Earl 0f St. Seville Read online

  She took in her brothers, their identical smiles turned in her direction and, without a doubt, Patience knew they were up to something. Though four years separated the men, they were nearly always found together as a pair. Where one went, the other followed. It didn’t help matters much that in just the perfect lighting, Merit and Valor appeared more like identical twins than brothers of dissimilar ages. Something Patience suspected they’d used to their advantage many times.

  “Come along.” Patience sighed and hurried toward the study door. “I suppose I’d like to hear about the country house party you both attended.”

  The pair caught up with her in the hall as she made her way to the main stairs, flanking her on each side.

  “We disagree. What you’ve been up to is far more entertaining than our silly house party,” Merit whispered, slipping his hand through the crook of her arm.

  “Yes, dear sister.” Valor voiced, a tone or two too high for a gentleman. “We have it on good authority that Bedford Square is not the only place you visited last night.”

  Patience halted, turning to stare daggers at her two brothers. “Whom did you hear that from?”

  Both shrugged with innocence, but it was Valor who spoke, “Does it matter?”

  “It most certainly does,” she retorted. Damnation, but Patience hadn’t been careful at all. She hadn’t kept an eye on who was around the Albany or if anyone paid her any particular mind. Apparently, she wasn’t as unseen as she’d thought.

  “Let us say that Holstrom isn’t the only bloke keeping watch on you, Patience.” Valor smirked and elbowed Merit.

  “In fact,” Merit picked up where Valor left off, “we have also been informed that there is to be another prizefight. And that you shall be in attendance.”

  How did the pair know anything about her plans? She’d only discovered the fight and set her course an hour prior.

  “I am certain Father would delight in knowing where—and with whom—you will be spending your evening. However…” Valor’s words trailed off as he tapped at his chin in thought.

  “However, if you were to allow us to escort you to the match, then it would benefit all three of us,” Merit finished triumphantly.

  The devils were planning to blackmail her.

  The scoundrels.

  “How so?” Patience took a step back from her brothers.

  “Well, you shall have chaperones”—He gestured between himself and Valor—“and we will make a pretty shilling if we hedge our coin on the right fighter. Father cannot reprimand you for your choice of evening entertainment if we accompany you.”

  Her muscles tensed with uncertainty and more than likely a healthy bit of disuse from her earlier activities. If she allowed the pair to accompany her, they would note her connection to Sin; however, if she denied them, her brothers would more than likely follow her anyway and possibly tattle on her to their father.

  How could she arrive to collect Sin with Merit and Valor in tow?

  The alternative was missing the pugilist match altogether, but she’d promised St. Seville she’d be there. And though she’d seen firsthand how much he’d improved after only one lesson, Patience shuddered to think of the fighter Sin would face with a prize as grand as fifteen thousand pounds.

  Reluctantly, Patience nodded. “Very well, I will permit you to accompany me to the fight; however, what I do and whom I speak with is my business only. Neither of you”—She pinned both men with her hardest stare—“will even so much as utter a word about my activities to Father.”

  Merit slapped his thigh before clasping Valor on the back, both whooping with excitement.

  “The pair of you are incorrigible,” Patience huffed. “The fight is five days hence. Be ready at eight o’clock that evening to depart. Not a moment later.”

  The pair was free to join her during the ride to Seven Dials, but her other daily activities—and her time at Southlund’s House—were hers alone…hers and Sin’s. If things did not go as planned and Sin was again defeated, they would need find other means for gaining the funds to save his estate.

  Though it had never interested her before, Patience wondered how substantial her dowry was and if her father would speak of it when asked. Certainly, matters would not become so dire; however, having the information would still her nerves. The next several days of training would be crucial.

  With a reserved smile, she spun around, her skirts flaring around her ankles, and headed up the stairs, her step far more hesitant than a moment before.

  Chapter 12

  Sin exited Southlund’s House not long after noon to see that the early morning sun—a rarity in London or so he’d been told—had been overtaken by a layer of clouds that would no doubt bring with it evening drizzle that would likely turn to a downpour during the late-night hours. Thankfully, Sin had no plans for his evening except to find his bed—and perhaps write a letter to Juliette and his mother.

  Rotating his shoulders brought a fresh wave of pain to his back. The endless hours of training were taking a hefty toll on him. How so many prizefighters managed to sustain a decade-long career in the ring was a mystery to Sin. He’d only been in London a short two weeks, and already, he was looking forward to returning home. Though he also longed for the day when there would be a reason to have Patience close without the need for sparring as a motive.

  “The breeze carries the scent of rain, my lord,” the lady of his thoughts mused, tucking a sack under her arm before glancing up at him. Her eyes matched the tumultuous clouds above—grey without a hint of their actual color, blue. She’d taken to arriving with the sack, hurriedly changing into her sparring gear before they entered the practice area at Southlund’s. And at the end of her sessions, she’d transform herself once more from the daughter of Ivory Bess into a proper London lady.

  Could it be that Patience struggled as he did? A war between who he was, who he wanted to be, and what necessity demanded of him? Did all those wage war within her, as well?

  He had never found anything lacking in his life at Brownsea until the crushing weight of his empty coffers pushed him from the safety of the island. It was only then that he realized he’d need to discover who he was and what he wanted his life to hold. Had their recent association done the same for Patience, casting doubt on who she was and what fulfilled her?

  Her brow furrowed in that way that Sin was becoming accustomed to of late. “Nightfall will come early, as well, I presume.”

  Such a mundane topic did nothing to cool Sin’s heated skin from their hours of training; neither did the wind that rushed down the street, billowing her skirts around her ankles and pulling free his hastily tied cravat. He’d learned quickly that if he took overlong donning his own proper attire after Patience’s lessons, she would slip from Southlund’s House without him.

  Not this day. He craved a few more moments with her, even if only to discuss the commonplace seasonal weather. Sin would be damned if he allowed her to escape into the early afternoon, only to hear from the footman at the door that Lady Patience “looked forward to another training session the following day” with little more than a nod as he departed.

  The Desmond carriage waited at the curb as it had since the first time she’d bid him meet her at Ivory Bess’s famed pugilist training house. Not far down the walk, in the other direction, waited the hackney driver who’d come to recognize Sin’s patterns of late and waited outside the Albany as faithfully as his driver in Brownsea Island did.

  Neither of them said their goodbyes or moved toward their waiting conveyances.

  Could it be that Patience stalled, too?

  “I find I have become rather inured to the gloomy weather in town,” Sin offered.

  “One must acclimate to survive, I fear,” she replied with hesitation as if something weighed on her. They both fell silent and still. Sin was perfectly content allowing the world around them to keep moving: people scurrying to and fro, carriages pulled by overworked horses, a farmer pulling a cart loaded with
winter fruit to the market, and men on horseback navigating the perilous thoroughfare.

  It all happened around them, yet Sin, with Lady Patience by his side, was not a part of it all.

  Her tense shoulders and clutched hands told him that she wanted to say something—and it was gravely important to her. It was the same with his younger sister Juliette when she’d gathered the courage to come to Sin’s study at Brownsea to ask for permission to attend the village’s annual Christmastide rout. She’d been only fifteen and still in the schoolroom at the time; however, Sin had not been able to deny her anything.

  As he suspected, he would be unable to deny lady Patience her every request now.

  He only prayed she did not mean to end their training sessions.

  In the last few days, Sin had been so captured and enthralled during his time at Southlund’s House with Patience, that he’d been able to cast from his mind all the secrets he held—and the lies to come. During their hours of training, he’d only wanted to please her, to show her his progress, and to see Patience’s smirk of accomplishment at her successful tutelage.

  “My lord,” she mumbled, watching a cart rumble past. “May I be so bold as to inquire about your plans for the rest of the day?”

  His patience had paid off—tenfold—and Sin was quick to suppress his smile and ignore the way his stomach leapt with joy at just the sight of her. “You may.”

  “There is place I’d like to take you.” She glanced at her waiting carriage, but Sin noted that her driver had yet to see that his mistress had exited the club, and so they remained unnoticed. Even the passing carriages on the street and the people on the walk paid them no mind. “I have not been in many years; however, it is still a location innately tied to my mother’s world.”

  Sin knew how difficult it had been for Patience to enter Southlund’s House again after her mother’s death. Why would she punish herself again…for him?

  “I have naught on my mind but finding my bed at the Albany, my lady.”

  Her gaze shifted to meet his. “I have pushed you hard.”

  Was that regret in her tone?

  “No harder than was necessary, I assure you,” he replied. Every muscle in his body ached, though Patience moved with the lithe grace of a woman who trained every day. “Please, tell me more about where we are going.”

  “Only if you allow me use of your hack.” She nodded toward his waiting driver—not his driver, but a man paid each day to deliver him between the Albany, Southlund’s House, and occasionally, the Wicked Earls’ Club. “I fear my driver has been very obliging of late, but where I plan to take you today would give him—and my father—apoplexy for certain.”

  “Perhaps that is a reason we should not go.” He tested her resolve. Though she had offered to train him, Sin couldn’t help but fear that he’d asked a lot of her during their short acquaintance, and this might very well be too much for her to undertake. “Are you certain it is safe?”

  Safe for your heart, he wanted to add.

  Her physical safety was not in jeopardy, not when Sin was near. Just as he would do for his mother and sister, he would protect Lady Patience with his life if the situation demanded it.

  He could not protect her from herself, however.

  “Are you one to shy away from things because of how others will react?”

  If her question had been a fist, Sin would have been knocked to the ground and left dazed and confused. It was something they had in common—neither held back due to how others might perceive them.

  “Never, my lady.” Sin hadn’t paused to dwell on how his leaving Brownsea might affect his family, only what they all would gain from him going. Patience hadn’t let the negative impact among society stop her crusade to educate others on the harmful consequences of pugilism. In this, they were much alike. “My hired hack is at your disposal.”

  Sin bowed and gestured toward his waiting conveyance.

  With a mischievous grin, Patience nodded in return before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “Let us be off,” she announced, her inflection matching that of her father’s the day he’d rescued Sin from the alley close to Covent Gardens.

  Sin could not help but note the rough, unpadded seat and filth that clung to the open hack as he took his seat across from Patience. This was not the mode of transportation the daughter of an earl should be relegated to. She deserved to move around town in an exquisitely adorned landau with velvet benches, a pan of hot coals at her feet, and brocade drapes covering the glass windowpanes. A finely attired driver at the reins with a competent footman near the boot should escort her to and fro her many societal entertainments.

  “Where ta, m’lord?” the hack driver called, turning a toothy grin in their direction.

  Sin swallowed the inadequacy that threatened to halt him before they’d even departed Southlund’s House.

  “Lyceum in the Strand, sir,” Patience instructed.

  “The Strand?” The driver focused on Sin, his brows raised high in question.

  Sin looked between Patience and his driver.

  “There is an empty lot, next to Daniel Mendoza’s old academy.” She twisted in her seat to face the man. “Do you know the place?”

  “I do, m’lady, but—”

  “Wonderful.” Patience turned back to Sin, her smile returning as she settled her satchel on the seat next to her and folded her hands in her lap.

  Sin nodded to the driver, and the hack pulled away from the walk and headed toward the Strand.

  “May I ask after our destination?” Sin reclined in his seat, mirroring Patience’s relaxed posture, careful not to show his unease.

  The breeze created by the moving coach played with Patience’s hair, pulling a few strands loose to brush across her face. Sin longed to reach forward and tuck the wayward locks behind her ear. Instead, he glanced over her shoulder as he waited for her to answer his question. He needed to remember that she’d agreed to train him and that was all. After his upcoming fight in Seven Dials, their association would come to an end. If not because his training would be complete, then because Patience would learn that he had no intention of it being his last match.

  His need to not disappoint Lady Patience only went so far. Sin’s goal when coming to London was to save his people.

  “Daniel Mendoza”—she paused, her eyes widening—“you have heard of him, correct?”

  “Of course,” Sin grunted.

  “Well, not long after my mother opened Southlund’s House, Mendoza followed suit and organized a pugilist academy of his own. He was beyond his prime at that time and used his winnings to secure the building; however, in short order, the venture became too much, and his funds ran out. The academy closed, yet the boxers continued to gather.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face before continuing. “It came to me last night, while I was assembling a new pamphlet, that your education is lacking. How many boxing matches have you witnessed?”

  “Every day at Brownsea—”

  “No,” she cut in, shaking her head. “I mean true pugilist matches, not reckless amateurs who think the sport an admiral pastime. How many times have you stood and watched a real prizefight, taking note of movements and strategy as two accomplished boxers faced off? Much like you did on that first day at Southlund’s, but a real match where opponents not only have wagers on the line but also their reputation.”

  Sin didn’t need to ponder her question. He’d attended one match since his arrival in London—and the other two he’d been a part of: the skirmish in the alley, and his lost match at Bedford Square.

  “You see, my lord, when a man is fighting for more than the prize purse of the match and survival and distinction is on the line, a base instinct is lit within the fighter that is absent during training. If you are to win your upcoming match, you must find that inner force and fire.”

  “You are wise beyond your years, Lady Patience,” Sin replied. There was much more, beyond pugilism he could learn from the
woman before him, and he couldn’t help but long to know all the wisdom she had yet to share with him.

  “No, I have seen too many boxers enter a match and risk their lives and well-being without the necessary skills.” Her eyes met his across the open hack for the briefest of moments before she averted her stare. Sin suspected their conversation had brought to mind her mother.

  For that, Sin held much regret.

  Patience cleared her throat. “Let us pray that the rain holds off for at least an hour’s time.”

  * * *

  They stood, shoulder-to-shoulder—or at least, side by side—on the fringe of what was commonly known as Mendoza’s Yard, a cleared, empty lot with a level, hard-packed dirt surface where boxers of every skill level gathered to prove their worth. These fights were not about money or fame, but about showing skill on an even playing field. Pugilists chose their own matches with no wagers allowed. Day in and day out, as long as light gave them the ability to see, and the rain held off, men—and a few women—faced off against opponents of equal or greater skill. Fame and notoriety did not come from these matches; however, the potential of being discovered by men like Lord Holstrom was a possibility.

  “This is not the hidden areas of Hyde Park or the back room of Gentleman Jackson’s, my lady,” Sin whispered close to her ear. Patience ignored the shiver that coursed through her, demanding that she not dwell on the reason behind it. Whether it was from their scandalous journey to the Strand or having Sin so close now, she did not have time to ponder.

  “We are not in Mayfair any longer,” Patience responded, sending a smirk in his direction. Not that she thought Sin wasn’t accustomed to the seedier areas of London; however, the fighters who attended Mendoza’s Yard were not the gentlemen who could afford the fees to train at Southlund’s or the other notable pugilism clubs in town. “Do make me aware if anything offends your delicate sensibilities.”