Page 20 of Earl of St. Seville

Sin knew his portion to participate—which Holstrom put forth for him—was two thousand. He figured the other fighter matched that amount. As for the remaining six thousand…Sin had misguidedly thought Holstrom was responsible for collecting it. Similar to an investment venture or the like. Why did the thought of so many people watching him fight cause his stomach to churn and his palms to perspire? Most of Brownsea Island had watched Sin box since he was a lad of around nine, and he hadn’t lost a match since his fourteenth birthday.

But an entire square of strangers, most with a wager on the line?

He wasn’t ignorant to the rules of prizefighting; he’d watched two matches when he first arrived in London while he was waiting to meet with Holstrom. The fight he’d watched the night he was accosted near Covent Garden had been small with only a handful of spectators. The rules were clear, though Sin hadn’t expected such an audience. His stomach hardened, and his head swam as he glanced around the square.

“Green, he be look’n green, Holstrom,” Crone crowed. “This be simple as pie for ol’ Gus.”

“We shall see.” Holstrom retorted, eyeing Sin. “I think my man here will be the first to best Gus.”

A cheer went up in the center of the square and Sin, along with Holstrom, Paulson, and Crone turned as the crowd pushed back, creating an open space to reveal a man. The lad, already bare-chested, stood a head shorter than Sin and had about half the muscle. Gus Povolti bounced from foot to foot and rotated his shoulders back to the crowd’s utter delight.

Why had Sin envisioned the match completely differently: a dimly lit warehouse with a handful of spectators, similar to the fight he’d witnessed. Two men coming together with fists raised for a fair fight.

But this—Sin swept his glare across the square—was an utter circus.

He, with his younger sister in tow, had traveled to Dorset once when a traveling show moved through town. There were performers and exotic animals galore. The crowd had cheered and jeered when the lion tamer had nearly lost his hand when the beast decided he did not want to obey the man’s commands.

At the moment, Gus Povolti was on display—and he relished every second of it.

Soon enough, Sin would need to strip and take his place, preparing for the fight. All eyes would be on him. Would the gathered people cheer him on or shout for his defeat?

Did it matter? Sin was a winner. He’d always been a winner and now was no different. He’d hedged his entire future on this moment, used most of the funds left at his estate to journey to London with hopes of tripling the coins until he had enough to support his people.

Defeat was not an option.

Leaving London poorer than he arrived was not Sin’s plan.

Unsettling dread weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“Are you ready?” Holstrom hissed near his ear.

Images of his homeland—the unhurried movements of his people, the light lapping of waves at the small beach area by his home, and the fresh ocean scents—vividly streaked through his mind. Those were the reasons he was here. To keep worry from his people. To make certain many generations of St. Sevilles reveled in the waves against the shore. And had the opportunity, year after year, to breathe deeply of the intoxicating aroma of his homeland.

Yes, he was ready for the coming match.

When Sin only nodded, keeping his eyes trained on his opponent, Holstrom stepped into the widening circle and threw his arms out. He grinned for the crowd as everyone fell silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Holstrom called, spinning in a circle. “Fishwives and merchants. Tavern maids and drunkards.”

The square erupted in loud applause as men threw their fists to the darkened sky, and women shouted their pleasure before once again falling quiet.

“You have been promised a prizefight to overshadow all other prizefights, two pugilists who’ve never before entered a match against one another. Gus ‘Lightning’ Povolti comes from Prussia and strikes hotter than a lightning bolt.” Holstrom raised his arms, giving the crowd ample time to cheer before glancing in Sin’s direction. His story was not so grand nor worthy of applause. “And his opponent, directly from the coastal isles of the East, is the Earl of S—“ He paused for a moment and smirked as if debating St. Seville’s name. “—the Earl of Sin!”

Every stare trained on Sin where Holstrom pointed his out-stretched arm at him. Some gasped, others cheered, but every person nearest him took a large step back as he was waved into the inner circle.

“Yes, my fine London citizens,” Holstrom continued, obviously enjoying his place as commentator. “He is modeled after a Roman god and raised near the sea, his body molded by hard labor and the unrelenting sun.”

The Earl of Sin?

He wanted to hide himself from the dramatic nature of the event; allow the crowd their spot of fun but remain withdrawn from the stares and jeers.

Instead, Sin set about unbuttoning his coat and removing his crisp, linen shirt, pulling the fine garment over his head. The action only served to have the crowd breaking out in another round of shouts and cheers as men—and many women—held up purses of coins or stacks of notes.

“What is going on?” Sin leaned close to Paulson, who’d remained close to him.

“Bet’n, milord,” Paulson chuckled. “It be no surprise if’n the prize purse be double the ten thousand after they be see’n ye without your shirt. Though they be wise not ta count out me fighter.”

Sin stared around the square as Holstrom and another man collected whatever coin or notes the crowd held out and scribbled in a small notebook. Perhaps he would garner the money needed for his estate faster than he planned.