Page 22 of Earl of St. Seville

What she planned to do when she did locate him was still a mystery. A tongue-lashing? Perhaps she only needed him to know that she’d seen him at the fight and let him watch her walk away, never to speak to him again. Again, Patience was well aware that her behavior was only justifying the names she was called in polite society. What other option was available to her, though? Her father had been distributing her pamphlets for over a year, and still, no one had heeded her warnings. She was going about things with single-minded determination…with no changes. How much more could she do before she gave up and gave in?

She determinedly kept her stare averted from the men in the center of the square. Nothing good would come from witnessing two men pummeling one another until one fighter drew blood, collapsed, or signaled defeat. Though the sounds, so familiar and once upon a time comforting, did nothing but increase her pulse. Something that should never again excite her had an odd effect on her in the present. Her senses betrayed her, and Patience worked to still her racing heart.

She refused to allow violence to thrill her.

A collective gasp disrupted her search, bringing Patience’s attention to the pugilists.

People began to chant once more.

“Sin, Sin, Sin.”

One man, bare-chested, staggered back, catching her notice.

She knew the exposed chest, even from this distance. Broad and etched with muscles strung tight. Arms as round as thick tree limbs with breeches tightly covering Herculean legs corded with the same brawn.

The Earl of St. Seville—Sin—regained his balance and advanced on his opponent, who countered the move by shuffling in a wide arch away from Sin’s long-reaching fists.

The earl may have the muscle and strength to throw a damaging blow, but he lacked the speed and agility of his opponent, who weaved and moved with the skill of a man trained under the likes of John Jackson. He flitted about the ring made by the crowd as if his feet didn’t actually touch the ground, while St. Seville lumbered in his wake, far too heavy on his feet.

Had no one taught him the need for balance and the advantage of remaining poised on the balls of his feet?

The small, agile fighter ducked under Sin’s outstretched arm, swept forward, and brought his clenched fist up to connect with the right side of Sin’s jaw. If she were closer, Patience would have likely heard his neck snap back sharply from the blow.

Sin appeared dazed for a brief moment before shaking his head stiffly and blocking his opponent’s next swing.

Brawn and raw strength would only get a prizefighter so far.

If St. Seville didn’t move his feet and put some distance between him and his opponent, he was going to be defeated…and quickly.

The skill of a pugilist was threefold, as her mother always said. A good fighter had two of three things: brains, brawn, and speed. A winning fighter knew he had to possess all three.

Sin—the fighter, not the lord Patience had thought she’d come to know—wasn’t aware of his weakness. And because of that, he would lose.

She should pray that would not be the outcome, but the surety that filled her with regards to her intuition left no room for doubt. The Earl of St. Seville would need more than her prayers.

“Separate!” The shout came from the far side of the square, and Patience spotted Lord Holstrom. “Fight.”

Two things were perfectly clear to Patience in that moment: her father had mistakenly rescued St. Seville from a fight he’d wanted, and Sin had been at Holstrom’s ball with the purpose of meeting about this very match.

She’d been foolish to worry St. Seville was off to meet a woman, and had thought that, perhaps, Coventry was worse; however, the true knave was Lord Holstrom. At that precise moment, Patience would have preferred St. Seville to be roaming about, courting a woman or ensconced in Coventry’s club.

She’d been stupid to believe that the earl had meant anything he said to her, even chastising Holstrom for his improper behavior toward Patience had been a ruse. Holstrom was a devious man, but the earl was far worse because he was the same as Holstrom. Yet, he took it a step further by lying to her about his intentions. At least Holstrom didn’t hide anything.

Had the two men laughed at her foolishness after Sin had returned her to the ballroom?

Heat flushed her body, and her stare hardened on the fighters.

The duplicitous lord deserved a sound thumping.

As if hearing her thoughts, Sin’s opponent dipped to the left and brought his right arm around, his fist connecting with Sin’s temple, sending sweat flying into the crowd as Sin grunted.

The pugilist known as Lightning raised his fists in victory when Sin dropped to the ground.

Her stomach twisted in a knot tighter than a fighter’s fist when she realized that the match was officially over and Sin had, as she’d predicted, lost.

The crowd jeered and moved in tight to congratulate the victor and hurl insults at the defeated boxer. Her heart sank further when she noted that Sin remained on the ground, barely pushing himself into a seated position as Lord Holstrom stalked across Bedford Square.

St. Seville had pledged himself as Holstrom pugilist, and he’d likely had quite a bit wagered on the earl’s head. When he lost, Holstrom abandoned him, standing on the far side of the square in conversation with a group of gentlemen. The crowd quickly dissipated as those who’d lost their bets moved on, and those who’d been victorious claimed their winnings and headed off to the local alehouse or, if they were wise, home.