Earl 0f St. Seville

by Christina McKnight

  When he did, the earl finally broke the silence that had shrouded the room. “Your father and I were once friends. I owe him a great debt.”

  “And as a way of repayment, you lured me to London to have me accosted and beaten in a dark alley?” The accusation flew from Sin before he could stop himself. He hadn’t been certain until he saw his jacket slung across the back of the chair that Coventry had been the culprit. The earl already held an advantage over him there was little need to give him more information to hold over Sin’s head. “You—or this club—are not my purpose here…and likely the reason my father chose to leave town before my birth.”

  “I am uncertain what you think the Wicked Earls’ Club is or what we do, but I can assure you, it is not your father’s group any longer.” Coventry steepled his fingers, and his brow furrowed in thought before he continued. “My men, every earl that belongs to this club, have been hand-chosen and found worthy of membership. Certainly, there are several lords who bask in the more illicit activities available to their station; however, I am dedicated to seeing that every earl under my watch is safe, and his family and estate cared for. Unfortunately, with money and title, these men are easily led astray and give in to their debauched urges.” The earl’s stare hardened on Sin. “That is not every lord, though. We have men who are much like you: responsible, dependable, and lacking in a certain, what shall I call it, arrogant nature.”

  It didn’t escape Sin’s notice that Coventry had yet to answer his most pressing question. Even if his father had once been friends with Coventry, that did not explain how the earl came to know of his estate’s troubles. Nor did it mean that Sin should trust Coventry. His father was a good man, but his blindness to the evils of others had ultimately led to Sin’s financial troubles now.

  “The Wicked Earls’ Club is a band of brothers. They help one another. Where one man is weak, another is strong.”

  “And what of last night?” Sin countered. “Were you helping me?”

  For the first time, Sin wondered if Desmond had been in on the scheme. He was an earl, after all. Had he been part of The Earls’ Guild with Sin’s father and Coventry? It made sense…yet made no sense at all. Desmond had been shocked to find him and hadn’t known who Sin was until he’d been told.

  “I was testing you.” It was said with little inflection as if it were commonplace, and Sin should have expected nothing less. “You see—”

  “And Desmond, was he part of everything?”

  “Desmond?” Coventry betrayed his first sign of unease. He’d been told something he hadn’t known. “James Lane?”

  “Yes, that Desmond. At least he said his name was James.” Sin scoffed. “He happened into the alley and scared off your man.”

  “Desmond—and his ilk—are from the old generation.” Coventry rubbed his jaw. “You—and the men you passed on your way in—are the new. Desmond is a good man, but his eccentric bluestocking of a daughter preaches respectability, duty, honor, and such…which is all fine and good, and very admirable in my mind, but that is not always attainable with the young lot I oversee. One day, I hope all the lords of my club strive to think of duty and honor before their own needs. What did you tell Desmond?”

  Sin didn’t approve of the way Coventry had described Desmond’s daughter; however, he hadn’t been long in her company to form his own opinion of her—on anything besides her beauty. “Nothing.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “What was I to say?” Sin sat forward and stared Coventry directly in the eyes. “Good eve, Lord Desmond. Thank you for the hand, mate. I am in London with the assistance of the Earl of Coventry to secure several pugilist matches with large purse prizes to save my title and estate from ruin. You wouldn’t happen to know of any boxing matches in the near future, would you?” Sin snorted. “I did as any man attempting to keep his true situation from becoming idle gossip around London would do, I accepted Desmond’s help and fled out a window of his townhouse in nothing but my breeches and Hessians when he went to fetch a physician.”

  “Very clever of you.” Coventry collected a stack of files from his desk and opened one, scanning whatever was inside.

  Sin could not believe the man’s lack of concern. “I could have been gravely injured in the alley, or set upon by real thieves after your man left. What if I’d lost my way after departing Desmond’s? I could have been taken down by the cold night before finding my way back to the Albany.”

  Coventry’s incredulous stare returned to Sin. “Well, let us be grateful that a few hours out in the elements of London did not bring you to your death because I was able to secure a meeting for you. Tonight.”

  Sin wasn’t certain what he’d expected the earl to say, but that was not it. A sense of betrayal coursed through him when relief set in at the mention of a meeting. “This evening? Where?”

  “You will attend a soirée with me. Nothing too grand, just a small ball with a few dozen guests.”

  “I am to go looking like this?” Sin gestured to his swollen nose and split lip. “I am likely to draw much attention.

  “It will be quick,” Coventry said. “We will arrive, you will have your meeting, and we shall depart. You may not even need enter the ballroom; however, if you pass on this gathering, I can assure you, you have indeed wasted your time coming all the way to London.”

  Sin had no other option but to acquiesce. “Where are we to meet, and at what time?”

  The smile that overtook the earl’s thin face spoke of the man’s uncertainty at what Sin’s decision would be. He was relieved that Sin had chosen the course he’d set for him.

  “Ten o’clock. And we meet here.” Coventry closed the file he held and set it aside before standing, signaling that their meeting had come to an end. “I will see you this evening. Do not forget to wear your W pin on your lapel. I called in several favors to get this meeting, and the man is under the impression that you are a member of the Wicked Earls’ Club.”

  “Am I not?” Sin inquired, his brow rising in question.

  “If that is your desire.”

  “Very well,” Sin said with a stiff bow that brought a new wave of pain to his injured ribs. “Until this evening, I bid you good day, Lord Coventry.”

  Sin turned and departed the room, keeping his head down until he’d stepped through the front door of the club and out into the brisk morning air, Coventry’s final words still ringing in his head: If that is your desire.

  Desire?

  Sin desired to save his family from ruin. Sin desired to fulfill his mission in London and return home. Sin desired to bring safety and security back to his people on Brownsea Island.

  Beyond that, Sin hadn’t given his own needs much thought.

  If aligning himself with Coventry and the Wicked Earls’ Club could keep him on course, then, bloody hell, Sin was prepared to accept his place as a wicked earl.

  Chapter 3

  Patience moved around the fringes of the crowded ballroom. She didn’t flit as her elder sisters did when they traversed about a soirée; no, her movements were more a purposeful stride as Patience studied the people gathered in Lord Holstrom’s grand estate. She’d made a list for this evening, and it did not include dancing, flirtatious conversations, or sampling the host’s much-revered sherry.

  True, this was a social gathering, but Patience had given up on being considered social and proper many years ago. After her first disastrous Season, her father and siblings had held out hope that she would settle in to ton life and find a suitable match; however, at the height of her third Season, eligible men of the ton had all but run the other way when they saw her coming.

  As well they should.

  That was precisely how she knew she’d set her sights on the right man.

  They had something to hide, and to do that, they avoided conversing with her.

  Her father had noted the previous week that Patience would do well to study the difference between conversing and lecturing. To that, she had scoffed and sugge
sted that her father converse with his two sons who’d once again been mentioned in the scandal sheets. That had ended her father’s lecture quickly enough.

  Patience glanced about the room, keeping her faint smile in place, noting that Holstrom was still speaking with several men near the ballroom doors, his back to Patience. Not far from him, his wife, Lady Holstrom, stood alone. Patience hurried along the dance floor and cut behind the refreshment table to stand before the matronly woman.

  “Good evening, Lady Holstrom,” she greeted. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  The lady’s shoulders tensed in panic when she recognized Patience.

  “Ah, well, Lady Patience, I wouldn’t think to exclude the Desmond family from such an affair.” Lady Holstrom did her best to appear relaxed and stiffly took a sip from her glass. “Where are your sisters and their dear husbands?”

  Patience knew full well that she hadn’t been invited to the Holstrom ball. She had attended with her sister, Verity, and her husband, who had retired to the card room as soon as their one dance concluded—as social niceties dictated. A little thing like the lack of an invitation was not enough to stop Patience from seeking an audience with Lord Holstrom. The man was rumored to organize pugilist matches all over London—and for heavy prizes, as well. As yet, Patience hadn’t received a response from her many letters to Holstrom, but at some point this evening, he’d be unable to avoid speaking with her.

  If anyone deserved a conversation on the damage sustained from years of bare-knuckle boxing, it was Lord Holstrom.

  “Why are you not dancing, Lady Patience?” Lady Holstrom inquired, though the lady knew full well why Patience never danced. When she lifted her fan, and a small titter escaped, there was no hiding that the woman’s question was meant to embarrass Patience. Perhaps her father should speak with Lady Holstrom regarding proper etiquette. “My dear husband and I made certain all of London’s most eligible lords were in attendance this evening.”

  Thankfully, Patience was accustomed to the ways of societal matrons, especially those who had daughters close to Patience’s age, and she directed the conversation in a path more suitable to her goals at the ball. “I am certain your daughters, Lady Sarah and Lady Elizabeth, will make sure no lord goes without a dance partner. Although, I do have a matter of great import to discuss with you.” Patience fumbled with her reticule and removed her latest pamphlet. If Holstrom were to keep avoiding her, Patience would give his wife the information and beg her to pass it along. “Please, have a look—”

  “Oh, Lady Patience, I am sorry to abandon you so quickly, but I think my daughter is in need of me.” Lady Holstrom gave her a regretful smile and ignored Patience’s outstretched hand that held the pamphlet. “It was lovely chatting with you. Please, give my best to your father.”

  The matron strolled away toward her daughter across the ballroom, her hips swaying from side to side in time with her extravagant headpiece, not leaving a second for Patience to respond.

  Not far from Lady Holstrom, Patience spotted her father as he watched her with a narrowed stare before she rushed to shove the pamphlet back into her handbag. She’d promised her father and Verity that she would not bring her materials to the ball. Deep down, they both had to know it was a lie.

  A lie for the greater good, Patience reassured herself. Besides, her father would forgive her. He always did. And Verity…well, Verity had accomplished all she’d wanted in life already: wedded to a duke with several estates. Patience, on the other hand, hadn’t achieved anything.

  With a forced smile, she nodded to her father and turned back toward the ballroom door as Holstrom disentangled himself from the group he’d been chatting with and slipped out into the corridor.

  Brilliant. This was Patience’s chance—and likely the only one she’d get during the ball. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain her father no longer watched her; blessedly, he’d moved toward the terrace, his back to Patience.

  Tugging the string on her reticule closed, Patience grasped her skirts and hurried after Lord Holstrom. Luckily, the ton had become very accustomed to ignoring her presence, so it was unlikely anyone would remember her mad dash out of the ballroom.

  She only needed a few moments with him to say her piece. If he didn’t listen, then at least she’d have the reassurance Holstrom had been informed of the dangers facing every man who fought in the matches he arranged.

  Her mother’s fate—her family’s fate—did not have to befall another, not when Patience could stop the brutality of the sport. Her stomach turned, her mind traveling to those long-ago days when her mother had fought the sickness dragging her down. What none of them had known at the time was that there was no cure for what ailed Ivory Bess. There was no tonic or salve that could bring back her memories. No doctor who could bring back sensation in her limbs.

  Patience was at Lord Holstrom’s for a purpose. Swallowing a sob, she pushed on.

  She looked left then right after exiting the crowded ballroom and spotted her target sauntering down the dimly lit hall to her right. With the dancing begun and the card room open, no one loitered in the hallway outside the ballroom, which helped Patience greatly.

  “Lord Holstrom,” she called, her voice echoing down the hall. “A word, if you please.”

  The man had the same reaction as his wife; however, he halted and turned to face her.

  “Lady Patience,” he greeted but did not move back down the hall toward her. “Lovely of you and your father to join us this evening.”

  She’d followed him into an abandoned hall during the middle of a ball, yet Holstrom wasn’t the least bit surprised. Inconvenienced, yes. Irritated, most certainly. But shocked to see her trailing him…no.

  Patience started toward Holstrom. “My lord, if I may have but a few moments of your time—”

  “Lady Patience, do not take me for a fool,” Holstrom snapped, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead as if he’d developed a headache. “I know why you are here and have watched you accost my guests all evening. Lady Holstrom was just speaking of you last week when your latest letter arrived. She fears that if you do not reform your hellion ways, your chances of wedding will soon dry up. I must say, I wholeheartedly agree with her, and I feel it is my duty as a gentleman to speak with your father regarding my concerns.”

  Speak to her father? Did the man think to frighten her away?

  “Not even your father, an earl, will be able to repair your tattered reputation if you continue thusly.” Holstrom stared at her, merriment in his smirk as Patience’s face flushed.

  “You not only misjudge me, my lord, but my father, as well,” Patience retorted. “I have my father’s blessing to pursue my interests, and there are many things far more important than marriage and starting a family.”

  “For a woman?” His incredulous tone sparked Patience’s temper. “I cannot think of one.”

  Patience straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch. “I am saving lives, my lord. At least, that is what I am attempting to do if you would only listen. No one need see the same fate as my mother: memory loss, confusion, swings in demeanor, and loss of feeling in her arms and legs. Families should not have to witness such a fate for those they care for.”

  It was sorrow that brought the horrible nature of her mother’s struggle to her tongue. The disease had not been pretty, and she would never tone down the harsh realities pugilists faced if they continued on their chosen path when relaying her message.

  Holstrom could not question the ailments that had plagued Patience’s mother, once known as Ivory Bess to all of England, during her final years. Her symptoms had begun long before her father had convinced her to retire from society. As a notorious female pugilist, the Countess of Desmond had lived through many hard years growing up in Seven Dials—even her marriage to an earl could not erase her less-than-acceptable birth.

  However, her beauty had won her a few hearts in London.

  “Nonsense.” Holstrom flicked his
arm to the side, a mock way of casting aside Patience’s warning. “I have received all the drivel you continue to send round to my townhouse. I have read every word, and it is nonsense, scribbled by a silly chit who should focus her time and energy on her own future as opposed to pestering upstanding lords about their male pastimes.”

  “Silly chit? I am no such thing, I assure you, my lord.” Her voice was stilted, mirroring her frustration. “What happened to my mother could very well hap—”

  “Enough, Lady Patience,” Holstrom barked, slashing his hand through the air to silence her as he glanced over his shoulder. “I have a meeting to attend to, and I cannot have you carrying on with these outlandish ramblings. Now, be a good little girl and go find your father.”

  The crackle of the floorboards echoing down the dim hall made Patience’s skin crawl. Lord Holstrom wasn’t listening to her and would likely never take her concerns seriously.

  “Lord Holstrom, I presume?” The voice thundered from behind Patience. “While I am fairly new to London, I do not believe that is any way to speak to a lady. On her behalf, I take great offense.”

  Patience kept her stare trained on Holstrom, refusing to give up and avert her eyes; however, she listened intently as the man who’d rebuffed Holstrom walked up behind her.

  “The Earl of St. Seville?” The man must have nodded confirmation because Holstrom continued. “I was not expecting you for another hour. If you will follow me, we shall conduct our business in my study.”

  Patience was not acquainted with St. Seville, but if he were meeting with Lord Holstrom it would be wise to properly introduce herself. From his greeting, Patience could have very well found an ally in her cause.

  “After you apologize to this lady, I will see her back to the ballroom and only then will we discuss business,” the earl said, his tone returned to an acceptable level.

  Patience turned to face her white knight. “That is not necess—”