Page 44 of Earl of St. Seville

Patience stoppered the bottle and slipped it between her hip and the side of the coach. Perhaps her father sheltered them all a bit too much. Valor, at twenty-five, should be concerned with wooing a wife, preparing for his place in Parliament, and securing the necessary associations in society to see himself a formidable lord—when the day came he inherited the Desmond earldom. And Merit, though four years Valor’s junior, should be making his way in London and finding a path for his future as the second son. Perhaps a commission in the Navy or investment in profitable merchant ventures to the New World.

Instead, they were more concerned with attending extravagant country parties, gambling, and drinking. At least neither had taken up with a wedded woman or courtesan, Patience reminded herself.

Merit huffed, and Valor trained his narrowed stare on her, most likely thinking to intimidate her into returning the bottle.

“Our destination is a building on Queen Street in Seven Dials,” Patience said, satisfied to see both men lose their dour expressions. “Having our wits about us is important. The match will be attended by many wealthy, titled men, but also by the thieves, panderers, and debauched drunkards who call Seven Dials home.”

Both men turned to gaze out their side windows and, not for the first time, she wondered how they could possibly be siblings. Patience had taken on her mother’s, and father’s, tendency for helping those less fortunate than them. Her brothers had embraced their station as the sons of the Earl of Desmond. There was little doubt that Valor, once he inherited the title, would join Coventry’s coven of misfit earls.

With Merit in tow, they would spend their time drinking and gambling away the fortune their father had amassed for them.

Perhaps it would be wise for Patience to find a husband, wed, and collect her dowry before her brothers found a way to flit it away. Her father would not be so naive as to not safeguard her portion of the money left to her by her mother—and what was settled upon her by the earldom.

Marriage.

Patience snorted at the notion.

Had times turned so desperate that she actually considered taking a man to husband as a necessary means to secure her future? The idea hadn’t crossed her mind, let alone taken root and become in any way appealing to her, since before her mother died—back when her future had been bright. Before the clouds of sorrow and loss had obliterated any picture of what her future could hold.

With the loss of her mother came the stark knowledge that her future would not be that of what little girls dreamed of.

Her sisters, Verity and Temperance, were the proper ladies who took after the Desmond side of their lineage, while Patience had always aligned with her mother’s family. Not that she—or any of her siblings—had ever met their mother’s kin; however, her sisters’ tendencies to go about town spending obscene amounts of coin and dressing in gowns that cost more than the sum of an entire boarding house in Seven Dials seemed misguided and foolish to Patience.

And here they were, returning to the borough Ivory Bess had called home until her twentieth birthday. Odd, that it was the same age Patience currently was. She could not so much as fathom the squalor her mother had endured until she was rescued by the young, dashing Earl of Desmond. It was the reason her father stored gin as opposed to brandy or scotch. It had been his wife’s favorite.

Perhaps that had been why Patience insisted on attending the prizefight with Sin. Not because she feared for him but because she searched for a connection to her mother that did not revolve around pain and sorrow.

Her motive was certainly not solely the Earl of St. Seville—a man as devilishly handsome as his moniker.

Win or lose, he would return home soon enough, and their brief association would be forgotten.

Though she did fervently long for him to best his opponent, even if that meant he collected the prize and held to his promise not to fight again—and his imminent departure from London. This was exactly what she wanted, so why was it unappealing now?

The carriage dipped suddenly, knocking Patience off balance and into Merit before their driver pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake.

Her trepidation at the coming fight coursed through her once again. The entertainment her brothers offered had been welcome while it lasted, but now, they’d arrived. There was no way to distract her from the coming match.

“We have arrived, my lady,” her driver called. The conveyance shifted, and the door swung open, followed by her footman setting down the steps. Due to the location of the prizefight, Patience had insisted that a footman accompany their driver. “We shall wait here for your return.”

As Patience collected her handbag, Merit and Valor departed the carriage, neither waiting to assist her down. She swallowed to keep her irritation at bay as she took the driver’s hand and stepped to the walk—nothing but a dirt walkway alongside the dilapidated, windowless building. Against the decaying wood at the bottom of the building were piles of rotten waste and what appeared to be a forgotten wool blanket.

Glancing up and down the street, Patience noticed an open door with light pooling out onto the street beyond as two men, collars raised and hands deep in their pockets slipped inside.

“This way,” she bid her two brothers, once again taking the lead. As they neared the open door, loud voices floated out on the cool night breeze: laughter, carousing, and conversation. Not unlike many of the prizefights she’d accompanied her mother to in the past. Thankfully, her blood didn’t freeze in her veins upon entering the building as it had when she arrived at the match in Bedford Square. The building was teeming with men and women from all classes, some dressed as fine London dandies, others garbed in merchant attire, and women with gowns so scanty that their bosoms threatened to fall from their tight bodices.

There was nothing like war and prizefights to bring together every class of Englishmen and women.

Patience turned to lecture her brothers about the importance of…

But they were already gone, weaving their way through the mingling crowd. Likely headed toward the makeshift bar in the corner of the room to procure themselves drinks.

In a heartbeat, they’d disappeared from view.

Patience lowered her head and pushed into the crowd when she noted two men, their eyes locked on her, moving quickly in her direction. Did they think her a woman of ill repute—a lady who preferred the entertainments of the night?

There was no blaming them, Patience mused as her eyes darted from one scandalously clad woman to the next. It was not only the prizefighters and wager takers who were working this night. Her heart ached for the women who’d been forced to find their way in life by selling their bodies.

That could have been her own mother’s fate had she not met the Earl of Desmond. There were limited means for survival for women who’d grown too old to fight—or lacked the expertise to train others.