Page 6 of Earl of St. Seville

Oddly still, while he didn’t appear scared that he’d been discovered, he was nervous and uneasy. She saw it in the way he took quick, shallow breaths and how he leaned forward, tightening his grip on the windowsill, turning his knuckles white.

Patience wasn’t as frightened as she should be, though, again, common sense told her that she would be wise to flee the room and seek out the butler—or sound the alarm to wake her father. However, something held her in place and kept her mouth shut as she watched him. Pushing his hair back from his face, he leaned back in and turned to face her.

His hair, sun-kissed—that peculiar color between brown and blond—was long and hanging free like that of a man better suited for the high seas as opposed to civilized London society. On any other man, it would have appeared unkempt, and Patience would have recommended a cut; however, on this man, it would be a sin to do away with his long, shiny locks. Hair such as his certainly guaranteed envious looks from every female who passed.

The stranger moved with such swiftness that Patience hadn’t a moment to speak before he snatched his soiled, blood-stained shirt and crawled out the window.

She’d been ever so taken by the broadness of his shoulders, the glossiness of his hair, and the expanse of muscle across his bare chest and back that she’d allowed him to escape.

Escape? That wasn’t the correct word at all.

Patience hurried across the room and tilted forward out the window. He’d likely misjudged the distance to the ground and was now lying stuck, or worse, injured in the overgrown rosebushes. However, there was no one below. Placing her hands firmly on the window ledge, Patience stood on tiptoes and leaned farther out, looking from side to side down the wall of their townhouse. She spotted the man where he balanced himself on a small strip of wood above the parlor window below. As she stared, he leapt over the tangled, thorny bushes and landed in a crouch on the lawn before looking around and taking off in a sprint toward the drive that led to the front of Marsh Manor.

Not once did he glance over his shoulder—or up at her above.

There was no reason that should hurt her, but it did.

Who was the man, and what had he been doing in Merit’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?

Just as quickly as she’d found him, he disappeared.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Patience swung away from the window in time to see her father and their family physician, Dr. Durpentine, enter the room. The tall, thin man wore round glasses that were forever slipping down his nose as he worked. Patience knew the doctor better than most of the ton she was acquainted with as he’d been the sole physician who cared for her mother during her final years as the headaches increased and the memory loss and confusion set in.

“Lady Patience,” the physician greeted, his sleep-tousled hair the only indication that he’d been deep in slumber before being summoned to Marsh Manor. “I did not expect to see you on this trip.”

“Good da—evening, doctor.” Patience crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed. “Father.”

Her father turned sharply toward her. “Sweet pea? What in heavens are you doing awake at this time of night?”

Could it be that he hadn’t noticed her when he entered the room behind the physician? She was well aware of his distracted nature over the last several years—truly, since they’d lost her mother—however, this was extreme, even for him. Perhaps Patience should speak with Dr. Durpentine about the situation.

“I heard a noise, and it startled me awake,” Patience explained. “I thought mayhap Merit and Valor had returned home earlier than expected. Who was that man, Father?”

She tried to keep her words unbothered and light, as if the man didn’t actually interest her beyond knowing who was responsible for disturbing her rest. Her father knew better than to believe her disinterest as his mouth pressed into a firm line and he silently debated whether or not to give her any information. She’d seen the look all her life. When her mother began to worsen, he’d anguished over how much to tell his children. Each time she asked him how it had gone distributing her pamphlets, he wrestled with how to answer. When she’d asked why no gentlemen ever asked her to dance during her final Season, he’d silently deliberated how to respond. Patience was always saddened to be the cause of his constant inner turmoil, yet she couldn’t help but love him all the most for his fierce protectiveness.

Finally, he sighed. “On my way back from Delforte’s Hell”—he never shied away from naming the establishments he visited with her pamphlets—“I happened upon a scuffle in an alley. The man…what happened to him, by the way?”

“He leapt out the window.” Patience gestured toward the open bank of windows at her back. “Crawled down the side of the house and fled.”

“Oh, interesting.” The earl shook his head. “Well, I happened upon him and another man, a true n’er-do-well, in an alley. It appeared the thief had set upon him, and I stepped in to assist. Brought him here so Dr. Durpentine could see to his injuries.”

The physician chuckled, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “It appears I am no longer needed.”

Her father clapped the man on his back with a laugh. “Appears not. I’m confident he’ll find a way back to the Albany. We can’t help those who do not want our help, now can we?”

“We cannot, my lord.”

“Please close the window and run along back to bed, sweet pea.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and ushered the doctor from the room. “May I offer you a drink for your troubles?”

Patience stared at her father’s retreating back as he and the physician crossed the threshold and their footsteps retreated to the stairs.

Nothing about her father’s detached attitude shocked or concerned her—it was his way of things. However, bringing a stranger—a man, no less—into their home in the middle of the night was very concerning.

Belatedly, she realized she’d forgotten to ask her father for the man’s name.

Chapter 2

Sinclair—Sin—Chambers, the sixth Earl of St. Seville, pushed through the door of the Albany without waiting for the footman and took the three steps down to the walk below as he stared up at the clouded sky above. Bloody hell but his head ached. His lip and nose had swollen during the early hours of the morning, as well. He should have stayed abed for a few more hours. Yet, lying about nursing his cuts and bruises was not a luxury he could afford. At least not if his wounds were little more than a busted lip and a crooked nose. His injuries notwithstanding, Sin had an appointment with Coventry at nine o’clock sharp—and he was much looking forward to speaking with the rascal, especially after last night.