Page 40 of Earl of St. Seville

If they lost, they would have no bed, no fire, and no way of finding shelter from the harsh London winter.

If they lost, so did their families.

It was the way it was for Patience’s mother, Ivory Bess, in her youth.

She had no country estate to retire to, no family or husband to see her through to the next match, and no one to count on but herself.

Even if the earl were never in such a dire situation, perhaps watching those who were, would give him the… Patience stumbled over the thought in her mind. Maybe it would give him the heart to win.

For all her mother’s determination, skill, and love of the sport during her pugilist years, it had been heart that saw her through it all.

“This way, my lord.” Patience walked forward to the edge of the yard as a pair of women, both attired in men’s breeches and nothing but shifts to cover their bosoms, stepped to the line. She did not bother to glance at the earl to view his reaction. To some, it would look a spectacle. Though it was common in the world of boxing for women, same as their male counterparts, to strip bare to the waist. “That is Constance Country and Edith Woolgrower.”

She felt his stare on her as she watched the women raise their fists.

“For a lady who claims to despise the sport, you know an awful lot about it.”

“It was my mother’s passion. I grew up with the sport surrounding me,” she sighed. “I have not always found pugilism so distasteful. Miss Country and Miss Woolgrower were pupils of my mother’s. We keep in contact, if only for me to continue my attempts to convince them both to seek other means of supporting themselves.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet. “I see.”

The softness in his tone told Patience that he did, in fact, see and understand.

For the next hour, Patience stood close to St. Seville, his tall, broad stature blocking the wind from her face as they watched match after match. Men, women, and even a set of youngsters no older than thirteen took to the yard to prove their worth, show their skill, and pray—most fruitlessly—to be recognized and whisked away from the poverty and desperation of their current lives.

If Patience had the resources to rescue them all, she would…without a second thought.

Yet, for every five she helped, another hundred would go without. And even those she helped sometimes found their way back to this cold, harsh life.

The earl didn’t question her about why they ventured to the Strand, nor did he talk endlessly as they watched the fighters.

Eventually, a warmth settled at her back, and she was startled to find his hand pressed firmly there in an almost possessive way.

A measure of comfort and safety settled around her, though Patience hadn’t needed it. Not many years ago, this had been Patience’s world. Not the startling poverty of the fighters, but the world of bare-knuckle boxing. She didn’t need a man at her side to reassure or protect her.

She was happy for it now, all the same.

Many in London society never witnessed this side of town life. The less fortunate were relegated to their boroughs, and the nobles preferred to act as if they didn’t exist as they shielded themselves from the reality of London with their drawn drapes in their fine carriages as they traveled through areas rife with hardship.

It was the same with prizefighters. Those who had demonstrated their skills and had been picked from obscurity and chosen to compete in elite matches all over London tried to forget the men and women who attended places like Mendoza’s Yard. Eventually, those great fighters fell, and another crop was plucked from places like the Strand and thrust into the light for a brief moment of fame and notoriety.

Patience shook her head in sorrow as her stomach twisted into a knot. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring St. Seville here. He’d been born into privilege, the son of a nobleman secure in his future. The importance of places like Mendoza’s Yard couldn’t have meaning and impact for a lord of St. Seville’s station.

Still, his hand lay solidly on her back, her shoulder brushing his side.

When had she tucked herself into him?

St. Seville was not the one to offer her security or even comfort. He was her pupil, and there could be nothing more between them despite the closeness that had matured between them. It was the way of things after so many hours of training. Boxers developed innate connections to those who taught them, and trainers became burdened with the need to see their pupil successfully through their matches.

A single warm droplet of rain landed on her cheek. Patience wiped it away and turned to see the menacing clouds gathering above. The storm was nearly upon them. If they did not return to Southlund’s House with haste, they would be caught in the downpour.

Stepping away, Patience glanced behind them to the hack the earl had bid wait for them. “I think it is time we go.”

No one took notice of them as they departed the yard. St. Seville’s height and formidable width drew little attention in an area such as this. Nor did Patience’s simple skirt and blouse draw undue fascination from the crowd.

Climbing aboard the hack, St. Seville took the seat next to her.

“My lord?” she asked, as if being alone with the earl, unchaperoned in the Strand, was not enough to cause a scandal, but sitting side by side would push them into dangerous territory.