Patience adjusted her simple skirt and blouse as she stood before a building she hadn’t entered in nearly six years. She’d forgone her usual mass of underpinnings and tight corset to allow herself freedom of movement and therefore increase her agility without hampering her ability to breathe.

And she would certainly need to breathe this day.

Glancing over her shoulder, Patience gave her maid a reassuring smile and nodded to her driver. Her father had nearly forbidden her from leaving their townhouse—and had strongly cautioned her against returning to Southlund’s House.

The establishment held too many memories.

Both good and bad.

To this day, her father—despite owning a percentage of the club since his marriage to Ivory Bess—had never ventured through the doors. It had been the gift of a safe haven for Patience’s mother, the Countess of Desmond, given upon the day she became betrothed to the Earl of Desmond.

Her father had said: “When you love another with all your heart, you are not only duty bound to give them your unconditional love, you also must make certain their heart is as full as yours.”

It had been the way of things between her parents. Even though what filled her mother’s heart eventually caused her demise. In short, her father had loved her mother so much he’d willingly given her something that would take her away from him…and their children.

Patience could not be angry with him for it. The Earl of Desmond hadn’t been aware of his grave mistake when he gave his young love Southlund’s House. Her father had only sought to make the woman he loved happy—there could never be fault in longing to make others happy.

Taking another deep breath, Patience ran her hands down the front of her skirts. It was a nervous gesture that did nothing to help with her clammy hands encased in her gloves. She longed to remove them and cast the finery aside; however, leaving the house without her stays and corset was nearly enough to give her father apoplexy. Leaving without her gloves would have pushed him over the edge and into utter madness.

There was nothing particularly special or noteworthy about the exterior of the building. It blended in nicely with the neighborhood, flanked by a merchant’s shop on one side and an apothecary on the other. A tavern with several rooms for rent above sat across the street. The lane was quiet and well-maintained, thanks in part to Southlund’s House’s servants.

From this vantage point—safely outside and unable to see what the occupants were doing—Patience could nearly make herself believe that the building housed a regular, run-of-the-mill sparring facility where men—and some women—gathered to practice sporting activities of their choosing.

Fencing, archery, swordplay, and pugilism.

Yet, that was not the way of things. Men did not seek out Southlund’s House as a mere place to pursue their favored pastimes. This was not an establishment where gentlemen met their closest friends for a friendly fencing match to help keep their physique or while away their time before their evening entertainments.

No, Southlund’s House was an elite club for men—and women—who sought careers in prizefighting. This was where her mother had trained when she was still the famed Ivory Bess and where the Countess of Desmond continued to train others after she’d wed and had children. The building before Patience housed rooms where she and her siblings had met with tutors while their mother worked with bare-knuckle boxers. The sound of fists against flesh was a common background accompaniment to their lectures and lessons on geography, arithmetic, and science.

Patience wanted to laugh—so as not to break down in tears—at the thought. Their schoolroom, staffed by the best London instructors, was in the back room of a pugilist club.

“Pardon, miss.” A finely dressed gentleman stepped around her and entered Southlund’s.

When the footman manning the door glimpsed her, his smile was broad and welcoming—an old friend surprised to see someone they’d thought to never encounter again.

“Lady Patience Lane?” The man rushed out of the building, his newest arrival forgotten instantly at the sight of her. “My, you have grown, my dear girl.”

She couldn’t help the genuine smile even as her throat tightened. “Mr. Caulfield. Elias.” He was older, but the years had treated him well, with only a hint of grey around his ears and a slight thickening at his middle.

Mr. Elias, as they called him, had greeted them each time they arrived with her mother. He’d ordered them meals from the tavern kitchen across the street when they grew hungry, and her mother trained late into the evening, and he read her stories until she fell asleep when her mother worked late into the night.

“It is lovely to see you again.” Patience embraced Mr. Elias without a second thought. An adored man who’d been closer to her than any servant at Marsh Manor. “I did not think to see you here today.”

“And I cannot believe my own eyes that you are standing before me,” he replied, his stare raking her from head to toe. “How long has it been? Three, no, four years?”

“Closer to five.” Patience remembered the final time she’d spoken to Mr. Elias. It had been the afternoon of her mother’s funeral at Marsh Manor. He’d come to give his best to her family. “How is Mrs. Caulfield?”

A coy grin broke across the man’s face, making him appear the child who’d stolen the pie from the cooling window. “She is fine, fine indeed. About ready to have another babe.”

“Another?” Patience asked.

“Oh, we haven’t spoken in some time, after all.” He stood straighter, his shoulders back and his chin high. “This will be our third child so far. Two boys. Hoping for a wee girl with this babe.”

“The grandest of congratulations, Mr. Elias, from my family and me,” Patience said with a light laugh, her downcast mood from moments before melting away. “I am certain you are a superb father.”

Mr. Elias blushed, and his eyes widened. “Where are my manners? Do come in…” His words trailed off as if he realized he’d made a grave error in judgment. “Are you here to come inside, my lady?”

Patience pushed down her unease and turned to give her maid a quick wave, letting her know that all was as it should be. “Yes, Mr. Elias.”

With a bright smile and a flourish of his arm, Mr. Elias stepped back to allow her entrance. “It is our pleasure to have you return to Southlund’s House. The place has not been the same in the time since”—His voice trembled—“your family has been away.”

As if the Earl of Desmond and his children had been away on holiday and not grieving the loss of a wife and mother. It was a holiday Patience had never expected to return from.

Patience’s chest tightened as she stepped across the threshold, and Mr. Elias allowed the door to close behind them, blocking the hazy morning sun. Closing her eyes, she gave herself permission to experience the sensations of being in a place that was once so familiar to her. The good memories, as well as the bad ones, washed over her again. The pungent odor of cigar smoke hung heavily in the air, tickling her throat. The clashing of foils and cheers of support drifted from one of the sparring rooms near the back of the building.

Instead of sorrow and pain, Patience’s heart swelled to return to a place that had meant so much to her mother. It had been her mother’s sanctuary, and Patience’s second home for much of her life. The draw to return had always been strong, but easily deniable. She despised the sport that had taken her mother from her, and loving and longing for the place that had perpetuated the loss was illogical.

The logical track would have been to demand that her father close Southlund’s House, selling the property, thus forgetting it had ever been so entangled in Patience’s childhood.

“Are you only here to have a look about, or will you be sparring?”

“Actually…” She glanced sideways to gauge the man’s reaction to her next words. “I will be training a prizefighter.”

“Training? A fighter?” Mr. Elias fought to rein in his excitement. “Oh, Lady Patience, that is fine news. Since your mother, bless her soul, left us, there have not been many female fighters attending Southlund’s. And I had heard you were speaking out against the sport…”

“I was grieving my mother.” If she’d succeeded in her mission or demanded the club be shut down, Mr. Elias would have needed to seek other employment, and his family would have suffered. Not as much as Patience and her siblings, but having one’s income stripped away could devastate a man. “Has a new boxer arrived this morning?”

Part of her hoped St. Seville didn’t show up at the allotted time and place. She could return home as if none of this had happened. Forget the earl and her rash offer to assist him. What had provoked her the night before?

She’d been lulled by their private moment in his chambers as she’d brazenly stepped forward to cleanse his wounds. Her skin against his. Her eyes meeting his. They’d both been caught off guard by her determination to see him to his room and make certain he was well.

Her bold actions had surprised her so utterly she’d quickly departed after securing his word that he would meet her at Southlund’s House the following morning to start his proper education in the art of pugilism.

And it was an art.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be around fighters, to watch them perform.

“I cannot say, my lady,” Mr. Elias said with a shake of his head. “I only arrived on duty moments before your arrival. However, I did pass a gathering in the back room. Perhaps your new fighter awaits you there.”

Once St. Seville was surrounded by a few of England’s foremost bare-knuckle boxers, he would truly note the importance of other skills, not only brute strength.

Was her offer to train him partly for selfish reasons?

Certainly, Patience wanted St. Seville—in the light of day he was once again St. Seville, not Sin—to save his lands and people. This was something she’d been unable to do for her own family. She wanted him to repay his debt to Holstrom and escape the clutches of both him and Coventry.

She needed to help him because, without her, he would fail and likely face far more serious injuries in his attempts in the ring.

But the truth was, she always wanted to be near him, despite there being no reason for their continued acquaintance. He was in London to do the one thing Patience loathed. So why had she not washed her hands of him and simply walked away? Kept herself separate from the sport that had caused her family such overwhelming loss and grief.

Patience had learned she was many things since her mother’s death: strong, independent, determined. But now, selfish?

“I can see myself in.” Patience gave the man another quick embrace and started for the hall that led to the back training room.

Everything from the burgundy carpeting to the dark wood walls was the same. As she turned down the hall, Patience knew she’d find the club’s row of victors—as they called it. An entire hallway lined with portraits of pugilists, fencers, and archers who’d gained their training at Southlund’s and had gone on to excel in their chosen sport. How many times had she sprinted down this exact hall, caught her toe on the loose carpet and fallen head over tail causing all sorts of scrapes and scratches? Over two dozen—and blaming her youthful follies on the carpeting was a ruse. She’d relished sneaking out of their townhouse after slipping on her elder sister’s boots. They were not the tiny, childish half boots Patience was forced to wear, but more like those favored by the fancy women who promenaded in the park.

She kept her stare straight ahead, not lingering in the hall as she passed men departing the sparring rooms. If she paused for even a second, Patience knew she’d been drawn to a certain portrait that held a special place of honor on the wall. Bordered by a frame of gilded gold, her mother’s image would stare back at her—her bare fists held high, her feet in the pugilist’s stance, and her eyes alight with joy. There were many firsts since her mother’s death that Patience was prepared to face today but the image of Ivory Bess was not one of them.

“Do not look. Keep moving. You are nearly there,” she mumbled as she counted her steps, the fine hairs on the back of her night rising.

“Lady Patience?”

She stumbled to a halt, and her eyes met her mother’s in the portrait on the wall. It was thirty-two strides to the end of the hallway. She’d only managed twenty-five, which meant there was no avoiding the sight of Ivory Bess.

The eyes staring back at her, a mix of merriment and determination, were mirror images of Patience’s greyish blue orbs. Anger twisted at her stomach. Even though the image held no color, Patience knew her mother had a single red rose pinned to the strap of her bodice. It was the main reason her father had issued the command to have the thorny bushes below Patience’s and Merit’s bedchamber windows removed. It reminded them all of what they’d lost. She couldn’t take the sight any longer and glanced away, blinking several times.

But they remained. It was one of the commands she’d fought her father on. Her hands clenched at the thought of her mother’s lovely roses being pulled from their beds and discarded.

“My lord.” Patience brought her gaze from the well-worn carpet, surprised to find she was looking at Sin. Dressed in loose trousers with his linen shirt lying open at his throat and his hair hanging free about his shoulders, he appeared the pirate she’d first mistaken him for. “Hmmm, you have arrived. And early.”

“Yes, well, you said I had one chance, and I am not a man to squander an opportunity.” He turned away from her toward the wall. “This is your mother?”

“Was.” The single words came on an exhale. “That was my mother.”

“She will never stop being your mother, despite her passing,” he mused, keeping his stare on the wall.

“True, but I prefer to remember her differently.”

“How so?”

“As a woman who loved her family above her sport,” Patience snapped, her anger pushing past the pain of being at Southlund’s House again. “I mean, I wish to remember her when she was healthy—appeared healthy, at least—before her mind was so easily confused and her limbs refused to obey.”

His brow furrowed and he faced her. “Why did you bid me meet you here instead of another club if it would cause you such anguish?”

“Because—” She hadn’t admitted this to anyone, and only a few members knew. “My father, and each of us children, owns a portion of Southlund’s House, though none of us have been here in years. You do not have the funds to train at another club, and I was certain you would not allow me to pay for your training. At Southlund’s, we can work without a fee.”

“It is now I who cannot understand you, my lady. Coming back here, though it causes you no small amount of anguish…” he said with a stiff bow. “I am forever in your debt.”

“Oh, do not fall all over yourself thanking my selflessness,” she retorted. “As with everything, nothing is without a cost.” She quieted as a pair of gentlemen passed them in the hall, one glancing over his shoulder to get a better look at Patience. “I have several conditions before we begin.”

If St. Seville were rattled or leery in response to her announcement, he was quick to hide it with a tentative smile. “I would expect nothing less, my lady.”

Patience shook her head. “First off, do not call me my lady or Lady Patience while at Southlund’s House.”

“What am I to call you?” he asked, as if appalled by her command.

“Patience will do.”

“And what is your second condition, Patience?” he asked.

“That was not my first condition, my lord,” she countered. “My first condition is that you are to listen and heed my advice…at all times.”

Part of her longed to examine her motives for adding at all times and not merely stating while they were training. The sudden stiffness in his posture told her that he wondered the same.

“I think I can agree to that readily enough.” He shrugged and turned back to her mother’s portrait as if her first condition weren’t overly troubling. “Next?”

Patience swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat, knowing if he were to find fault with any of her conditions, this would be the one. “We train, you win your freedom from Holstrom, and stop boxing. Find another way to secure the funds needed to save your family.”

“You cannot be serious,” he growled.

“I most certainly am, my lord.”

“And how do you propose I save my family and lands?”

It was Patience’s turn to shrug. “We shall find a way.”

“We?” he questioned.

“If I am the reason you are to give up pugilism as a career choice, then isn’t it also my duty to make certain I assist you in finding another way to support your estate?” She’d gone over and over this discussion in her head a hundred times since she departed the Albany the previous night. He had to accept her help—and her conditions. He was not the first lord to find himself on the brink of financial ruin. How did those men return from the precipice? Putting his life in danger was not the answer, for his people would be ruined if he failed. “Do you agree?”

His brow rose in question. “To your condition or your reasoning?”

“Both, I would presume,” she replied, really glancing at her mother’s portrait for the first time, immediately regretting her weakness. The sight of her mother just before the prize match in which her father had spotted her for the first time brought tears to Patience’s eyes. “But it is only my condition you must agree to at the moment.”

“You have led me to believe I have no chance of besting other prizefighters without your assistance,” he said. “So, truly, I have no option but to agree to any condition you set forth.”

“Very true,” she said, glancing down to cover the pain she suspected was evident in her eyes at being at Southlund’s again. St. Seville was a force of a man, yet he gave in easily to her demands. At any other time, Patience would have been thrown off guard by his ready acquiescence. “This way to the sparring ring.”

She didn’t wait for his reply, but pushed past him and moved in the direction of the boxing room.

“That cannot be your only two conditions, my lady!” he called, hurrying behind her.

“How quickly you break my first rule.” A hint of true laughter rose in her tone. “There is only one final thing, and I cannot think you will deny me it after agreeing to the other two,” Patience threw over her shoulder as she rounded the corner into the sparing room. Thankfully, there was but one man using the area, and he was only standing against the far wall.

St. Seville caught up with her as she halted several feet into the room.

“What is the final condition?”

“Tell me why they call you Sin.” It was likely the condition that piqued her interest the most. Certainly, it was a shortened version of his first name, Sinclair, but a name like Sin did not come without some story—or without some truth behind it.

Each of her demands came with their own motivation. First and foremost, Patience was acutely concerned that Holstrom, and possibly Coventry, was taking severe advantage of Sin. Both for their own gains. Next, Patience loathed the thought of a fighter being harmed when she could have helped.

Lastly, he was handsome as sin.

Never had Patience met a man who captured her notice so fully…and as the daughter of an earl, Patience had gained the acquaintance of nearly every eligible lord in all of England. Every rogue, rake, and scoundrel of worth had been presented to her during her three Seasons. None had left any lasting impression, only disdain and revulsion. Sometimes both at once.

“There is no grand meaning behind the name, but if that is your final condition, I readily agree.” He moved farther into the room and pulled his white linen shirt over his head, revealing his chiseled chest and broad, muscled shoulders.

“Oh, I am certain there is a titillating tale behind the name,” Patience muttered, thankful that Sin was far enough away that he didn’t hear her words or the longing behind them. She crossed her arms over her blouse to hide the hardening peaks of her nipples as her cheeks flushed with heat. “Mayhap I am in need of conditions for this bargain, as well.”