Earl of St. Seville
Wicked Earls’ Club (Book 11)
Christina McKnight
La Loma Elite Publishing
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Christina McKnight
Cover Design by Sweet n’ Spicy Designs
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-30-5 (Paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-29-9 (Electronic Book)
La Loma Elite Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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Dedication
For my sister.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
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Excerpt: Earl of Harrington
Prologue
Chapter 1
Also by Christina McKnight
About Christina McKnight
Acknowledgments
Prologue
January 1822
London, England
James Lane, the Earl of Desmond, strolled down the darkened lane bordering Covent Garden without benefit of the gaslights that were commonplace in the more civilized areas of London. Pall Mall, Oxford Street, Bond Street, and even Savile Row in Mayfair. The earl pulled at the lapel of his coat to keep the crisp evening air from sending wave after wave of shivers through him. He wasn’t as young as he’d once been, nor was he as strong or confident as the young lord who’d claimed the love of Ivory Bess not far from this very spot.
The clip of horses’ hooves sounded behind Desmond, reminding him that losing focus and letting his guard down in such a neighborhood—and so late into the night—could mean his death. He glanced over his shoulder. No one followed as he hurried toward his carriage, halted at the end of the street—only four dark and abandoned buildings away—his driver idly passing the time huddled in his thick, wool coat on his perch where Desmond had left him two hours prior. His footman kept watch near the boot of the carriage.
Despite his advanced age and the frigid January weather, the earl continued to visit London’s more dubious neighborhoods.
Even with the love of his life taken from him five years ago, Desmond came. There was a day when he’d thought his life ended with her. His countess, the mother of his children, the love of his life was gone from him. However, Ivory “Bess” Lane, the Countess of Desmond, his wife and soul mate, had left a piece of herself in each of their children, Patience especially.
It was for his youngest daughter, Lady Patience Lane, that Desmond risked his safety night after night when he journeyed round London, entering various gaming hells and taverns.
If it weren’t for Patience, Desmond would have retired to his country estate in Somerset to live out his days surrounded by things that reminded him of his Ivory—their many good years together before the trials of her youth came back to haunt her.
Yet, retiring to a life of solitude in the English countryside was not to be…
“More’s the pity,” he mumbled into the night.
Desmond would have his time to grieve once all his daughters were happily wed. His sons would find their own way, just as Desmond had after he left University.
Two down, and only Patience left unattached—sadly with no prospects on the horizon.
Shoving his gloved hands deep into his greatcoat pockets, his fingers wrapped around the newly printed pamphlets he’d come to Covent Gardens to distribute. He knew it was a lost cause, but it meant something to Patience.
Ironically, distributing Patience’s precisely crafted pamphlets also decreased her chances of finding a suitable match even more.
The men—and many women—who gained their living stripped down to the waist with their bare knuckles raised and poised to fight were not interested in learning about the risks of their pugilist pursuits. Damnation, many of them couldn’t so much as read the pamphlets Patience painstakingly created. They were not interested in the injuries and damage caused by repeated blows to the head and torso; they were more concerned with earning the coin to pay for food and shelter. A livelihood for themselves and their families.
Many in London had no other means but what could be gained by using their brute strength, sure fists, and light feet.
Be that as it may, he continued to indulge Patience. He’d never tell her that her hard work littered the floors of gaming hells as men readily discarded the papers as rubbish, or was used to wipe down grimy windows. She never journeyed to any of the hells and taverns and so never knew the fate of her pamphlets.
Desmond had slowed as he allowed his mind to wander.
Another sign he had become overly lax during his nighttime trips across London.
Keeping his eyes on his driver perched on the seat of his waiting coach, Desmond increased his pace, ready to escape to the solitude of his study.
With only two buildings separating him from that fate, the earl passed an alley littered with debris and spoiled table scraps—where two men could be seen embroiled in a scuffle.
He ought to avert his gaze and keep walking.
What transpired in the dark lane between two grown men was none of his business and could lead to Desmond being injured or even killed. It would do his children little good if he got himself stabbed for interfering in something that was not his concern.
Yet, he stared into the alley as the men tussled, knocking one another to the ground.
Haphazardly hung fabric in the windows of the tenements were pulled back as the people living above the alley stared down at the spectacle, the candlelight from their open windows casting a glow around the two men. Twenty years ago—perhaps as few as ten—Desmond wouldn’t have hesitated to separate the two men before anyone was grievously injured.
But now, he had less time to live—and so much more he needed to see done before he left this life.
Another tenant in the building above pulled back what appeared to be undergarments strung on a line for drying, sending more muted light through the grimy windowpane and directly down on the skirmish below.
One of the men was outfitted as most were in the Covent Garden district: loose trousers and a long, hole-ridden tunic with shoes years past needing mending by a cobbler. However, the other opponent could not be mistaken for anything but gentry, if not a lord like Desmond. As the fighters regained their footing, the earl noticed that the nobleman’s sheer size nearly filled the alley from stone wall to stone wall, his height as impressive as his stature. His hair, hanging past his shoulders in golden brown waves, was the only hint that mayhap he was not among London’s elite ton, for what man—except highwaymen and pirates—allowed his hair to fall down his back at such a length? For a brief second, the light reflected off highly polished Hessians as the massive Corinthian sidestepped a fist, causing the smaller man
to list forward and slam into the stone wall as his balance fled him.
“Come ‘ere, ya toff,” the man called, turning away from the building and raising his fists in preparation for another assault.
Desmond wasn’t certain how the finely dressed man had wandered down this particular street, but a thief had obviously set upon him. Perhaps he’d been visiting one of the various gaming hells situated several streets over.
The ruffian threw another jab, catching the larger man in the mouth.
The gentleman needed assistance. Despite Desmond’s age and frailty, he was the man’s only option this far into the alley, no longer in view of Desmond’s carriage and driver. If the earl screamed for help, would his driver come running? Desmond would never forgive himself if injury came to his servant as a direct result of his call for help.
Glancing around, Desmond spotted a long, wooden handle, likely discarded when the hammer portion broke from the end, making the tool useless except as fire kindling.
It would do the job needing done. He only needed to create enough of a distraction for the gentleman—and himself—to escape the alley and flee to the waiting coach.
Desmond took hold of the wooden rod and advanced farther into the dim alley as the ruffian, his trousers as threadbare as his tunic, swiftly jabbed his fist, pummeling the other man in the chest. The fighters shuffled their feet, clench fists raised as they hopped in a tight circle, each looking for another opportunity to strike out at the other.
It was a scene Desmond was all too familiar with.
The exact occurrence that Patience’s painstakingly crafted pamphlets hoped to discourage.
Desmond inched closer and bided his time. He waited for the men to move so that he could club the lout with enough force to halt the attack. If Desmond struck at the correct time, he and the other gentleman could depart the alley without further confrontation.
Finally, the moment presented itself, and Desmond swung the thick stick with enough force to nick the man’s shoulder and send him reeling to the muck-strewn dirt.
The Corinthian paused, his eyes darting to Desmond and back to his assailant as he moved to regain his feet.
“I think it best we leave,” Desmond called, discarding the club against the alley wall out of reach of the ruffian, the sound echoing in the alley. “Let us be off.”
When the gentleman made no move to follow him, Desmond wondered if he’d made a grave mistake by assuming that the henchman was the aggressor in the situation.
The smaller man regained his footing quicker than Desmond anticipated, though only grabbed the gentleman’s coat where he’d discarded it on a stack of crates against the alley wall. He fled deeper into the dark passageway, disappearing from sight, his footfalls echoing in the wake of his escape.
Neither Desmond nor the other man moved in pursuit.
“My carriage is down the street,” Desmond said, nodding toward the mouth of the alley. “Your lip is split and may need stitches to mend properly. Come, I will have my personal physician tend to your wounds.”
“The chap stole my overcoat,” the man breathed, his hands resting on his hips as he sucked air in deep, wincing slightly. The cut on his lip most certainly stung when the night air hit it.
Desmond wanted to chuckle. “At least you are escaping with your life and no new holes on your person.”
He remembered being young and impulsive—exhilarated at the thought of a skilled match against an accomplished pugilist.
Again, Desmond wondered if the man needed saving to begin with.
In that moment, Patience came to mind; her single-minded determination to warn fighters about the peril they faced when they accepted the challenge of a worthy competitor. Lost memories, unending bouts of lethargy, headaches, and vision impairment.
His Ivory Bess, once a prized pugilist in her own right, had suffered more than most with all those ailments.
Desmond narrowed his glare at the man, tilting his chin up to focus on the gentleman’s face and not his chest. “We should go, in case the man decides to return.”
“I can find my own way back to my lodging.”
“I’m not certain you even know where you are, my friend,” Desmond retorted. The maze of alleyways and lanes that crisscrossed London were difficult to navigate, and even more daunting in the dark.
Candles extinguished as the residents of the building overlooking the alley lost interest in the scene below. With their departure, the meager light that had shone down on the filthy passageway disappeared, shrouding Desmond in shadows as unease rose the hairs on the back of his neck.
Desmond turned, waving for the man to follow. “My coach is this way.”
Exiting the alleyway, the earl curved right and was reassured to see his coach and driver waiting. A sharp whistle garnered the driver’s attention, and his servant leapt down from his perch and whisked the door open, not bothering to set down the steps.
Desmond took the forward-facing seat, surprised to note that the stranger alighted directly after him, taking the seat across from him.
“My townhouse,” he called as his driver closed the door.
“Right away, my lord.”
The carriage shifted, and the creak of the brake lever broke the silence in the confined space as the horses were called into action.
“My lodging is at the Albany.” The man’s deep voice reverberated off the walls of the coach. “I will be forever grateful and in your debt if you can deposit me there.”
He was definitely of noble birth, as further evidenced by his cultured tone.
Desmond scoffed. “There is no physician in residence near the Albany at this time of night. My doctor will see to your wounds, and I will arrange for transport back to the Albany after.”
The grim set of the man’s frown told Desmond that he was not used to answering to another.
That made two of them.
Besides his three hellion daughters, Desmond’s edicts were taken as strict orders, and no one in his household disobeyed his command.
“Your name, my boy?” Desmond took in the almost unbelievable width of the man’s shoulders and the sharp edge of his jawline. He was at least twenty years Desmond’s junior, if not more. And the earl recognized the rebellious light in his eyes all too well.
Reluctantly, the man answered, “Sinclair Chambers—err, Earl of St. Seville. And who shall I commend as my guardian angel?”
“The Earl of Desmond, James to my closest friends.” He eyed the man across from him, St. Seville’s dark eyes appearing black in the dim interior of the coach. “St. Seville, you say. Of the Brownsea Island St. Sevilles?”
St. Seville’s brooding mask of irritation transformed to utter shock. “Yes, you know of my family?”
“Your father is—err, was—Ellis Chambers?”
“Correct.” St. Seville crossed his arms over his chest, and a new guarded mask hooded his expression. “Were you acquainted?”
Desmond could barely believe his eyes. If he looked closely at the young man across from him, he noted the hardened jawline and severe nose with a mouth that appeared more of a slash across his face that was so characteristic of the St. Seville family, even with his split lip that now boasted a patch of drying red blood. Even if the man seated facing Desmond were twice the size of his predecessor, the earl could see the family resemblance as clear as if they stood under a bright June sun with the men side by side. Desmond hadn’t seen the elder St. Seville in over two decades. He’d nearly forgotten the man’s existence.
“Ellis and I were once close—both members of The Earls’ Guild here in London—however, he left town shortly after his wedding and retired to his family estate. If you have taken the title, I assume your father has passed. When did it happen?”
“Going on four years now.” St. Seville glanced at the window, pulling aside the cloth covering the glass insert. “My mother and sister remain on the island.”
Four years, and word hadn’t reached Desmond.
&n
bsp; To be fair, his mind had been occupied with his own sorrows. Five long years since his wife had left him alone, and it was still all Desmond thought of.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Desmond sighed. “Ellis was a good man.”
A snort was the younger man’s only reply as the carriage pulled to a halt.
“I can see myself back to the Albany and take care of my own needs, my lord.” His gruff reply had Desmond wondering if he remembered Ellis incorrectly.
“I am afraid I must insist on seeing to your care. It is the least I can do for my old friend, your father.” Desmond held St. Seville’s weary glare as his driver opened the door to allow them exit. “We lost touch all those years ago, and I fear it was my duty to remain in contact. Please, allow my physician to see to your injuries. It would do much to assuage an old man’s guilt.”
Desmond saw the moment the man acquiesced; his stiff shoulders sagged a bit, and he nodded.
Chapter 1
The familiar creak of a window opening in the room next door startled Lady Patience Lane from her deep slumber as a tremor of fear rolled through her. A chill ran up her spine despite the warmth of her room. Rubbing at her sleep-heavy eyes, she stretched her legs toward the cooled coals at the end of her bed as she sat up and listened. She tuned her hearing to any sound that did not belong.
Marsh Manor, the name her mother had christened their family townhouse with upon her marriage to her father, had been an unusually silent home in recent years. No longer did the structure ache and groan as it settled, no doors opened and closed in the night, and no windowpane was ever cracked during the bitter cold of winter despite the three other bordering buildings that blocked the worst of the late January wind.
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