Page 21 of Earl of St. Seville

Paulson clapped Sin on the shoulder with a grin. “Don’t be count’n out ol’ Gus too quickly, hear. He be one’a the best fighters I be see’n since me father took ta the ring.”

With that, the man hurried over to Sin’s opponent and whispered something in his ear, to which the fighter nodded and glanced in Sin’s direction for the first time. Gus showed no signs of being startled by Sin’s sheer size. Neither did Sin see the man as a fighter he couldn’t best. One solid, accurately placed jab, and the man would fall. If there was one thing Sin was confident in, it was the power of his fists.

“Fighters!” Holstrom pointed to Gus and then to Sin. “Take your places.”

At the call, the crowd inched in, leaving Sin no other option but to move to the center of the square to face his opponent, fists raised and ready.

Sin was here for his family. He was here for the future of his estate. He was here to make a better life for everyone on Brownsea Island.

Sin held his clenched fists before his face, stepping from one foot to the other as the other fighter did the same, though his feet moved much quicker.

He would best Gus “Lightning” Povolti. He would prove his mettle.

Confidence surged through Sin, and his shoulders relaxed as he eased into his usual fighter’s stance.

And then he would fight again.

Chapter 7

Patience pulled up to the square, her brow furrowing in confusion to see so many people—men and women of the ton: shop owners, dock workers, orange sellers—all gathered tightly at Bedford.

“Stop here,” she shouted over the cheering of the crowd, even as her heart thundered in her chest. At first, she hadn’t been certain what had made her instruct her driver to double back and follow St. Seville’s hack; however, at the sight before her…it was obvious. “I will depart here.”

“My lady, I cannot—“

Patience hopped from the carriage and turned her narrowed stare upon her driver. “I shall be well, I promise. How many days did I spend coming to gatherings like this with my mother?”

Allowing her voice to crack would have signaled Patience’s torment at the spectacle before her.

It was a prizefight.

Patience had accompanied her mother to enough matches to know what was to come. Ivory Bess may have retired her pugilist pursuits when she wed the Earl of Desmond, but that did not mean her passion for the blood sport had fled with her vows. Instead of fighting, her mother had trained other pugilists, both men and women, in the age-old art.

St. Seville had been on his way to meet Coventry to watch a prizefight, even after everything she’d shared about her mother? He’d been empathetic to the point of reaching out to comfort her with his hand upon hers. She hadn’t imagined the impact of her words on him. He’d listened, he’d heard, and Patience had believed he cared.

What lay before her negated all of that. Invalidated everything she’d expected of St. Seville.

Her first impression had been correct: he was no different than Lord Holstrom and the men of the Wicked Earls’ Club. Perhaps even worse as those men didn’t seek to keep their true natures hidden.

“I will wait here for you, my lady,” her servant shouted over the raised voices.

The match was preparing to start, and the crowd did as was common, they began chanting as each selected their fighter.

Some shouted “Lightning” while others chanted “Sin, Sin, Sin.”

Patience had been away from the training clubs frequented by many of the pugilists in London for the last several years after her father had bid her not to return. The anguish that always followed her visits only served to remind her of everything she’d lost. That was why she’d originally set her mark on the men who organized and funded the sport.

Patience’s pulse beat ever faster as the cheering grew in intensity. There was a time, in her youth, when attending a prize match was exhilarating. She’d taken on the role of her mother’s shadow. She’d watched her train others, and helped her demonstrate various moves and defensive tactics. Up until her mother had grown unable to walk, Patience had reveled in the experience, doing everything asked of her to make her mother proud. For a time, it had been their personal secret that, one day, Patience would enter a match of her own. Her father would have never allowed it, and knowing what she knew now, Patience would rather swim the murky Thames than step into a ring and risk injury. The loss of a dream, even one as foolish as her own career in the pugilist world, had filled her with a great void until she adjusted her path in life.

The crowd suddenly fell silent.

The match had started.

She searched the gathering crowd, two or three people deep, trying to spot St. Seville and Coventry, but her height and proximity prevented her from attaining the optimal view. Gathering her skirts, she dashed back to her waiting coach. Without warning her driver—for he would have surely attempted to halt her—Patience climbed aboard the boot at the back until she could see over the heads of the crowd. There was no reason for Patience to remain at Bedford Square. The Earl of St. Seville and his interests shouldn’t concern her. Getting angry or hurt by him, a man she’d only met a few days prior, was preposterous.

Yet, she continued scanning the gathering for the earl. He shouldn’t be difficult to spot as he towered over most men, and his shoulders were certainly broader than two average men combined.

“Where are you?” she mumbled.