Earl 0f St. Seville (Wicked Earls' Club Book 11)

by Christina McKnight

  Lord Holstrom stood, signaling that their meeting was over—much as Coventry had done.

  Behind Sin, the door opened, and a footman waited to escort him out.

  “I think it best you do not remain for the soirée.” He cleared his throat and gestured toward the door. “My dear wife does not take kindly to mixing business with pleasure.”

  Sin hadn’t planned to attend, only find Coventry and leave; however, the man’s curt dismissal had Sin disliking the lord even more. He needed to remember that Holstrom was his only connection thus far. In time, he would not be beholden to the rascal, but until that day came, he needed to play nice and follow Holstrom’s rules.

  His estate’s future hung in the balance.

  Chapter 5

  Patience leaned forward, pulling the drapes aside to peer out the carriage window once again. The cold evening air pushed into the interior and sent a shiver through her as she watched the building. Gentlemen—and servants—came and went at an alarming rate, yet the one she sought still had not presented himself. As the time passed, Patience worried that the Earl of St. Seville would never leave his accommodations at the Albany.

  Night would fall upon London within the hour, and Patience needs must return to Marsh Manor or risk her father finding out about her unchaperoned excursion. Eventually, he would discover her trip to the Albany, but Patience had always been the type to act first and ask for forgiveness later. Much as she’d had to do when her father had confronted her about bringing the pamphlets to the Holstrom soirée.

  This would be yet another occurrence her father would be angry about, but he would certainly pardon her within a few days.

  This was her second evening stationed outside the Albany while her father took his nightly meal at his club.

  “We should be heading back, my lady,” her driver called from his perch.

  “Not yet,” Patience hissed into the growing dusk. “Ten more minutes, please.”

  She was uncertain if she’d see St. Seville coming or going at all. Perhaps he’d moved accommodations or departed London altogether.

  The urge to thank him once more for his chivalry hadn’t left her since he escorted her back to the ballroom two nights prior. She’d gone so far as to remain close to the doors in hopes of speaking with him after his meeting with Holstrom but he hadn’t returned to the soirée, and Patience had been relegated to spending hours hidden in her carriage outside his lodgings.

  It would be a lie to say that she was only here to thank him again.

  Damnation. She wanted to know if he’d given the pamphlet to Holstrom, and if he’d read it.

  She knew there were rumors swirling about an upcoming prizefight with a purse of ten thousand shillings. It was a fortune for many pugilists, such as her mother who’d grown up without much to her name. For Ivory Bess when she was Patience’s age, it would have been the difference between being able to rent a room in a decent lodging house and having food for a year or being homeless and starving. She winced at the reminder of her mother’s difficult past. She’d suffered hardships Patience and her siblings would never truly understand.

  Men would continue to fight if lords with deep pockets, those such as Holstrom, organized and funded the matches.

  She gained a bit of hope when St. Seville had championed her before Holstrom. Especially after years of being ignored and labeled a nagging, bothersome, disagreeable, and willful hoyden. But St. Seville apparently saw her in a different light. She could tell by the way he actually listened to her and didn’t cast off her words as nonsense. Because of this, Patience had a renewed sense of purpose. She’d even spent the entire day creating a new cautionary piece about pugilism. With any luck, she would have it printed in the London Daily Gazette. How could they deny her? The Gazette happily posted weekly columns that did nothing but bring ruination upon members of the ton. Certainly, they would not refuse to circulate information that could save lives as opposed to ruining them.

  The nightly lamplighter sauntered by her carriage, carrying his long rod and pack, continuing down the walk in preparation of his evening duties. It was the same as the previous evening, and Patience knew that, soon, the night watchman would amble past on his way to the alehouse down the road.

  Predictable.

  Much in life was predictable, never changing—like the lamplighter and the watchman.

  Patience sighed, propping her elbow on the window ledge and catching sight of another man leaving the Albany—too short, too round with hair that could only be described as thinning.

  Her sisters had entered society, made successful matches, and were starting families. Her brothers were embroiled in what society called the age of sowing their wild oats before they eventually settled on proper wives and started their own families.

  Predictable.

  What no one had predicted was the hardship and loss Patience would suffer—along with her father—when her mother’s ailments finally brought her life to an abrupt end. Five years later, and it was as if it had happened only yesterday. One day, her mother, while sometimes forgetful and prone to clumsiness, was there; and the next…she was gone.

  “That is him, my lady!” Her driver thumped on the top of the carriage, pulling Patience from her melancholy. “Over there.”

  Patience leaned out the window but could not see where the driver was pointing.

  Just as she feared, all her time had been wasted, and she’d missed his departure from the Albany. But Patience spied St. Seville when he paused to greet the lamplighter.

  “My lord!” she called, but only succeeded in garnering the notice of five other gentlemen within hearing distance. She bit her lip, unsure what to do. She’d promised her driver that she would remain in the carriage at all times, but if the earl disappeared down the block or waved down a hackney, Patience would lose sight of him quickly. “St. Seville!”

  The lord turned sharply and searched the street as if he weren’t certain that someone had actually called him.

  Patience waved again, and his eyes landed on her, his brow pulling low as he lifted his collar and strode toward her carriage.

  “Lady Patience,” he said as she leaned back into the window and pushed the door open. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  He halted several feet from the door and surveyed the interior of the coach.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Do get in, my lord, before someone notices me,” Patience cautioned. Instead of entering the carriage, he looked up to where her driver was perched. “I am letting all the warm air out.”

  Patience sat back with a huff and tapped her boot on the floor. Why was he being difficult?

  Finally, he stepped up into the carriage and took the seat across from her—and she marveled at him once more. The interior of the carriage shrank with his bulky frame taking up the entire seat across from her. Normally, the bench fit both of her brothers or Patience and her two sisters…comfortably.

  St. Seville’s massive width left no room for anyone else on his side.

  Coincidently, due to the close quarters, she could see that his lip was healing nicely and would likely not leave so much as a tiny scar when fully mended.

  A flutter in her stomach, the type she felt when she rode in a carriage going a bit too fast or while riding a horse that was slightly untamed, had her shoulders tightening with tension. Anticipation or apprehension? It was like in the hallway outside Holstrom’s study but magnified a thousand times. He was so close she felt his heat.

  If she dared, would she be so bold as to reach forward and run her gloved fingers along his healing lip? Perhaps remove her glove to place her bare fingertips against the stumble on his jaw? Would the hairs be coarse like that of a horse’s mane, or soft and glossy like Patience’s own tresses?

  “Lady Patience, please tell me your father does not approve of you loitering outside a gentlemen’s lodging house.” His gruff tone rankled her. “This is highly improper and could jeopardize both our reputations.”


  Another man thinking every woman lived only to preserve her character. Had she misjudged him? There was much more to life than living as dictated—an unlimited number of experiences women of the ton went without due to propensity and decorum. There was freedom to be obtained when a woman cast aside all that was expected of her and embraced her passions. Her mother had stayed true to her heart, and Patience would endeavor to do the same. But how, exactly, was Patience to explain that to St. Seville?

  “I came to thank you once more.”

  “That is not necessary,” St. Seville said with a firm shake of his head. “It is what any gentleman would do in those circumstances.”

  No man, besides her father, had ever spoken up in her defense. St. Seville could argue the point, but he’d never lived in Patience’s place, and he did not know the mean-spirited nature of London gentlemen.

  “Be that as it may, I am very grateful, my lord.” Patience hadn’t come to argue over some trivial notion of what counted as gentlemanly conduct.

  “How did you know to find me here?” he asked, his voice softening, though he still sat stiffly across from her, his shoulders tense.

  “I overhead my father speaking with the physician the other night,” she said with a shrug, attempting to hide her embarrassment over the fact that she’d listened as intently as she had to any morsel of information about him. Since that night, her father hadn’t so much as mentioned St. Seville.

  Crossing his arms, the earl reclined slightly. “Is that all you needed to say?”

  Patience’s stare drifted to the drape blocking her view of the business London street beyond. Did she dare voice what she’d truly come to ask? Would he think she’d used him for her own benefit? None of that mattered overly. Patience longed to know if Lord Holstrom had considered her pamphlet at all. What St. Seville thought of her was irrelevant and would do nothing to champion her cause.

  It would be wise for her to keep that in the forefront of her mind; spending her time wondering what this gentleman thought of her was a waste.

  “You want to know if I gave Holstrom the paper.” It was as if he’d read her mind.

  Her eyes snapped back to his, but she tried to cover her interest in the topic. “I had wondered.” Patience would not betray her eagerness to know what had happened to the paper for it would cast a bright light on her own needs.

  “Holstrom made it very clear how he felt about you and your meddling”—He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to protest—“his words, not mine. I think we both know I do not share the same views as Lord Holstrom. However, I regret to inform you that I did not pass the paperon to him. He would have tossed it in the rubbish bin as quickly as he took hold of it.”

  Patience deflated, her confidence seeping from her. “I commend your honesty, my lord.”

  “However,” he continued, giving Patience pause. “I read the pamphlet. The Trials and Hardships of Caring for Aging Pugilists.”

  He quoted the pamphlet’s title perfectly. There was no hiding her utter shock as her eyes widened, and her pulse raced.

  “I found the information very informative and thought-provoking.”

  Patience slumped back into her seat. “Unfortunately, the men that most need the pamphlet and knowledge refuse to listen.”

  It was her luck that someone had actually taken her work seriously, only to be someone not in jeopardy.

  “Why do you spend your time trying to help those who do not want your assistance?” he asked.

  He didn’t mean it as an offense, Patience could tell. St. Seville was genuinely interested in her reasoning. Could it be that there was someone among the ton who was unfamiliar with her lineage and past?

  “My mother—the once notorious Ivory Bess—died from the injuries I write about in my pamphlets,” Patience whispered, lowering her stare to her gloved hands, clenched tightly in her lap. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his stare, for fear he’d be like so many others. Many in the ton lacked a certain amount of empathy. “The physician treated her for years. It started with almost imperceptible things like forgetfulness and being overly clumsy, but progressed quickly to complete loss of large pieces of memory and an inability to use her arms and legs.”

  He seemed to listen and truly think about each word she said, which pushed her to continue. It had been years since she’d spoken so candidly about her mother to anyone besides her father. The many times she’d lamented to others had been met with scorn or outright dismissal.

  But not St. Seville.

  “She passed not long after my fifteenth birthday.” Patience breathed in deeply to stop the sob that threatened to escape. She would not cry in front of the earl. She could not bear losing the tight grip on her control. There was only one thing left to say on the matter, and then she could tell him farewell and allow the tears to come when she was alone. “The doctor believes, as do my family and I, that her ailment was caused by her years as a pugilist before she wed my father.”

  It was hard to believe her mother’s fate had been sealed long before she met her husband, wed, and started a family. Ivory Bess was destined to die before any of her children reached the age of majority. It wounded Patience deeply that so many others would see the same fate if they did nothing to protect themselves against it.

  His hand landed on hers, squeezing gently, and she brought her gaze back to him.

  Patience wiped at her cheeks, mortified by the dampness she brushed away. “I have not spoken of this to anyone but my family.”

  He leaned forward until only mere inches separated them, his interest in her—in her past—so intense it pulled them closer in the confined space.

  “I am so sorry you lost your mother,” he breathed, and sorrow permeated the interior of the carriage. “I cannot imagine how difficult it was for you and your family. That burden is a heavy one to bear.”

  For some odd reason, Patience suspected he knew exactly what it was like following the death of a loved one, especially one as close as a mother. She wanted to inquire about the depth of his loss but did not dare. They were little more than strangers. True, she had seen him in a most indecent manner in Merit’s bedchamber, and he’d stood up for her when no one else would. When he’d grasped her elbow to stop her from falling at Holstrom’s ball, it was as if his touch were as familiar as that of any loved one. And then, he’d comforted her only a few moments before as if they’d sat just so and discussed the hardships of life on a thousand different occasions.

  Perhaps Patience was the silly girl Lord Holstrom accused her of being.

  She blinked several times to keep additional tears from pooling in her eyes. “Again, my lord, you are too kind.”

  The warmth from his continued touch could be felt through her glove, and even though it was foolish to admit such, it was welcomed. Several years ago, those around her had stopped offering the comfort Patience sometimes needed, the reassurance that her feelings—heartbreak, sorrow, and even anger—were justified.

  She brushed at her cheek, unsurprised to find another wayward tear had slipped down her face. “My apologies, my lord, it is only that I am very passionate about educating others about my mother’s fate. I know it is silly to allow my temper to flare when others don’t heed my advice. I am working on that.”

  Patience let out a light laugh, but it was piercing and hollow even to her own ears.

  St. Seville had fallen silent, his hand leaving hers as he pushed back onto his bench. Not often did someone listen to her—truly hear her—without voicing his or her own opinion and objections to her plight. Her siblings routinely reminded her of her peculiarity. Her father reprimanded her for nearly every infraction, yet at the same time, ignored her for days at a time. And that was not even considering the responses from men such as Holstrom. She’d begun to think, though she was loath to admit it, that she was making no difference, her tales of caution falling on deaf ears.

  “Nonetheless, I thank you and will not keep you any longer.” The words rushed out of her
mouth. She was close to falling apart, and she would be damned if she embarrassed herself further in front of the earl. The ache in her chest intensified as it always did when grief was close to overtaking her. “I will not keep you from your evening.”

  He moved toward the door, and Patience could only imagine his need to depart the carriage and be away from her.

  Halting, his hand on the latch, he offered, “I am meeting with someone, and it would be impolite to be late. However, I should see you—”

  “Then you should be on your way with all due haste, my lord.” Patience knew he was going to offer to see her home, but she could not be the cause of his tardiness.

  “I suppose I could…”

  “Do not even ponder that idea,” Patience said with a hesitant smile. “My driver will take me home safely, just as he brought me here. There is no need to worry over me. Your friend—” She stumbled over the word, for the first time thinking he might be on his way to see a woman. Why did that fill her with dread? And make her stomach harden with…envy? Certainly, Patience should not feel a spike of jealously over a man who was nearly a stranger to her. She’d come to the Albany to thank him, not entangle herself in his life. “Your acquaintance will not be pleased if you are late.”

  “The Earl of Coventry is not one to be kept waiting,” he readily agreed.

  The Earl of Coventry. Not a woman, after all.

  Patience’s relief was short-lived when the street lamp outside was lit, and the new glow glinted off the golden W pinned to St. Seville’s lapel. The pieces fell into place, and Patience felt foolish that she hadn’t suspected the connection before now.

  “You have taken up with the Wicked Earls’ Club, then?” Her tone was stilted, and any trace of warmth for St. Seville vanished when she dragged her glare away from the golden pin to search his face for deception. “I suppose I should have known.”