“No, Coventry is—er—was a friend of my father’s,” the earl explained, his posture as tense as Patience’s. “He offered his assistance and guidance while I’m in town, that is all.”
Patience snorted, not bothering to mask her disdain for the group that went by the atrocious name. It was as if they were proud to flaunt their wealth and status, all while shirking their responsibilities and going on in a manner most unfitting an earl.
“I am certain that is all; however, be warned, Coventry and his ilk are a depraved lot,” she said, her eyes remaining on the thin fabric covering the carriage window. “They are uncouth and embroiled in all manner of debauchery.”
“As I said, Coventry is a family friend. I am in town for the sole purpose of my duty to my estate and family.” He paused, and Patience felt his eyes on her, all but begging her to look at him. She would not give him the satisfaction. Again, she reminded herself that caring for this stranger did nothing to advance her cause. “When my business is completed, I will return to my family home, and I have no plans to set foot in London again, nor consort with the likes of Coventry and his men.”
“My father was once friends with the Earl of Coventry, too,” Patience confessed.
“And your father once knew mine,” St. Seville countered.
“He was part of The Earls’ Guild?” Her stare snapped back to his. Her father had said nothing of knowing St. Seville’s family. “The Guild is all but disbanded now after Coventry came into power. My father loved and cherished the men he saw as more than friends. To him, they were family. When my mother died, my father could have used their support. Instead, Coventry refused him entrance to their club. The new lords of the Wicked Earls’ Club could not be bothered to help one of their own. Coventry hasn’t changed, I fear.”
“Again, I am sorry. And you should know, I haven’t any allegiance to the Wicked Earls’ Club or any man who calls the place home.”
Patience studied his expression: open, sincere, and without any hint of dishonesty.
“Very well, my lord.” Patience smoothed her gloved hands down the front of her skirts. “I will not keep you any longer. There is no need to give the Earl of Coventry my regards.”
He chuckled and pushed the door wide before glancing outside. He turned back toward her. “I bid you good evening, my lady. As I have listened to your advice, may I be so bold as to offer my own?” When she nodded, he continued, “Meeting with men unchaperoned at dusk could lead to scandal and ruin. Do take more caution with your reputation.”
He leapt to the walk, and Patience called after him, “If I were concerned with such things, I would have changed my ways long ago, my lord.”
This time, his response was unrestrained laughter, not the reserved chuckle from before. The sound was like the sweetest melody, and she thought in his normal life he must laugh often—it sounded natural. What would it be like to wake to such laughter each morning, or fall sleep with the same melody in her ear at night? It was far different than the silence that had settled upon her home and her family of late.
“Noted, Lady Patience,” he called and closed the door before calling to her driver. “Please return your mistress to her home with all due haste.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her driver pulled the brake, and they were off in the direction of Marsh Manor.
Patience leaned back into the velvet squabs of the coach. How had she been at first pleased to see St. Seville and comfortably entranced with him, only to have her skin prickle with anger at his acquaintance with Coventry? Even now, she was uncertain how she felt about the man or why she wanted nothing more than to explore whatever it was that drew her to him.
Knowing the earl and discovering what secrets he held would not benefit her.
He was best forgotten, or the distraction he caused her might very well throw her off course.
Patience folded her arms across her chest, determined not to ponder where her hands would rather be.
Chapter 6
Sin stood on the fringes of the growing crowd at Bedford Square—not to be confused with Bedford Place where Coventry’s club stood. A mistake Sin made which made him even tardier than before. The sun had fully set behind the buildings bordering the square by the time Sin had watched Lady Patience set off for home. He’d hailed a hack outside his lodging and made the mistake of venturing all the way to Bedford Place before redirecting his driver.
The vision of Lady Patience steadfastly waiting outside the Albany had distracted Sin, nearly causing him to forget his purpose in London.
Of all the people he was acquainted with in town—not many, as it were—Lady Patience had been the one on his mind. Her bold, tenacious actions would be celebrated in any man, but with a woman it was seen as improper and damaging to her future. It made little logical sense to Sin. Though those exact tendencies were what kept the lady in his thoughts. And now, knowing of her heartbreak and sorrow, there was yet another layer to her complex nature.
Oddly enough, the one virtue she lacked was her namesake—patience.
She was quick to form an opinion of Sin based solely on his connection to Coventry and his meeting with Holstrom. Yet, that was something he and Lady Patience had in common. How swiftly had Sin recognized that he loathed Holstrom? The man had only spoken a few words, but they were enough for Sin to realize that he was not a man to be trusted. That did not diminish the fact that Sin needed Holstrom and his connections in the pugilist realm if he had any chance of bringing his estate back from near ruin.
He felt horribly about Lady Patience losing her mother—and in such an awful manner—but could the physician say for certain it was due to her past as a female prizefighter? His skirmish from the alley told him there was danger in fighting, especially when the purse prizes were more than some men earned in a year of hard labor, but Sin couldn’t allow the drawbacks to alter his course.
Sin pulled the collar of his coat higher to block the wind as he securitized the crowd for any sight of Holstrom or the match that was to be fought. His height allowed him to see over the heads of most men and across nearly the width of the square, at least as far as the lamplight stretched. There were a large number of men and some women milling about the open area, far more than Sin had expected for the lateness of the day. Lamps had been lit before his hack arrived, shrouding the area in a hazy glow of yellow made thick by the fog that had rolled in from the water lying nearly stagnant in the Thames.
The din of the crowd—raised voices, laughter, and a few argumentative shouts—washed over Sin. Besides the absence of the bright sun overhead and the fresh coastal ocean breeze, Sin could almost believe he was back on Brownsea Island, working alongside his men in the fields or in the stables. However, he would not risk closing his eyes to immerse himself in the dream. He knew firsthand what could happen on a dark London street if a man let down his guard. Being set upon again was not something Sin could afford.
No, he needed to keep his wits about him, best his opponent, and collect his purse.
Not dream of home or a lady who had no place in his future.
That wasn’t exactly right. It wasn’t she who had no place in his future, it was who Sin was not of her world. She lived in town, wore dresses of the finest silks and satins, and attended society as expected. She wasn’t London’s usual demure, polite debutante but neither was she made for the hard life on Brownsea Island. Sin was a man made whole by his work on his lands and caring for his people—not his knowledge and skills when surrounded by the ton. Sin felt more at ease in a pugilist ring than in a London ballroom.
The truth was, there was no place for Sin in her world.
Lady Patience would one day belong to someone. And it would not be him.
She would wed, have a family, and remain where she belonged—in London. No matter how much she protested conforming to society, Sin suspected one day, no too far in the future, she would find her place. In society and the world…and both would be better for having her. Brownsea Island may as well be on
another continent, for their paths would not find one another again once he left town.
There had been no reason to lie to her about where he was going or whom he was meeting with. He owed her nothing. Yet, after listening to her speak about the tragedy of her mother’s death, Sin could not bring himself to tell her that he was going to do the one thing she would beg him not to do. There hadn’t been any need to discuss his plans at all.
He’d lied to her. Worse still, she believed that he’d truly been set upon by thieves the night Desmond found him in the alley, not that he’d practically begged for the attack to prove his mettle as a fighter. He was a willing participant in it all. It should not weigh heavily on him that she was perhaps more than a little correct about him.
He had fallen in league with the Wicked Earls’ Club, albeit reluctantly.
“St. Seville.” A hand landed on his shoulder, and Sin swung around, prepared to defend himself if Holstrom, much like Coventry, thought to test his skill. Fortunately for the man—and mayhap unfortunately for Sin’s nervousness—it was only Lord Holstrom who stood behind him, his hands raised with palms outstretched. “Didn’t mean to startle you, mate.”
Sin brushed his cheek, a gesture he’d grown as accustomed to as lacing his boots, but his long hair had been tied tight at the nape of his neck, an inch above his collar in preparation for the coming fight. Both boxers would be shirtless, and Sin made certain his opponent had no opportunity to grasp his long locks. The rules of pugilism were not known for their fair nature.
“Is the match set?” Sin growled.
“Of course,” Holstrom scoffed and nodded to two men at his side. “This is Albert Paulson and Gerald Crone.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Sin replied, eyeing the pair. One man—Paulson—was too old to be a fighter, and the other man, while dressed like someone of the lower class, lacked any muscle to speak of. Neither was his opponent.
“They represent Gus Povolti.” Holstrom spoke slowly as if Sin were too daft to understand. “The man you will be fighting.”
“Very well.” Sin made a show of glancing around each of the men. “Where is he, and how are we to have a fair match with this crushing crowd?”
The two men laughed, the younger man doubling over at the waist as if Sin had meant his question as a jest. When he didn’t join in on their merriment, both men sobered, and Sin turned to Holstrom for an answer.
“The crush is here to watch you fight.”
“Me?” Sin asked, unable to understand how they knew of the match and why they’d come out at this time of night to see him fight.
“How do you think a match pays the winner ten thousand pounds?” Holstrom countered. “These people have not only come to watch the prizefight, but they have also wagered their own coin on the outcome.”
Sin knew his portion to participate—which Holstrom put forth for him—was two thousand. He figured the other fighter matched that amount. As for the remaining six thousand…Sin had misguidedly thought Holstrom was responsible for collecting it. Similar to an investment venture or the like. Why did the thought of so many people watching him fight cause his stomach to churn and his palms to perspire? Most of Brownsea Island had watched Sin box since he was a lad of around nine, and he hadn’t lost a match since his fourteenth birthday.
But an entire square of strangers, most with a wager on the line?
He wasn’t ignorant to the rules of prizefighting; he’d watched two matches when he first arrived in London while he was waiting to meet with Holstrom. The fight he’d watched the night he was accosted near Covent Garden had been small with only a handful of spectators. The rules were clear, though Sin hadn’t expected such an audience. His stomach hardened, and his head swam as he glanced around the square.
“Green, he be look’n green, Holstrom,” Crone crowed. “This be simple as pie for ol’ Gus.”
“We shall see.” Holstrom retorted, eyeing Sin. “I think my man here will be the first to best Gus.”
A cheer went up in the center of the square and Sin, along with Holstrom, Paulson, and Crone turned as the crowd pushed back, creating an open space to reveal a man. The lad, already bare-chested, stood a head shorter than Sin and had about half the muscle. Gus Povolti bounced from foot to foot and rotated his shoulders back to the crowd’s utter delight.
Why had Sin envisioned the match completely differently: a dimly lit warehouse with a handful of spectators, similar to the fight he’d witnessed. Two men coming together with fists raised for a fair fight.
But this—Sin swept his glare across the square—was an utter circus.
He, with his younger sister in tow, had traveled to Dorset once when a traveling show moved through town. There were performers and exotic animals galore. The crowd had cheered and jeered when the lion tamer had nearly lost his hand when the beast decided he did not want to obey the man’s commands.
At the moment, Gus Povolti was on display—and he relished every second of it.
Soon enough, Sin would need to strip and take his place, preparing for the fight. All eyes would be on him. Would the gathered people cheer him on or shout for his defeat?
Did it matter? Sin was a winner. He’d always been a winner and now was no different. He’d hedged his entire future on this moment, used most of the funds left at his estate to journey to London with hopes of tripling the coins until he had enough to support his people.
Defeat was not an option.
Leaving London poorer than he arrived was not Sin’s plan.
Unsettling dread weighed heavily on his shoulders.
“Are you ready?” Holstrom hissed near his ear.
Images of his homeland—the unhurried movements of his people, the light lapping of waves at the small beach area by his home, and the fresh ocean scents—vividly streaked through his mind. Those were the reasons he was here. To keep worry from his people. To make certain many generations of St. Sevilles reveled in the waves against the shore. And had the opportunity, year after year, to breathe deeply of the intoxicating aroma of his homeland.
Yes, he was ready for the coming match.
When Sin only nodded, keeping his eyes trained on his opponent, Holstrom stepped into the widening circle and threw his arms out. He grinned for the crowd as everyone fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Holstrom called, spinning in a circle. “Fishwives and merchants. Tavern maids and drunkards.”
The square erupted in loud applause as men threw their fists to the darkened sky, and women shouted their pleasure before once again falling quiet.
“You have been promised a prizefight to overshadow all other prizefights, two pugilists who’ve never before entered a match against one another. Gus ‘Lightning’ Povolti comes from Prussia and strikes hotter than a lightning bolt.” Holstrom raised his arms, giving the crowd ample time to cheer before glancing in Sin’s direction. His story was not so grand nor worthy of applause. “And his opponent, directly from the coastal isles of the East, is the Earl of S—“ He paused for a moment and smirked as if debating St. Seville’s name. “—the Earl of Sin!”
Every stare trained on Sin where Holstrom pointed his out-stretched arm at him. Some gasped, others cheered, but every person nearest him took a large step back as he was waved into the inner circle.
“Yes, my fine London citizens,” Holstrom continued, obviously enjoying his place as commentator. “He is modeled after a Roman god and raised near the sea, his body molded by hard labor and the unrelenting sun.”
The Earl of Sin?
He wanted to hide himself from the dramatic nature of the event; allow the crowd their spot of fun but remain withdrawn from the stares and jeers.
Instead, Sin set about unbuttoning his coat and removing his crisp, linen shirt, pulling the fine garment over his head. The action only served to have the crowd breaking out in another round of shouts and cheers as men—and many women—held up purses of coins or stacks of notes.
“What is going on?” Sin leaned close to
Paulson, who’d remained close to him.
“Bet’n, milord,” Paulson chuckled. “It be no surprise if’n the prize purse be double the ten thousand after they be see’n ye without your shirt. Though they be wise not ta count out me fighter.”
Sin stared around the square as Holstrom and another man collected whatever coin or notes the crowd held out and scribbled in a small notebook. Perhaps he would garner the money needed for his estate faster than he planned.
Paulson clapped Sin on the shoulder with a grin. “Don’t be count’n out ol’ Gus too quickly, hear. He be one’a the best fighters I be see’n since me father took ta the ring.”
With that, the man hurried over to Sin’s opponent and whispered something in his ear, to which the fighter nodded and glanced in Sin’s direction for the first time. Gus showed no signs of being startled by Sin’s sheer size. Neither did Sin see the man as a fighter he couldn’t best. One solid, accurately placed jab, and the man would fall. If there was one thing Sin was confident in, it was the power of his fists.
“Fighters!” Holstrom pointed to Gus and then to Sin. “Take your places.”
At the call, the crowd inched in, leaving Sin no other option but to move to the center of the square to face his opponent, fists raised and ready.
Sin was here for his family. He was here for the future of his estate. He was here to make a better life for everyone on Brownsea Island.
Sin held his clenched fists before his face, stepping from one foot to the other as the other fighter did the same, though his feet moved much quicker.
He would best Gus “Lightning” Povolti. He would prove his mettle.
Confidence surged through Sin, and his shoulders relaxed as he eased into his usual fighter’s stance.
And then he would fight again.
Chapter 7
Patience pulled up to the square, her brow furrowing in confusion to see so many people—men and women of the ton: shop owners, dock workers, orange sellers—all gathered tightly at Bedford.
Earl 0f St. Seville Page 7
