only think of the repercussions when their time in the ring ended. Everything was on the line for Sin. Losing would mean he was further indebted to Holstrom. Winning would mean… What would it mean beyond proving that Patience’s short training sessions had helped and that Sin could make his way as a pugilist?

  Holstrom made a show of announcing the featured fighters and listing the rules of the match…the Broughton Rules. They were the same guidelines all prizefights had followed for nearly eighty years, another fact she’d learned during her time at Southlund’s House. The fight would continue for as many rounds as necessary until one of the fighters was unable to stand or return to the scratch line. Thirty seconds of rest between rounds. Each round would end when one of the fighters went down or took a knee.

  There was no limit to the number of rounds to be fought, and the match could last for hours. It was endurance Patience feared Sin lacked.