Page 39 of Earl of St. Seville

“There is an empty lot, next to Daniel Mendoza’s old academy.” She twisted in her seat to face the man. “Do you know the place?”

“I do, m’lady, but—”

“Wonderful.” Patience turned back to Sin, her smile returning as she settled her satchel on the seat next to her and folded her hands in her lap.

Sin nodded to the driver, and the hack pulled away from the walk and headed toward the Strand.

“May I ask after our destination?” Sin reclined in his seat, mirroring Patience’s relaxed posture, careful not to show his unease.

The breeze created by the moving coach played with Patience’s hair, pulling a few strands loose to brush across her face. Sin longed to reach forward and tuck the wayward locks behind her ear. Instead, he glanced over her shoulder as he waited for her to answer his question. He needed to remember that she’d agreed to train him and that was all. After his upcoming fight in Seven Dials, their association would come to an end. If not because his training would be complete, then because Patience would learn that he had no intention of it being his last match.

His need to not disappoint Lady Patience only went so far. Sin’s goal when coming to London was to save his people.

“Daniel Mendoza”—she paused, her eyes widening—“you have heard of him, correct?”

“Of course,” Sin grunted.

“Well, not long after my mother opened Southlund’s House, Mendoza followed suit and organized a pugilist academy of his own. He was beyond his prime at that time and used his winnings to secure the building; however, in short order, the venture became too much, and his funds ran out. The academy closed, yet the boxers continued to gather.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face before continuing. “It came to me last night, while I was assembling a new pamphlet, that your education is lacking. How many boxing matches have you witnessed?”

“Every day at Brownsea—”

“No,” she cut in, shaking her head. “I mean true pugilist matches, not reckless amateurs who think the sport an admiral pastime. How many times have you stood and watched a real prizefight, taking note of movements and strategy as two accomplished boxers faced off? Much like you did on that first day at Southlund’s, but a real match where opponents not only have wagers on the line but also their reputation.”

Sin didn’t need to ponder her question. He’d attended one match since his arrival in London—and the other two he’d been a part of: the skirmish in the alley, and his lost match at Bedford Square.

“You see, my lord, when a man is fighting for more than the prize purse of the match and survival and distinction is on the line, a base instinct is lit within the fighter that is absent during training. If you are to win your upcoming match, you must find that inner force and fire.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Lady Patience,” Sin replied. There was much more, beyond pugilism he could learn from the woman before him, and he couldn’t help but long to know all the wisdom she had yet to share with him.

“No, I have seen too many boxers enter a match and risk their lives and well-being without the necessary skills.” Her eyes met his across the open hack for the briefest of moments before she averted her stare. Sin suspected their conversation had brought to mind her mother.

For that, Sin held much regret.

Patience cleared her throat. “Let us pray that the rain holds off for at least an hour’s time.”

* * *

They stood, shoulder-to-shoulder—or at least, side by side—on the fringe of what was commonly known as Mendoza’s Yard, a cleared, empty lot with a level, hard-packed dirt surface where boxers of every skill level gathered to prove their worth. These fights were not about money or fame, but about showing skill on an even playing field. Pugilists chose their own matches with no wagers allowed. Day in and day out, as long as light gave them the ability to see, and the rain held off, men—and a few women—faced off against opponents of equal or greater skill. Fame and notoriety did not come from these matches; however, the potential of being discovered by men like Lord Holstrom was a possibility.

“This is not the hidden areas of Hyde Park or the back room of Gentleman Jackson’s, my lady,” Sin whispered close to her ear. Patience ignored the shiver that coursed through her, demanding that she not dwell on the reason behind it. Whether it was from their scandalous journey to the Strand or having Sin so close now, she did not have time to ponder.

“We are not in Mayfair any longer,” Patience responded, sending a smirk in his direction. Not that she thought Sin wasn’t accustomed to the seedier areas of London; however, the fighters who attended Mendoza’s Yard were not the gentlemen who could afford the fees to train at Southlund’s or the other notable pugilism clubs in town. “Do make me aware if anything offends your delicate sensibilities.”

The jab was meant as a jest.

The earl was puzzling indeed.

He’d worked hard for days, left Southlund’s battered and exhausted, yet he never complained as he adhered to her edicts. He listened, he learned, and he improved with each day. As the hours passed, their connection also evolved and developed, changing from two people thrown together by unfortunate circumstances to a relationship far more easy, natural…and confusing.

Yet, something… innate was lacking between them. He fought, and he fought hard, no longer relying on his brute prowess but tapping into his mental strength and cunning.

Self-preservation.

That was what was missing.

No matter the outcome of St. Seville’s upcoming match in Seven Dials—win or lose—he would not be gravely affected beyond his debt to Holstrom. He had the choice to return to Brownsea Island, his home, to find another way to secure his lands and people. Many who fought did not have that option.

If they lost, they would not eat.