Page 28 of Earl of St. Seville

There was nothing particularly special or noteworthy about the exterior of the building. It blended in nicely with the neighborhood, flanked by a merchant’s shop on one side and an apothecary on the other. A tavern with several rooms for rent above sat across the street. The lane was quiet and well-maintained, thanks in part to Southlund’s House’s servants.

From this vantage point—safely outside and unable to see what the occupants were doing—Patience could nearly make herself believe that the building housed a regular, run-of-the-mill sparring facility where men—and some women—gathered to practice sporting activities of their choosing.

Fencing, archery, swordplay, and pugilism.

Yet, that was not the way of things. Men did not seek out Southlund’s House as a mere place to pursue their favored pastimes. This was not an establishment where gentlemen met their closest friends for a friendly fencing match to help keep their physique or while away their time before their evening entertainments.

No, Southlund’s House was an elite club for men—and women—who sought careers in prizefighting. This was where her mother had trained when she was still the famed Ivory Bess and where the Countess of Desmond continued to train others after she’d wed and had children. The building before Patience housed rooms where she and her siblings had met with tutors while their mother worked with bare-knuckle boxers. The sound of fists against flesh was a common background accompaniment to their lectures and lessons on geography, arithmetic, and science.

Patience wanted to laugh—so as not to break down in tears—at the thought. Their schoolroom, staffed by the best London instructors, was in the back room of a pugilist club.

“Pardon, miss.” A finely dressed gentleman stepped around her and entered Southlund’s.

When the footman manning the door glimpsed her, his smile was broad and welcoming—an old friend surprised to see someone they’d thought to never encounter again.

“Lady Patience Lane?” The man rushed out of the building, his newest arrival forgotten instantly at the sight of her. “My, you have grown, my dear girl.”

She couldn’t help the genuine smile even as her throat tightened. “Mr. Caulfield. Elias.” He was older, but the years had treated him well, with only a hint of grey around his ears and a slight thickening at his middle.

Mr. Elias, as they called him, had greeted them each time they arrived with her mother. He’d ordered them meals from the tavern kitchen across the street when they grew hungry, and her mother trained late into the evening, and he read her stories until she fell asleep when her mother worked late into the night.

“It is lovely to see you again.” Patience embraced Mr. Elias without a second thought. An adored man who’d been closer to her than any servant at Marsh Manor. “I did not think to see you here today.”

“And I cannot believe my own eyes that you are standing before me,” he replied, his stare raking her from head to toe. “How long has it been? Three, no, four years?”

“Closer to five.” Patience remembered the final time she’d spoken to Mr. Elias. It had been the afternoon of her mother’s funeral at Marsh Manor. He’d come to give his best to her family. “How is Mrs. Caulfield?”

A coy grin broke across the man’s face, making him appear the child who’d stolen the pie from the cooling window. “She is fine, fine indeed. About ready to have another babe.”

“Another?” Patience asked.

“Oh, we haven’t spoken in some time, after all.” He stood straighter, his shoulders back and his chin high. “This will be our third child so far. Two boys. Hoping for a wee girl with this babe.”

“The grandest of congratulations, Mr. Elias, from my family and me,” Patience said with a light laugh, her downcast mood from moments before melting away. “I am certain you are a superb father.”

Mr. Elias blushed, and his eyes widened. “Where are my manners? Do come in…” His words trailed off as if he realized he’d made a grave error in judgment. “Are you here to come inside, my lady?”

Patience pushed down her unease and turned to give her maid a quick wave, letting her know that all was as it should be. “Yes, Mr. Elias.”

With a bright smile and a flourish of his arm, Mr. Elias stepped back to allow her entrance. “It is our pleasure to have you return to Southlund’s House. The place has not been the same in the time since”—His voice trembled—“your family has been away.”

As if the Earl of Desmond and his children had been away on holiday and not grieving the loss of a wife and mother. It was a holiday Patience had never expected to return from.

Patience’s chest tightened as she stepped across the threshold, and Mr. Elias allowed the door to close behind them, blocking the hazy morning sun. Closing her eyes, she gave herself permission to experience the sensations of being in a place that was once so familiar to her. The good memories, as well as the bad ones, washed over her again. The pungent odor of cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, tickling her throat. The clashing of foils and cheers of support drifted from one of the sparring rooms near the back of the building.

Instead of sorrow and pain, Patience’s heart swelled to return to a place that had meant so much to her mother. It had been her mother’s sanctuary, and Patience’s second home for much of her life. The draw to return had always been strong, but easily deniable. She despised the sport that had taken her mother from her, and loving and longing for the place that had perpetuated the loss was illogical.

The logical track would have been to demand that her father close Southlund’s House, selling the property, thus forgetting it had ever been so entangled in Patience’s childhood.

“Are you only here to have a look about, or will you be sparring?”

“Actually…” She glanced sideways to gauge the man’s reaction to her next words. “I will be training a prizefighter.”

“Training? A fighter?” Mr. Elias fought to rein in his excitement. “Oh, Lady Patience, that is fine news. Since your mother, bless her soul, left us, there have not been many female fighters attending Southlund’s. And I had heard you were speaking out against the sport…”

“I was grieving my mother.” If she’d succeeded in her mission or demanded the club be shut down, Mr. Elias would have needed to seek other employment, and his family would have suffered. Not as much as Patience and her siblings, but having one’s income stripped away could devastate a man. “Has a new boxer arrived this morning?”

Part of her hoped St. Seville didn’t show up at the allotted time and place. She could return home as if none of this had happened. Forget the earl and her rash offer to assist him. What had provoked her the night before?