Page 1 of Earl of St. Seville

Prologue

January 1822

London, England

James Lane, the Earl of Desmond, strolled down the darkened lane bordering Covent Garden without benefit of the gaslights that were commonplace in the more civilized areas of London. Pall Mall, Oxford Street, Bond Street, and even Savile Row in Mayfair. The earl pulled at the lapel of his coat to keep the crisp evening air from sending wave after wave of shivers through him. He wasn’t as young as he’d once been, nor was he as strong or confident as the young lord who’d claimed the love of Ivory Bess not far from this very spot.

The clip of horses’ hooves sounded behind Desmond, reminding him that losing focus and letting his guard down in such a neighborhood—and so late into the night—could mean his death. He glanced over his shoulder. No one followed as he hurried toward his carriage, halted at the end of the street—only four dark and abandoned buildings away—his driver idly passing the time huddled in his thick, wool coat on his perch where Desmond had left him two hours prior. His footman kept watch near the boot of the carriage.

Despite his advanced age and the frigid January weather, the earl continued to visit London’s more dubious neighborhoods.

Even with the love of his life taken from him five years ago, Desmond came. There was a day when he’d thought his life ended with her. His countess, the mother of his children, the love of his life was gone from him. However, Ivory “Bess” Lane, the Countess of Desmond, his wife and soul mate, had left a piece of herself in each of their children, Patience especially.

It was for his youngest daughter, Lady Patience Lane, that Desmond risked his safety night after night when he journeyed round London, entering various gaming hells and taverns.

If it weren’t for Patience, Desmond would have retired to his country estate in Somerset to live out his days surrounded by things that reminded him of his Ivory—their many good years together before the trials of her youth came back to haunt her.

Yet, retiring to a life of solitude in the English countryside was not to be…

“More’s the pity,” he mumbled into the night.

Desmond would have his time to grieve once all his daughters were happily wed. His sons would find their own way, just as Desmond had after he left University.

Two down, and only Patience left unattached—sadly with no prospects on the horizon.

Shoving his gloved hands deep into his greatcoat pockets, his fingers wrapped around the newly printed pamphlets he’d come to Covent Gardens to distribute. He knew it was a lost cause, but it meant something to Patience.

Ironically, distributing Patience’s precisely crafted pamphlets also decreased her chances of finding a suitable match even more.

The men—and many women—who gained their living stripped down to the waist with their bare knuckles raised and poised to fight were not interested in learning about the risks of their pugilist pursuits. Damnation, many of them couldn’t so much as read the pamphlets Patience painstakingly created. They were not interested in the injuries and damage caused by repeated blows to the head and torso; they were more concerned with earning the coin to pay for food and shelter. A livelihood for themselves and their families.

Many in London had no other means but what could be gained by using their brute strength, sure fists, and light feet.

Be that as it may, he continued to indulge Patience. He’d never tell her that her hard work littered the floors of gaming hells as men readily discarded the papers as rubbish, or was used to wipe down grimy windows. She never journeyed to any of the hells and taverns and so never knew the fate of her pamphlets.

Desmond had slowed as he allowed his mind to wander.

Another sign he had become overly lax during his nighttime trips across London.

Keeping his eyes on his driver perched on the seat of his waiting coach, Desmond increased his pace, ready to escape to the solitude of his study.

With only two buildings separating him from that fate, the earl passed an alley littered with debris and spoiled table scraps—where two men could be seen embroiled in a scuffle.

He ought to avert his gaze and keep walking.

What transpired in the dark lane between two grown men was none of his business and could lead to Desmond being injured or even killed. It would do his children little good if he got himself stabbed for interfering in something that was not his concern.

Yet, he stared into the alley as the men tussled, knocking one another to the ground.

Haphazardly hung fabric in the windows of the tenements were pulled back as the people living above the alley stared down at the spectacle, the candlelight from their open windows casting a glow around the two men. Twenty years ago—perhaps as few as ten—Desmond wouldn’t have hesitated to separate the two men before anyone was grievously injured.

But now, he had less time to live—and so much more he needed to see done before he left this life.

Another tenant in the building above pulled back what appeared to be undergarments strung on a line for drying, sending more muted light through the grimy windowpane and directly down on the skirmish below.

One of the men was outfitted as most were in the Covent Garden district: loose trousers and a long, hole-ridden tunic with shoes years past needing mending by a cobbler. However, the other opponent could not be mistaken for anything but gentry, if not a lord like Desmond. As the fighters regained their footing, the earl noticed that the nobleman’s sheer size nearly filled the alley from stone wall to stone wall, his height as impressive as his stature. His hair, hanging past his shoulders in golden brown waves, was the only hint that mayhap he was not among London’s elite ton, for what man—except highwaymen and pirates—allowed his hair to fall down his back at such a length? For a brief second, the light reflected off highly polished Hessians as the massive Corinthian sidestepped a fist, causing the smaller man to list forward and slam into the stone wall as his balance fled him.

“Come ‘ere, ya toff,” the man called, turning away from the building and raising his fists in preparation for another assault.