Page 19 of Earl of St. Seville

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.”