Though his strength—paired with the defensive maneuvers she’d taught him—would hopefully see the prizefight ended before the midnight church bells tolled. If the men were lucky, they’d both leave Seven Dials with only superficial wounds to their faces, bruises on their torsos, and aching hands.
Worst case, Patience would need her brothers’ help to get Sin to her carriage—his face a bloodied mess or his hands broken.
She refused to think of any graver injury befalling Sin. It was not an uncommon occurrence for fighters to severely injure their fists. Perhaps it was far more widespread than the undetectable damage done to a boxer’s mind from the impact of continual blows to the head.
Patience closed her eyes and took a deep, labored inhale, holding the air in her lungs until they burned. He’d promised one more fight…to gain his freedom from Holstrom. Then she’d never have to worry about her mother’s fate becoming Sin’s. She could see this through and be there for him after it was over. She understood his desperate need to help his family. She could only imagine the great lengths she’d go to if one of her siblings or her father were in peril.
Perhaps it would be best for her to slip from the warehouse and await the end of the match in her carriage. There was no doubt she could—and would—handle the aftermath of the prizefight. She was adequate at caring for injured pugilists. There was a mindset that propelled her, as it had her mother, during those moments after a match ended.
Now would be no different…win or lose.
Or perhaps it was different…entirely, completely, utterly different.
Because it was Sin standing in the ring. It was Sin preparing to fight against a pugilist of high caliber. There was more at risk than mere money and reputation.
A spectator jostled Patience from behind, and her eyes sprang up to see Sin take a jab to the face. Her chest seized. His nose and lip took the brunt of the impact. Her heart soared when Parsons’ next volley of fists connected with air as Sin sidestepped and ducked, pivoting swiftly to throw a punch into his opponent’s side, right below his ribcage.
Parsons’ strangled groan echoed in the building as he fell forward to the dirt floor, ending the round.
The crowd cheered and chanted, “Sin, Sin, Sin!”
Sin moved to the far corner of the clearing, his chest shining with sweat, and his lip bleeding, but other than that, he appeared well. Parsons pushed to his feet and moved to the opposite side, breathing heavily as his arms snaked around his midsection.
She couldn’t bring herself to shout for either fighter.
The brutal sport, no matter how much her mother had adored it, was—at its core—violent and destructive.
Though that did not stop Valor and Merit from clasping Sin on the back where he waited out the half minute until he made his way back to the scratch line for the next round.
Her hands clenched before her until her fingers ached from the tension.
This wasn’t right. Patience wasn’t supposed to be here. A man she cared for shouldn’t have taken to the ring. And despite all her attempts to fool herself into thinking she only had a stake in his fighting ability, Patience bloody well cared for the lord—more than she’d ever dreamed possible. It wasn’t her need to spread news of the dangers of pugilism that had made her propose her condition he never fight again; it was because she desperately, madly, insanely cared for him. She wanted no harm to come to him, no matter the cause.
At that thought, Sin glanced in her direction and nodded. His grin was wide as he brushed a strand of hair from his eyes.
Her heart shuddered as he raised his bare fists and continued to stare at her.
Every eye in the warehouse turned to see who had captured the prizefighter’s attention, even Valor and Merit.
Patience should have fled the match when she had the chance; instead, she was helpless to do anything but watch as Sin moved to the scratch line, and her brothers pushed their way toward her, their identical confused expressions trained on Patience.
While she only had eyes—and heart—for Sin.
Chapter 15
Round after round continued until they blurred together into one long string of thrown fists. Sin bested his opponent in more rounds than he—or Holstrom—had anticipated. The chilly air in the room was kept at bay by the layer of sweat that clung to his exposed skin. His core remained hot from his physical exertion, though the cold breeze from the open doors stung his busted lip. The skin on his knuckles had cracked open several rounds ago, and the ground between him and Parsons was covered in both fighters’ blood.
Never had Sin fought so hard or for so long.
His fists screamed in pain, begged him to put an end to the fight.
But all Sin could picture was his family and his people—at Brownsea Island—who relied on him. He had to win his freedom from Holstrom, make a name for himself as a pugilist, and do his damnedest to earn enough coin to return home with his head held high, knowing his people would not starve, and his mother and sister would not go without even the barest of necessities.
A droplet of sweat slid down his forehead into his eye, causing his vision to blur as he blinked away the insufferable nuisance.
For not the first time, he glanced at the crowd to see Lady Patience—her eyes wide and her own hands balled into fists at her sides—as she watched him. Though the crowd was loud with their cheers and taunts, Patience was like a stone statue. She didn’t champion either fighter nor did she even so much as move. How many rounds had he glimpsed her standing thusly? Five? Six? More?
Every part of Sin wished he didn’t have to do the one thing that brought her anguish and disappointment.
And soon, she’d learn that he’d lied about his future intentions.
Holstrom called for the next round to commence, and Sin moved aggressively toward Parsons. It was time the match came to an end…and Sin had every intention of being deemed the victor. Povolti had bested him rather easily, only three rounds into their match, but Sin had learned much from his lessons with Patience. Enough, at least, to best his current opponent.
The opportunity presented itself a few minutes into the round.
Parsons swayed on his feet, and his fists dropped to his sides, giving Sin ample time to advance on the man before his defenses rose again.
It was either take his shot now or face more rounds. Sin had to beat Parsons to the punch. Literally.
Sin bobbed, weaved, and threw a corkscrew punch into his opponent’s side, the exact place where his blow had landed in the first round. Parsons had appeared dazed for the last several rounds, and Sin wasn’t brutal enough to send his winning punch to the man’s head, especially with Patience’s warnings about head injuries fresh in Sin’s thoughts.
Retreating, Sin watched as Parsons stumbled sideways before righting himself, only to careen the other direction and into the crowd.
Spectators halted Parsons and pushed him back into the ring.
As the crowd shouted at Parsons, he fell to the ground, his lids drooping closed.
Holstrom started his count, “One…two…three…”
Sin’s defense crumbled, and his fists opened and fell to his sides as he sucked in large gulps of air. Blood trailed down his chin and dripped onto his chest.
Abject horror etched Patience’s face as she turned, her body trembling. The reaction disappeared in the blink of an eye, and she rushed toward him at the same time the crowd let loose with their pent-up shouts, some in celebration of bets won and others of money lost.
It was only when she didn’t stop before him but threw herself at his chest that Sin sprang into action, catching her as she landed against him and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Her heart beat against his chest, in time with his own, and her blue-grey eyes stared up to meet his.
He longed to reassure her that he was well and mostly unharmed, but the words stuck in his throat at the unexpected feel of her body pressed against his.
She trembled again, and Sin was helpl
ess to keep his body under control as it shivered along with hers.
“Tell me you are well,” she breathed, the scent of her evening meal lingering between them. “The blood, there is so much blood, I”—Her words cut off as a sob escaped—“I would never forgive myself if something grave happened to you.”
“I am well enough.” He brushed his fingers down her cheek but pulled his hand back quickly before his blood marred her exquisite, creamy skin. “I am whole, and it is over.”
Sin promised silently that Patience would never be present to witness him fight again. It was too much, too excruciating to see her like this. His head spun when he thought about what she’d go through if he lost again. He could not put her through it.
He slowly lowered her to the ground, never removing his stare from hers.
But when her feet touched the hard-packed dirt, the connection between them broke, and the cheers from the spectators invaded their brief moment of privacy. People pushed forward to give Sin their congratulations and shake his hand or clap him on the back for a fight well won.
One man stepped directly in between him and Patience, bringing a growl from Sin. The offender gave a gruff hear-hear before beating a hasty retreat.
Next, it was Holstrom at his side, pulling at his elbow to dislodge Sin from the crush.
Patience smiled weakly and gestured for Sin to speak with Holstrom.
“I will wait for you outside,” she said. “My carriage isn’t far.”
He could only nod because he knew bloody well what Patience expected him to do, what Sin had promised he’d do.
Turning to follow Holstrom, Sin could not allow Patience to witness his guilt.
She wouldn’t hear the conversation between him and Holstrom.
As he followed the lord toward the area farthest from the crowd, they both paused to watch Parsons being assisted from the building and out the same door he and Sin had entered through. There was a physician waiting in the back room to see to both fighters if necessary, and Sin supposed Parsons would be taking advantage of the good doctor.
Perhaps it would be wise to have the man tend to Sin’s cut knuckles and broken lip, as well.
“Well done, St. Seville,” Coventry said when he, Davenport, and Harrington joined Sin and Holstrom. “I told these two simpletons they were misguided in wagering against you.”
“It isn’t as if we do not have the funds to lose,” Harrington mumbled. “But it is still crushing.”
“Coventry,” Holstrom chuckled the deep echo of a satisfied man. “I must say, your lord here had the heart of a true prizefighter.”
“Did I not tell you in my letter? His first showing wasn’t great; however, give him a good scolding, and some incentive, and look what he accomplishes.”
Sin focused his attention on Coventry and Holstrom’s feet as his temper flared. They spoke as if he were nothing but livestock taken to auction—whipped and taunted into performing as he should. What other option did Sin have?
Forego competing in any future matches, take his prize money, and return to Brownsea Island only to be in dire straits by the next winter? It was almost too much to bear, and would only serve to harm his family.
Holstrom held out a purse to Sin. “Your prize,” he said, giving the velvet bag a shake when Sin didn’t immediately snatch it from him. “Well earned. The next fight should provide a purse twice—or even thrice—this amount.”
Sin, as well as Coventry and the other two lords, stared at the swinging bag. It might as well have been dripping with blood, as his hands were after the fight. He didn’t want to collect his due, but it was the reason he’d fought in the first place. Yet, taking it, Sin knew he was agreeing to continue as Holstrom’s pawn, fighting when he was summoned.
And in turn, he’d need to lie to Lady Patience, end their friendship, and never look back.
It was inconceivable to believe that Sin would be able to look the lady in the eye and outright deceive her.
Could he chance the future of his estate and his family for Lady Patience Lane? A woman he’d known for such a short time?
Sin grabbed the bag before Holstrom drew it back and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.
“When is the next match?” There was only his responsibility to his estate that could matter, that should matter—not Lady Patience or her anger if she learned of his continued fighting. Patience had a family who cared for her, while the St. Seville people only had Sin to depend on. He could not let them down. Not even if that meant securing Patience’s happiness. “I will need a day or so to rest, but after that—”
“Do not worry, St. Seville,” Holstrom chuckled, glancing past Sin. The crowd, though still loud, was likely thinning as the spectators moved out of the warehouse to continue their evening. “It will be a couple of days. I think you and I are going to earn quite the sum from our next prizefight.”
“You plan to fight again?” It was a whisper at his back but thundered through Sin as if it were shouted directly in his face. “I thought you—we agreed…”
The last word ended on a sob, and Sin’s chin dipped toward his chest.
He couldn’t turn around, hadn’t the courage to face her.
She wasn’t supposed to hear, she wasn’t supposed to know, she was supposed to await him at her carriage.
Sin had made the mistake of not keeping watch over her until she’d left the building.
Bloody hell, he should have walked her to the carriage and returned only after he made certain she was safely inside.
“Perhaps you live up to your name in more ways than one, my lord,” she seethed.
Sin pivoted slowly toward Patience, steeling himself against the hurt he’d surely see written across her face.
“And to think I have been dwelling on your financial troubles for days.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I was searching for any way to help you and your family. I even pondered the notion of our marriage. My dowry would more than repair your estate coffers, but a liar?” She shook her head back and forth, her eyes never leaving his. “I could never promise my hand, my heart, my future to a man who can so easily deceive a lady.”
He’d been overwhelmed with thoughts of home and his people, while she’d been considering giving up everything she knew for a man who was deceiving her.
“I had no intention of—”
“Save your falsehoods for another, Sin.” She hissed his name as if it were the foulest curse word she knew. “You would be wise to have your wounds cleansed and wrapped to prevent infection.”
He was going to say he had no intention of asking her to make such a sacrifice—for him or his family—but she spun away from him before he could beg her to listen. They could not part in such a manner.
As she stalked across the warehouse toward the door, Sin followed, determined to catch her before she left. He had to explain, let her know he’d also searched for a way to keep his promise to her, but he hadn’t come up with any solutions.
“Patience?”
Patience halted, causing Sin to nearly collide with her.
“What are you doing here?”
Sin had been so focused on Patience’s retreating back that he hadn’t seen the man stepping in their path until they were forced to stop or step around him.
“I asked what you are doing in Seven Dials.” The Earl of Desmond appeared furious enough to spit fire. “Donaldson said you’d departed with Merit and Valor. Where are those scoundrels?”
“Father—I—well,” Patience stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“Not that it is any of your concern, but I noted a wager at White’s. The Earl of St. Seville to fight Parsons, and I thought to arrive early and talk some sense into the man,” he said, his narrowed stare meeting Sin’s where he stood behind Patience. “I arrived too late. But I will have your answer, young lady.”
Patience’s shoulders collapsed a bit, and she lowered her chin in shame.
“I have been attending Southlund’s House…training
the earl,” she confessed.
Sin felt the weight of her secret even as her father’s face clouded with confusion.
“You are here to support St. Seville?” Desmond’s stare widened in shock, just as Sin’s would have two days prior if anyone had told him Lady Patience Lane would not only stand in his corner but also teach him Ivory Bess’s famed maneuvers. “After all these years of sending me to unsavory areas all across London to distribute your pamphlets. After all the friends I’ve lost because of my stance on pugilism. It has all been a fool’s errand?”
Suddenly, it was only Desmond, Patience, and him in the warehouse as everything and everyone around them faded.
Patience’s dedication and passion wasn’t a fool’s errand…had never been such.
The earl must know that.
“It is my fault, my lord,” Sin offered. “It was I who persuaded Pat—Lady Patience—to instruct me. She did not want to. I am responsible for bringing her to Seven Dials.”
Lady Patience’s downcast expression at her father’s fury made it necessary for Sin to speak what he did. Would Patience know his intent was never to lie to her but instead to protect her from the hard decision he’d made?
His words fell on deaf ears. Desmond never once took his stare from Patience, not even to acknowledge or reprimand Sin for daring to bring Patience to the West End.
“We can speak about it on the way home.” Desmond gestured for Patience to proceed him from the building. “St. Seville, you would be wise not to set foot in Southlund’s House again. You are not welcome at Marsh Manor either.” The earl glanced from Patience and past Sin. “Good day, Coventry. Holstrom.”
Patience swept past Sin and turned back to where her father waited.
Could it be that she deliberated if she wanted to accompany her father home?
He saw the question in her clouded eyes, more blue than gray in that instant.
Sin would never ask her to choose between him and her family. There would only ever be one choice for her. It was the same for him. They would always choose their family.
Earl 0f St. Seville (Wicked Earls' Club Book 11) Page 16
