Page 45 of Earl of St. Seville

Patience scanned the crowd as she pushed her way toward the fighting area in the middle of the large, open warehouse, though it was made difficult by her slight height. There were several men she recognized from around London—the young, handsome Duke of Chastain, the aging father of Lady Haversham, as well as Lord and Lady Maddox.

How had Holstrom managed to gather so many of London’s upper crust in such a dubious location?

Still, she did not see Sin or Lord Holstrom as she reached the edge of the pugilist area. For a brief moment, she feared Sin hadn’t received her note and still awaited her arrival at the Albany, but a feverish applause rang out as the entire room erupted in cheers. From the far side of the room, the fighters, Sin and Parsons, entered the warehouse, both already stripped to the waist. Holstrom was not looking to bolster wagers—there would be no delaying the prizefight while men scrambled about the room cataloging and collecting coins.

If she had to guess, Holstrom and his ilk had been collecting wagers in far more wealthy locales. Bets had been placed long before the beau monde departed their fine London townhomes and elegantly adorned clubs, for the seedy, licentious West End.

Patience gave a quick wave to Sin as he strode toward the gathered crowd, pushing and shoving to gain a better view of the match to come, but his narrowed, pensive glare never landed on her—or anything, as much as she could tell. His mouth remained pressed into a firm line as he ignored the comments from his opponent. Sin stood close to Parsons, and his shoulders were equally as broad, as their shadows, cast from the light behind the fighters, stretched all the way to the toe of Patience’s half boots. His hair was tied back securely with a length of twine, and the stubble that had dusted his face the day before had doubled in length overnight.

Sin appeared fierce…the dark circles under his eyes only adding to his intimidating nature. Even his busted lip made him look rugged and brutal, though he’d gotten the injury at a fight he’d lost.

The clamor of hushed whispers behind her said the crowd was having the same reaction to Sin as she.

In a striking correlation, Parsons stood at Sin’s left, taller than Sin with muscles straining at taut skin. Two Corinthians facing off in a bare-knuckle match was certain to lessen the impact of all she’d taught Sin.

Muscle and sheer size would mean nothing in this ring as they each possessed an overabundance of both. A fighter worth their weight in gold needed cunning and agility.

Despite his opponent’s size, confidence radiated from Sin—the same unbridled brashness that had led to him lose against Povolti.

While she was infused with an alarming amount of dread.

Yet, Parsons stood with similar self-assurance as Lord Holstrom strode into the open area and raised his arms, signaling for silence.

“Gentlemen, ladies…and”—Holstrom paused, holding his hand to his forehead as if blocking out the bright rays of the sun—“my good countrymen!”

It was all the crowd needed to break into another round of cheers and jeers.

Patience spotted her brothers, ale tankards in hands, howling from about twenty paces to her left. They’d also pushed their way to the front of the gathering. Did they not have the same sick feeling rolling through their stomachs at the very thought of the upcoming match?

Valor and Merit were older than she…they’d had more years with their mother, and yet they’d so seamlessly—almost effortlessly—moved past her loss.

Everything within Patience was in turmoil. Her stomach tightened at the same time the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end with excitement. Her palms grew clammy at the same time her heart pounded with anticipation. Excitement and anticipation. The two overwhelming sensations that’d coursed through her when she and her mother had waited at the side of the ring as the pugilists took their places and prepared for the match—just as Sin and Parsons did now.

Sin, all toned, defined muscle.

Parsons, boiling with unspent endurance.

During her years in the schoolroom, Patience had snuck from her studies to watch the fighters, marveling at their discipline.

In that moment, she could only think of the repercussions when their time in the ring ended. Everything was on the line for Sin. Losing would mean he was further indebted to Holstrom. Winning would mean… What would it mean beyond proving that Patience’s short training sessions had helped and that Sin could make his way as a pugilist?

Holstrom made a show of announcing the featured fighters and listing the rules of the match…the Broughton Rules. They were the same guidelines all prizefights had followed for nearly eighty years, another fact she’d learned during her time at Southlund’s House. The fight would continue for as many rounds as necessary until one of the fighters was unable to stand or return to the scratch line. Thirty seconds of rest between rounds. Each round would end when one of the fighters went down or took a knee.

There was no limit to the number of rounds to be fought, and the match could last for hours. It was endurance Patience feared Sin lacked.

Though his strength—paired with the defensive maneuvers she’d taught him—would hopefully see the prizefight ended before the midnight church bells tolled. If the men were lucky, they’d both leave Seven Dials with only superficial wounds to their faces, bruises on their torsos, and aching hands.

Worst case, Patience would need her brothers’ help to get Sin to her carriage—his face a bloodied mess or his hands broken.

She refused to think of any graver injury befalling Sin. It was not an uncommon occurrence for fighters to severely injure their fists. Perhaps it was far more widespread than the undetectable damage done to a boxer’s mind from the impact of continual blows to the head.

Patience closed her eyes and took a deep, labored inhale, holding the air in her lungs until they burned. He’d promised one more fight…to gain his freedom from Holstrom. Then she’d never have to worry about her mother’s fate becoming Sin’s. She could see this through and be there for him after it was over. She understood his desperate need to help his family. She could only imagine the great lengths she’d go to if one of her siblings or her father were in peril.

Perhaps it would be best for her to slip from the warehouse and await the end of the match in her carriage. There was no doubt she could—and would—handle the aftermath of the prizefight. She was adequate at caring for injured pugilists. There was a mindset that propelled her, as it had her mother, during those moments after a match ended.

Now would be no different…win or lose.

Or perhaps it was different…entirely, completely, utterly different.