Page 43 of Earl of St. Seville

“Time to go, gentlemen.” Coventry dabbed at the corners of his mouth before laying the cloth on his empty plate. “If Sin is tardy, he will certainly have little chance of besting Parsons.”

“Better than no chance, I suppose,” Davenport said, following Coventry from his seat. “Has anyone seen Grayson of late?”

Sin trailed Coventry away from the table, uninterested in Harrington’s answer. Another man Sin had never heard of nor cared about; though no doubt a lord with problems as grand as Sin’s troubles. Was that what connected all these men more securely than their station as earls?

He tapped his foot in anticipation as they waited for their jackets. Never would Lady Patience bore him with talk of people he was unfamiliar with. They had trained for nearly five hours the previous day, and not once had they broached a subject not to Sin’s liking. Every moment, he was enthralled with either her words or the way her trim body executed moves his larger frame could not manage.

Neither did she deem his financial problems as anything unsolvable.

Lady Patience Lane had faith in him, Sinclair Chambers, the Earl of St. Seville.

Perhaps more faith than anyone he’d yet to meet. Even his mother had been leery of his decision to travel to London. But this woman did more than just believe in him, she gave him a new sense of hope—or at least, the belief that it was possible to rectify his problems.

“Let us be off.” Coventry clapped Sin on the back, startling him. “Do not mind Harrington and Davenport, they run the odds in every wager. Pays off most days. But this time, I suspect they shall suffer a loss.”

“That would make two people who have faith in my abilities,” Sin mumbled.

“I do hope we aren’t made to look the fool.” Coventry started for the door, and Sin realized the earl thought Sin had been talking about himself.

Sin might be an utter fool; however, Lady Patience had proven herself to be anything but.

Chapter 14

Lady Patience held a rose-scented kerchief to her nose as they rode deeper and deeper into the West End past Covent Gardens, the aromas of the muck-filled streets invading the carriage. The sun had set several hours before, and the deserted pathways were only infrequently invaded by a lone figure on foot or horseback. How the men and women here survived in such a harrowing, violent area, Patience was uncertain.

Thankfully, the match had been set up in Seven Dials as opposed to St. Giles, where rumors circulated that gang violence had increased tenfold since autumn. It made little sense to Patience that a mere handful of blocks could make such a difference. What made territory in St. Giles worth clashing over, while Seven Dials was left miserable and contemptible? The rookeries—Whitechapel, St. Giles, and Seven Dials—were not places for any respectable woman; however, Patience would not forsake Sin.

She pulled the drape back a mere inch to peek out at the hazy, dark night to see few lights burning in the windows as they traveled down a pothole-ridden dirt alley. The hardships of the people who sought the rookeries as their home was no secret to Patience. They were her countrymen, though they hailed from many parts of the world. A plan formulated as she allowed the drape to fall back into place. Perhaps her pamphlets would be better received and understood if there were more illustrations to help those who were not adequately educated. How had she not thought of this before now?

“Are you certain we are going in the correct direction?” Merit shifted on the bench next to her. “The smell is horrendous, and my back is aching from the jostling.”

“I did not force you to accompany me,” Patience retorted.

Valor extended his legs into Patience’s sparse space and crossed his ankles. “I hadn’t any plans for this evening anyways, though I would be put in a dour mood, indeed, if I were to be pinched while in such an unsavory area.”

“Father would replace your coins,” Merit chuckled. “Though he could not restore your mettle.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Valor kicked at Merit, blessedly giving Patience room for her half boots once again.

Oftentimes, Patience was hard-pressed to believe that Valor was the eldest sibling, especially when he allowed Merit to tease him to anger so easily.

“Do be quiet.” Patience rubbed her temples. “The pair of you is giving me a headache. I am as anxious as you to arrive, for then I will have the freedom to be away from you two.”

“And I thought Merit most resembled Father.” It was Valor’s turn to prod Merit to irritation.

“I can see why you returned to London so quickly.” Patience dropped her hands back to her lap, knowing that no amount of massaging would relieve the tension in her head. It wasn’t only her brothers’ bickering that caused the ache, but the thought of Sin facing another opponent when he wasn’t ready. A handful of lessons was not enough to learn what took years to master. Even she had dedicated years to gaining the skill she possessed, and many fighters spent decades training. How could Sin compare after only a few days? Part of her feared she was sending him into a losing battle. “You likely went on like schoolboys at the country party, and the host ended the gathering early just to be away from the pair of you.”

Merit stiffened next to her even though he shook his head at her words.

“Where, exactly, are we going?” Valor pulled a flat, tall bottle from his inside jacket pocket, twisted off the cap, and took a long sip before handing it across the space to Merit. “You have been awfully secretive about all of this.”

Patience ignored his question and grabbed for the bottle, snatching it before Merit could. Bringing it to her nose, she sniffed, immediately regretting her decision. The vile odor of spirits invaded her senses, bringing a sudden and punishing sting to her nose.

“Is this”—She took another much smaller sniff of the bottle—“gin?”

Valor sat up straight, his shoulders thrown back. “It is none of your concern what we, proper gentlemen of the ton, take as our libation.”

“Besides, Father won’t miss one bottle of gin,” Merit said, his words more hopeful than his tone. “If we decide to partake in spirits, it is our business.”