Earl 0f St. Seville

by Christina McKnight

  The jab was meant as a jest.

  The earl was puzzling indeed.

  He’d worked hard for days, left Southlund’s battered and exhausted, yet he never complained as he adhered to her edicts. He listened, he learned, and he improved with each day. As the hours passed, their connection also evolved and developed, changing from two people thrown together by unfortunate circumstances to a relationship far more easy, natural…and confusing.

  Yet, something… innate was lacking between them. He fought, and he fought hard, no longer relying on his brute prowess but tapping into his mental strength and cunning.

  Self-preservation.

  That was what was missing.

  No matter the outcome of St. Seville’s upcoming match in Seven Dials—win or lose—he would not be gravely affected beyond his debt to Holstrom. He had the choice to return to Brownsea Island, his home, to find another way to secure his lands and people. Many who fought did not have that option.

  If they lost, they would not eat.

  If they lost, they would have no bed, no fire, and no way of finding shelter from the harsh London winter.

  If they lost, so did their families.

  It was the way it was for Patience’s mother, Ivory Bess, in her youth.

  She had no country estate to retire to, no family or husband to see her through to the next match, and no one to count on but herself.

  Even if the earl were never in such a dire situation, perhaps watching those who were, would give him the… Patience stumbled over the thought in her mind. Maybe it would give him the heart to win.

  For all her mother’s determination, skill, and love of the sport during her pugilist years, it had been heart that saw her through it all.

  “This way, my lord.” Patience walked forward to the edge of the yard as a pair of women, both attired in men’s breeches and nothing but shifts to cover their bosoms, stepped to the line. She did not bother to glance at the earl to view his reaction. To some, it would look a spectacle. Though it was common in the world of boxing for women, same as their male counterparts, to strip bare to the waist. “That is Constance Country and Edith Woolgrower.”

  She felt his stare on her as she watched the women raise their fists.

  “For a lady who claims to despise the sport, you know an awful lot about it.”

  “It was my mother’s passion. I grew up with the sport surrounding me,” she sighed. “I have not always found pugilism so distasteful. Miss Country and Miss Woolgrower were pupils of my mother’s. We keep in contact, if only for me to continue my attempts to convince them both to seek other means of supporting themselves.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet. “I see.”

  The softness in his tone told Patience that he did, in fact, see and understand.

  For the next hour, Patience stood close to St. Seville, his tall, broad stature blocking the wind from her face as they watched match after match. Men, women, and even a set of youngsters no older than thirteen took to the yard to prove their worth, show their skill, and pray—most fruitlessly—to be recognized and whisked away from the poverty and desperation of their current lives.

  If Patience had the resources to rescue them all, she would…without a second thought.

  Yet, for every five she helped, another hundred would go without. And even those she helped sometimes found their way back to this cold, harsh life.

  The earl didn’t question her about why they ventured to the Strand, nor did he talk endlessly as they watched the fighters.

  Eventually, a warmth settled at her back, and she was startled to find his hand pressed firmly there in an almost possessive way.

  A measure of comfort and safety settled around her, though Patience hadn’t needed it. Not many years ago, this had been Patience’s world. Not the startling poverty of the fighters, but the world of bare-knuckle boxing. She didn’t need a man at her side to reassure or protect her.

  She was happy for it now, all the same.

  Many in London society never witnessed this side of town life. The less fortunate were relegated to their boroughs, and the nobles preferred to act as if they didn’t exist as they shielded themselves from the reality of London with their drawn drapes in their fine carriages as they traveled through areas rife with hardship.

  It was the same with prizefighters. Those who had demonstrated their skills and had been picked from obscurity and chosen to compete in elite matches all over London tried to forget the men and women who attended places like Mendoza’s Yard. Eventually, those great fighters fell, and another crop was plucked from places like the Strand and thrust into the light for a brief moment of fame and notoriety.

  Patience shook her head in sorrow as her stomach twisted into a knot. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring St. Seville here. He’d been born into privilege, the son of a nobleman secure in his future. The importance of places like Mendoza’s Yard couldn’t have meaning and impact for a lord of St. Seville’s station.

  Still, his hand lay solidly on her back, her shoulder brushing his side.

  When had she tucked herself into him?

  St. Seville was not the one to offer her security or even comfort. He was her pupil, and there could be nothing more between them despite the closeness that had matured between them. It was the way of things after so many hours of training. Boxers developed innate connections to those who taught them, and trainers became burdened with the need to see their pupil successfully through their matches.

  A single warm droplet of rain landed on her cheek. Patience wiped it away and turned to see the menacing clouds gathering above. The storm was nearly upon them. If they did not return to Southlund’s House with haste, they would be caught in the downpour.

  Stepping away, Patience glanced behind them to the hack the earl had bid wait for them. “I think it is time we go.”

  No one took notice of them as they departed the yard. St. Seville’s height and formidable width drew little attention in an area such as this. Nor did Patience’s simple skirt and blouse draw undue fascination from the crowd.

  Climbing aboard the hack, St. Seville took the seat next to her.

  “My lord?” she asked, as if being alone with the earl, unchaperoned in the Strand, was not enough to cause a scandal, but sitting side by side would push them into dangerous territory.

  A smattering of raindrops covered his face when he looked down at her. “The rain will only increase on our drive. The least I can do, after everything you’ve taught me, is keep you from catching your death of cold.”

  To prove his point, he slipped from his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders and head to block the rain from drenching her as they started toward Southlund’s House.

  Patience nestled closer to St. Seville, allowing his warmth and the scent of him to wash over her as the rain would have if he hadn’t created a makeshift shelter for her.

  It was such a simple gesture, yet one she was wholly unfamiliar with. Not because her father and brothers didn’t attempt to shield her. Mainly because she never allowed anyone this close, finding fault with every man who sought her hand.

  Shifting, Patience looked up at the earl. Surprisingly, his stare was focused on her, as well—but not on her eyes. No, his narrowed, russet-brown eyes were trained on her lips.

  Heat coursed through her, banishing the frigid cold that stung her reddened nose and seeped through her gloves.

  Patience had never been faced with such a situation.

  The earl leaned closer, and her lips parted as her tongue darted across her bottom lip. Something in her chest fluttered at the same time she exhaled. She fisted her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out for him, laying her gloved palm on his cheek and drawing his face to hers.

  Suddenly, the hack dipped and jostled, hitting an uneven patch in the street and tossing Patience back a few inches. Not far, but enough to break whatever spell had kept the earl’s focus trained on her lips. His jacket slipped down t
o the seat behind her.

  Rain sprinkled her face, and Patience laughed.

  The sound seemed foreign and strained, even to her own ears.

  The earl coughed and straightened, retrieving his jacket and lifting it up once again to cover her, but he did not lean close again. Instead, he retreated to the far corner of the hack.

  Patience searched her brain for something—anything—to draw him close again.

  The moment had faded…gone as swiftly as it had set upon them.

  “I shall collect you tomorrow evening at the Albany, and we will set out for Seven Dials?” Patience still needed to figure out how to dissuade Merit and Valor from tagging along on her escapade to West End. And now, it seemed all the more important to keep the earl hidden. They had tomorrow evening, and then Patience’s obligation to St. Seville would come to an end.

  Win or lose, the earl had agreed that this would be his final prizefight.

  What would come then? Could she return to her crusade against pugilism? Draft more pamphlets and send her father into hazardous boroughs to distribute them as if she hadn’t been training a fighter only a few nights before? Could she be content to return to the life she’d led up until the night she stumbled upon the earl bare-chested and escaping her house?

  She sighed, but the sound was swallowed up by the wind as the rain increased.

  Chapter 13

  Sin pushed his untouched meal around on his plate, his appetite stalled by the note from Lady Patience—and the prizefight starting in two hours’ time. I will meet you in Seven Dials. How was he supposed to interpret that? Her missive only held those seven simple words. She hadn’t signed her name or written her message on monogrammed stationery. If anyone had intercepted it, there would be nothing that could be traced back to its sender. Even the young boy who’d knocked on his door at the Albany had been paid two pence to make certain Patience’s note went to no one but the bloke with hair like a seaman.

  They’d trained—hard—the day before, and then had gone to the Strand. Before they parted ways, she’d instructed him that she would arrive at the Albany to collect him. Had something occurred? Had their moment in the hack frightened her? For most of the night, Sin had thought it perhaps only he who’d felt the connection between them. The draw was undeniable, no matter how Sin attempted to ignore it.

  Maybe Desmond had discovered her absences from Marsh Manor each day when she journeyed to Southlund’s House to work with Sin and forbade her to leave the house?

  Their hours together had quickly turned from exhaustive physical exertion to fleeting minutes where Sin longed for them to stretch on and on. With her tutelage, his movements had become more precise, and his agility increased with each session. Patience’s skill in the ring only shone more with each hour as men attended the club to watch the daughter of the famed pugilist, Ivory Bess.

  If there were anything more than just her offer to train him connecting them, Sin would have been jealous of every fighter who stood gaping around the ring as they worked. Sin had no claims to Lady Patience—not on her attention or her affection.

  “Yes, the man claimed to be a gentleman, though we all know Blankenship’s less than proper tendencies,” the man across from Sin said with a chuckle. “Come now, toes! Have you heard any such vile thing?”

  Sin chuckled along with the trio who’d invited him to dine with them before they all made their way to Seven Dials.

  Coventry was set on introducing Sin to as many of his wicked men as possible, as if that would keep him in London once he earned the funds needed to return home to Brownsea.

  The Earl of Harrington and Davenport were friendly enough. Quite a bit younger than Coventry, but close to Sin’s age, the pair each sported the unmistakable mark of Coventry’s club—the golden W pinned to their lapel.

  Sin had left his in his room at the Albany, and he’d noted Coventry’s disapproval when he first entered the Wicked Earls’ Club.

  Besides the matching pins, the men favored similar hairstyles trimmed above their collars with tresses that flopped long in the front. They were not men Sin would find any sort of connection with had he been on his home isle, but in London, they seemed to be the usual proper, dapper lords about town.

  Their conversation varied between jesting about a certain lord to talk of coming balls and even ventured so far as to delve into bets they’d made recently at White’s.

  Sin held his breath, willing his headache to subside.

  Coventry remained silent for most of the meal, as had Sin, allowing Harrington and Davenport to drone on and on about ton gossip—mainly referring to lords and ladies Sin had never heard of.

  “Did you hear about ol’ Pembroke?” Harrington took a long sip from his ale as he glanced around the table. When no one offered any response, he continued, “He’s found himself a bride. Rumor has it she is as beautiful as the night and equally as mysterious. A high-born lady who could do far better than the likes of Pembroke.”

  “I heard they’re already wed…out of necessity, if you know what I mean,” Davenport countered, bringing his hands up as if he held an extended belly.

  If Sin had missed the meaning of his words, he would have understood the gesture well. This Pembroke fellow had gotten a woman with child, certainly not the worst occurrence, especially if the man were smitten with the lady in question.

  “The lot of you would do well to secure a match with a fine woman—start a family before you’re too old and grey to attract anything but the lightskirts who fancy Vauxhall.” Coventry signaled the servant for another drink. “I have met the Countess of Pembroke, and she is a lovely, beautiful, wise young lady.”

  Sin half listened as the conversation continued, but Coventry’s warning and Harrington’s jest about this man Pembroke had Sin’s thoughts returning to Lady Patience. The daughter of an earl—a lord who happened to be one of his father’s friends. Her dark countenance and single-minded determination were much akin to his own. Yet, similar to Pembroke and his lady fair, Patience deserved a life far above that which Sin lived: tilling the soil, mending his tenants’ roofs, taking his land’s crops to market in Dorset. That was what kept Sin occupied.

  Lady Patience deserved a gentleman who would lavish her with beautiful, handmade gowns and shining gems. A lord who knew his way around society with friends of great prestige. A learned man.

  Not a male of oxen portions who would fare better at sea than in a London ballroom.

  Despite all her words and actions to the contrary, she appeared resolute in her place outside the norms of society. But Sin could not believe that was what she wanted for the rest of her life.

  Why had the thought even come to mind? Patience was assisting him in the art of pugilism, nothing more. They had no other attachments beyond the sport. Soon enough, he would have the funds he needed to return home, and she would remain in London. Time—and distance—would erase their memories of one another. Their association would likely end long before Sin returned to Brownsea Island.

  “Do you know anything about Devin Parsons?” Coventry broke into Sin’s depressing thoughts.

  “Parsons?” Sin asked, glancing up to see all three men staring at him. “Should I know the man?”

  Harrington chuckled, turning a huge grin at Davenport. “I told you we made the correct wager.”

  Sin was growing exhausted with the back and forth between the gentlemen, and his headache increased. Why had he agreed to accompany Coventry for dinner in the first place? Because he’d been wallowing for hours after receiving Patience’s note that she’d meet him at the fight as opposed to them making the trip together.

  It shouldn’t upset him. He hadn’t wanted her to attend the fight at all.

  “What wager?” Coventry inquired.

  “We placed a bet at White’s last evening when word of the match circulated.” Harrington turned a hesitant glance in Sin’s direction. “We know St. Seville is a formidable lord; nonetheless, Parsons has trained with the likes of John Gully
and was declared the victor against Tom Cribb some years back.”

  Davenport straightened in his chair, his head swinging back and forth between Sin and Coventry. “I told him that meant nothing. Just because Parsons seems the obvious pick, doesn’t mean St. Seville here can’t knock him down a peg or two. However, because I lost to Harrington in regards to the Duke of Mulberry’s situation, I had to allow him his way.”

  Sin could only imagine what the Duke of Mulberry’s situation entailed.

  “You scoundrels,” Coventry shouted with a booming laugh, bringing the attention of the entire room to them. “You wagered against St. Seville?”

  “Not my choice,” Davenport shrugged. “The Duke of Mulberry’s situation, remember?”

  “Quiet down,” Sin hissed, leaning forward. “Does everyone think I am to lose?”

  The Wicked Earls’ Club was brimming with men—eating, drinking, gambling, and playing billiards before setting off on their evening’s entertainments. When he’d entered, Sin had overheard a group of gentlemen discussing their plans to attend the opera that night and how they could extricate themselves and accompany Coventry to Seven Dials for the prizefight instead.

  While Sin hadn’t necessarily settled in among the group of earls, he also hadn’t gotten the sense that he wouldn’t be accepted if it were something he wanted. But now…

  “Thirty to one odds, I’m afraid,” Harrington said. “Based on the outcome of your fight in Bedford Square, I’d say that some misguided fools have faith in your ability that I do not. Doesn’t mean I don’t believe you to be a fine chap, but money is money, and you know my dear grandfather, the old fool, thinks if he starves my allowance, I will return to the fold.”

  “He does have his sights set on bringing you to heel at any cost, does he not?” Davenport winked at Harrington.

  “The Devil of Davenport thinks to make a jest about my financial situation?” Harrington leveled back.

  Sin couldn’t help but wonder if the men were friends or enemies. It was hard to tell with their back and forth bickering.