Page 10 of Earl of St. Seville

“You will attend a soirée with me. Nothing too grand, just a small ball with a few dozen guests.”

“I am to go looking like this?” Sin gestured to his swollen nose and split lip. “I am likely to draw much attention.

“It will be quick,” Coventry said. “We will arrive, you will have your meeting, and we shall depart. You may not even need enter the ballroom; however, if you pass on this gathering, I can assure you, you have indeed wasted your time coming all the way to London.”

Sin had no other option but to acquiesce. “Where are we to meet, and at what time?”

The smile that overtook the earl’s thin face spoke of the man’s uncertainty at what Sin’s decision would be. He was relieved that Sin had chosen the course he’d set for him.

“Ten o’clock. And we meet here.” Coventry closed the file he held and set it aside before standing, signaling that their meeting had come to an end. “I will see you this evening. Do not forget to wear your W pin on your lapel. I called in several favors to get this meeting, and the man is under the impression that you are a member of the Wicked Earls’ Club.”

“Am I not?” Sin inquired, his brow rising in question.

“If that is your desire.”

“Very well,” Sin said with a stiff bow that brought a new wave of pain to his injured ribs. “Until this evening, I bid you good day, Lord Coventry.”

Sin turned and departed the room, keeping his head down until he’d stepped through the front door of the club and out into the brisk morning air, Coventry’s final words still ringing in his head: If that is your desire.

Desire?

Sin desired to save his family from ruin. Sin desired to fulfill his mission in London and return home. Sin desired to bring safety and security back to his people on Brownsea Island.

Beyond that, Sin hadn’t given his own needs much thought.

If aligning himself with Coventry and the Wicked Earls’ Club could keep him on course, then, bloody hell, Sin was prepared to accept his place as a wicked earl.

Chapter 3

Patience moved around the fringes of the crowded ballroom. She didn’t flit as her elder sisters did when they traversed about a soirée; no, her movements were more a purposeful stride as Patience studied the people gathered in Lord Holstrom’s grand estate. She’d made a list for this evening, and it did not include dancing, flirtatious conversations, or sampling the host’s much-revered sherry.

True, this was a social gathering, but Patience had given up on being considered social and proper many years ago. After her first disastrous Season, her father and siblings had held out hope that she would settle in to ton life and find a suitable match; however, at the height of her third Season, eligible men of the ton had all but run the other way when they saw her coming.

As well they should.

That was precisely how she knew she’d set her sights on the right man.

They had something to hide, and to do that, they avoided conversing with her.

Her father had noted the previous week that Patience would do well to study the difference between conversing and lecturing. To that, she had scoffed and suggested that her father converse with his two sons who’d once again been mentioned in the scandal sheets. That had ended her father’s lecture quickly enough.

Patience glanced about the room, keeping her faint smile in place, noting that Holstrom was still speaking with several men near the ballroom doors, his back to Patience. Not far from him, his wife, Lady Holstrom, stood alone. Patience hurried along the dance floor and cut behind the refreshment table to stand before the matronly woman.

“Good evening, Lady Holstrom,” she greeted. “Thank you for the invitation.”

The lady’s shoulders tensed in panic when she recognized Patience.

“Ah, well, Lady Patience, I wouldn’t think to exclude the Desmond family from such an affair.” Lady Holstrom did her best to appear relaxed and stiffly took a sip from her glass. “Where are your sisters and their dear husbands?”

Patience knew full well that she hadn’t been invited to the Holstrom ball. She had attended with her sister, Verity, and her husband, who had retired to the card room as soon as their one dance concluded—as social niceties dictated. A little thing like the lack of an invitation was not enough to stop Patience from seeking an audience with Lord Holstrom. The man was rumored to organize pugilist matches all over London—and for heavy prizes, as well. As yet, Patience hadn’t received a response from her many letters to Holstrom, but at some point this evening, he’d be unable to avoid speaking with her.

If anyone deserved a conversation on the damage sustained from years of bare-knuckle boxing, it was Lord Holstrom.

“Why are you not dancing, Lady Patience?” Lady Holstrom inquired, though the lady knew full well why Patience never danced. When she lifted her fan, and a small titter escaped, there was no hiding that the woman’s question was meant to embarrass Patience. Perhaps her father should speak with Lady Holstrom regarding proper etiquette. “My dear husband and I made certain all of London’s most eligible lords were in attendance this evening.”

Thankfully, Patience was accustomed to the ways of societal matrons, especially those who had daughters close to Patience’s age, and she directed the conversation in a path more suitable to her goals at the ball. “I am certain your daughters, Lady Sarah and Lady Elizabeth, will make sure no lord goes without a dance partner. Although, I do have a matter of great import to discuss with you.” Patience fumbled with her reticule and removed her latest pamphlet. If Holstrom were to keep avoiding her, Patience would give his wife the information and beg her to pass it along. “Please, have a look—”

“Oh, Lady Patience, I am sorry to abandon you so quickly, but I think my daughter is in need of me.” Lady Holstrom gave her a regretful smile and ignored Patience’s outstretched hand that held the pamphlet. “It was lovely chatting with you. Please, give my best to your father.”