Sin exited Southlund’s House not long after noon to see that the early morning sun—a rarity in London or so he’d been told—had been overtaken by a layer of clouds that would no doubt bring with it evening drizzle that would likely turn to a downpour during the late-night hours. Thankfully, Sin had no plans for his evening except to find his bed—and perhaps write a letter to Juliette and his mother.

Rotating his shoulders brought a fresh wave of pain to his back. The endless hours of training were taking a hefty toll on him. How so many prizefighters managed to sustain a decade-long career in the ring was a mystery to Sin. He’d only been in London a short two weeks, and already, he was looking forward to returning home. Though he also longed for the day when there would be a reason to have Patience close without the need for sparring as a motive.

“The breeze carries the scent of rain, my lord,” the lady of his thoughts mused, tucking a sack under her arm before glancing up at him. Her eyes matched the tumultuous clouds above—grey without a hint of their actual color, blue. She’d taken to arriving with the sack, hurriedly changing into her sparring gear before they entered the practice area at Southlund’s. And at the end of her sessions, she’d transform herself once more from the daughter of Ivory Bess into a proper London lady.

Could it be that Patience struggled as he did? A war between who he was, who he wanted to be, and what necessity demanded of him? Did all those wage war within her, as well?

He had never found anything lacking in his life at Brownsea until the crushing weight of his empty coffers pushed him from the safety of the island. It was only then that he realized he’d need to discover who he was and what he wanted his life to hold. Had their recent association done the same for Patience, casting doubt on who she was and what fulfilled her?

Her brow furrowed in that way that Sin was becoming accustomed to of late. “Nightfall will come early, as well, I presume.”

Such a mundane topic did nothing to cool Sin’s heated skin from their hours of training; neither did the wind that rushed down the street, billowing her skirts around her ankles and pulling free his hastily tied cravat. He’d learned quickly that if he took overlong donning his own proper attire after Patience’s lessons, she would slip from Southlund’s House without him.

Not this day. He craved a few more moments with her, even if only to discuss the commonplace seasonal weather. Sin would be damned if he allowed her to escape into the early afternoon, only to hear from the footman at the door that Lady Patience “looked forward to another training session the following day” with little more than a nod as he departed.

The Desmond carriage waited at the curb as it had since the first time she’d bid him meet her at Ivory Bess’s famed pugilist training house. Not far down the walk, in the other direction, waited the hackney driver who’d come to recognize Sin’s patterns of late and waited outside the Albany as faithfully as his driver in Brownsea Island did.

Neither of them said their goodbyes or moved toward their waiting conveyances.

Could it be that Patience stalled, too?

“I find I have become rather inured to the gloomy weather in town,” Sin offered.

“One must acclimate to survive, I fear,” she replied with hesitation as if something weighed on her. They both fell silent and still. Sin was perfectly content allowing the world around them to keep moving: people scurrying to and fro, carriages pulled by overworked horses, a farmer pulling a cart loaded with winter fruit to the market, and men on horseback navigating the perilous thoroughfare.

It all happened around them, yet Sin, with Lady Patience by his side, was not a part of it all.

Her tense shoulders and clutched hands told him that she wanted to say something—and it was gravely important to her. It was the same with his younger sister Juliette when she’d gathered the courage to come to Sin’s study at Brownsea to ask for permission to attend the village’s annual Christmastide rout. She’d been only fifteen and still in the schoolroom at the time; however, Sin had not been able to deny her anything.

As he suspected, he would be unable to deny lady Patience her every request now.

He only prayed she did not mean to end their training sessions.

In the last few days, Sin had been so captured and enthralled during his time at Southlund’s House with Patience, that he’d been able to cast from his mind all the secrets he held—and the lies to come. During their hours of training, he’d only wanted to please her, to show her his progress, and to see Patience’s smirk of accomplishment at her successful tutelage.

“My lord,” she mumbled, watching a cart rumble past. “May I be so bold as to inquire about your plans for the rest of the day?”

His patience had paid off—tenfold—and Sin was quick to suppress his smile and ignore the way his stomach leapt with joy at just the sight of her. “You may.”

“There is place I’d like to take you.” She glanced at her waiting carriage, but Sin noted that her driver had yet to see that his mistress had exited the club, and so they remained unnoticed. Even the passing carriages on the street and the people on the walk paid them no mind. “I have not been in many years; however, it is still a location innately tied to my mother’s world.”

Sin knew how difficult it had been for Patience to enter Southlund’s House again after her mother’s death. Why would she punish herself again…for him?

“I have naught on my mind but finding my bed at the Albany, my lady.”

Her gaze shifted to meet his. “I have pushed you hard.”

Was that regret in her tone?

“No harder than was necessary, I assure you,” he replied. Every muscle in his body ached, though Patience moved with the lithe grace of a woman who trained every day. “Please, tell me more about where we are going.”

“Only if you allow me use of your hack.” She nodded toward his waiting driver—not his driver, but a man paid each day to deliver him between the Albany, Southlund’s House, and occasionally, the Wicked Earls’ Club. “I fear my driver has been very obliging of late, but where I plan to take you today would give him—and my father—apoplexy for certain.”

“Perhaps that is a reason we should not go.” He tested her resolve. Though she had offered to train him, Sin couldn’t help but fear that he’d asked a lot of her during their short acquaintance, and this might very well be too much for her to undertake. “Are you certain it is safe?”

Safe for your heart, he wanted to add.

Her physical safety was not in jeopardy, not when Sin was near. Just as he would do for his mother and sister, he would protect Lady Patience with his life if the situation demanded it.

He could not protect her from herself, however.

“Are you one to shy away from things because of how others will react?”

If her question had been a fist, Sin would have been knocked to the ground and left dazed and confused. It was something they had in common—neither held back due to how others might perceive them.

“Never, my lady.” Sin hadn’t paused to dwell on how his leaving Brownsea might affect his family, only what they all would gain from him going. Patience hadn’t let the negative impact among society stop her crusade to educate others on the harmful consequences of pugilism. In this, they were much alike. “My hired hack is at your disposal.”

Sin bowed and gestured toward his waiting conveyance.

With a mischievous grin, Patience nodded in return before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Let us be off,” she announced, her inflection matching that of her father’s the day he’d rescued Sin from the alley close to Covent Gardens.

Sin could not help but note the rough, unpadded seat and filth that clung to the open hack as he took his seat across from Patience. This was not the mode of transportation the daughter of an earl should be relegated to. She deserved to move around town in an exquisitely adorned landau with velvet benches, a pan of hot coals at her feet, and brocade drapes covering the glass windowpanes. A finely attired driver at the reins with a competent footman near the boot should escort her to and fro her many societal entertainments.

“Where ta, m’lord?” the hack driver called, turning a toothy grin in their direction.

Sin swallowed the inadequacy that threatened to halt him before they’d even departed Southlund’s House.

“Lyceum in the Strand, sir,” Patience instructed.

“The Strand?” The driver focused on Sin, his brows raised high in question.

Sin looked between Patience and his driver.

“There is an empty lot, next to Daniel Mendoza’s old academy.” She twisted in her seat to face the man. “Do you know the place?”

“I do, m’lady, but—”

“Wonderful.” Patience turned back to Sin, her smile returning as she settled her satchel on the seat next to her and folded her hands in her lap.

Sin nodded to the driver, and the hack pulled away from the walk and headed toward the Strand.

“May I ask after our destination?” Sin reclined in his seat, mirroring Patience’s relaxed posture, careful not to show his unease.

The breeze created by the moving coach played with Patience’s hair, pulling a few strands loose to brush across her face. Sin longed to reach forward and tuck the wayward locks behind her ear. Instead, he glanced over her shoulder as he waited for her to answer his question. He needed to remember that she’d agreed to train him and that was all. After his upcoming fight in Seven Dials, their association would come to an end. If not because his training would be complete, then because Patience would learn that he had no intention of it being his last match.

His need to not disappoint Lady Patience only went so far. Sin’s goal when coming to London was to save his people.

“Daniel Mendoza”—she paused, her eyes widening—“you have heard of him, correct?”

“Of course,” Sin grunted.

“Well, not long after my mother opened Southlund’s House, Mendoza followed suit and organized a pugilist academy of his own. He was beyond his prime at that time and used his winnings to secure the building; however, in short order, the venture became too much, and his funds ran out. The academy closed, yet the boxers continued to gather.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face before continuing. “It came to me last night, while I was assembling a new pamphlet, that your education is lacking. How many boxing matches have you witnessed?”

“Every day at Brownsea—”

“No,” she cut in, shaking her head. “I mean true pugilist matches, not reckless amateurs who think the sport an admiral pastime. How many times have you stood and watched a real prizefight, taking note of movements and strategy as two accomplished boxers faced off? Much like you did on that first day at Southlund’s, but a real match where opponents not only have wagers on the line but also their reputation.”

Sin didn’t need to ponder her question. He’d attended one match since his arrival in London—and the other two he’d been a part of: the skirmish in the alley, and his lost match at Bedford Square.

“You see, my lord, when a man is fighting for more than the prize purse of the match and survival and distinction is on the line, a base instinct is lit within the fighter that is absent during training. If you are to win your upcoming match, you must find that inner force and fire.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Lady Patience,” Sin replied. There was much more, beyond pugilism he could learn from the woman before him, and he couldn’t help but long to know all the wisdom she had yet to share with him.

“No, I have seen too many boxers enter a match and risk their lives and well-being without the necessary skills.” Her eyes met his across the open hack for the briefest of moments before she averted her stare. Sin suspected their conversation had brought to mind her mother.

For that, Sin held much regret.

Patience cleared her throat. “Let us pray that the rain holds off for at least an hour’s time.”

* * *

They stood, shoulder-to-shoulder—or at least, side by side—on the fringe of what was commonly known as Mendoza’s Yard, a cleared, empty lot with a level, hard-packed dirt surface where boxers of every skill level gathered to prove their worth. These fights were not about money or fame, but about showing skill on an even playing field. Pugilists chose their own matches with no wagers allowed. Day in and day out, as long as light gave them the ability to see, and the rain held off, men—and a few women—faced off against opponents of equal or greater skill. Fame and notoriety did not come from these matches; however, the potential of being discovered by men like Lord Holstrom was a possibility.

“This is not the hidden areas of Hyde Park or the back room of Gentleman Jackson’s, my lady,” Sin whispered close to her ear. Patience ignored the shiver that coursed through her, demanding that she not dwell on the reason behind it. Whether it was from their scandalous journey to the Strand or having Sin so close now, she did not have time to ponder.

“We are not in Mayfair any longer,” Patience responded, sending a smirk in his direction. Not that she thought Sin wasn’t accustomed to the seedier areas of London; however, the fighters who attended Mendoza’s Yard were not the gentlemen who could afford the fees to train at Southlund’s or the other notable pugilism clubs in town. “Do make me aware if anything offends your delicate sensibilities.”

The jab was meant as a jest.

The earl was puzzling indeed.

He’d worked hard for days, left Southlund’s battered and exhausted, yet he never complained as he adhered to her edicts. He listened, he learned, and he improved with each day. As the hours passed, their connection also evolved and developed, changing from two people thrown together by unfortunate circumstances to a relationship far more easy, natural…and confusing.

Yet, something… innate was lacking between them. He fought, and he fought hard, no longer relying on his brute prowess but tapping into his mental strength and cunning.

Self-preservation.

That was what was missing.

No matter the outcome of St. Seville’s upcoming match in Seven Dials—win or lose—he would not be gravely affected beyond his debt to Holstrom. He had the choice to return to Brownsea Island, his home, to find another way to secure his lands and people. Many who fought did not have that option.

If they lost, they would not eat.

If they lost, they would have no bed, no fire, and no way of finding shelter from the harsh London winter.

If they lost, so did their families.

It was the way it was for Patience’s mother, Ivory Bess, in her youth.

She had no country estate to retire to, no family or husband to see her through to the next match, and no one to count on but herself.

Even if the earl were never in such a dire situation, perhaps watching those who were, would give him the… Patience stumbled over the thought in her mind. Maybe it would give him the heart to win.

For all her mother’s determination, skill, and love of the sport during her pugilist years, it had been heart that saw her through it all.

“This way, my lord.” Patience walked forward to the edge of the yard as a pair of women, both attired in men’s breeches and nothing but shifts to cover their bosoms, stepped to the line. She did not bother to glance at the earl to view his reaction. To some, it would look a spectacle. Though it was common in the world of boxing for women, same as their male counterparts, to strip bare to the waist. “That is Constance Country and Edith Woolgrower.”

She felt his stare on her as she watched the women raise their fists.

“For a lady who claims to despise the sport, you know an awful lot about it.”

“It was my mother’s passion. I grew up with the sport surrounding me,” she sighed. “I have not always found pugilism so distasteful. Miss Country and Miss Woolgrower were pupils of my mother’s. We keep in contact, if only for me to continue my attempts to convince them both to seek other means of supporting themselves.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked onto the balls of his feet. “I see.”

The softness in his tone told Patience that he did, in fact, see and understand.

For the next hour, Patience stood close to St. Seville, his tall, broad stature blocking the wind from her face as they watched match after match. Men, women, and even a set of youngsters no older than thirteen took to the yard to prove their worth, show their skill, and pray—most fruitlessly—to be recognized and whisked away from the poverty and desperation of their current lives.

If Patience had the resources to rescue them all, she would…without a second thought.

Yet, for every five she helped, another hundred would go without. And even those she helped sometimes found their way back to this cold, harsh life.

The earl didn’t question her about why they ventured to the Strand, nor did he talk endlessly as they watched the fighters.

Eventually, a warmth settled at her back, and she was startled to find his hand pressed firmly there in an almost possessive way.

A measure of comfort and safety settled around her, though Patience hadn’t needed it. Not many years ago, this had been Patience’s world. Not the startling poverty of the fighters, but the world of bare-knuckle boxing. She didn’t need a man at her side to reassure or protect her.

She was happy for it now, all the same.

Many in London society never witnessed this side of town life. The less fortunate were relegated to their boroughs, and the nobles preferred to act as if they didn’t exist as they shielded themselves from the reality of London with their drawn drapes in their fine carriages as they traveled through areas rife with hardship.

It was the same with prizefighters. Those who had demonstrated their skills and had been picked from obscurity and chosen to compete in elite matches all over London tried to forget the men and women who attended places like Mendoza’s Yard. Eventually, those great fighters fell, and another crop was plucked from places like the Strand and thrust into the light for a brief moment of fame and notoriety.

Patience shook her head in sorrow as her stomach twisted into a knot. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring St. Seville here. He’d been born into privilege, the son of a nobleman secure in his future. The importance of places like Mendoza’s Yard couldn’t have meaning and impact for a lord of St. Seville’s station.

Still, his hand lay solidly on her back, her shoulder brushing his side.

When had she tucked herself into him?

St. Seville was not the one to offer her security or even comfort. He was her pupil, and there could be nothing more between them despite the closeness that had matured between them. It was the way of things after so many hours of training. Boxers developed innate connections to those who taught them, and trainers became burdened with the need to see their pupil successfully through their matches.

A single warm droplet of rain landed on her cheek. Patience wiped it away and turned to see the menacing clouds gathering above. The storm was nearly upon them. If they did not return to Southlund’s House with haste, they would be caught in the downpour.

Stepping away, Patience glanced behind them to the hack the earl had bid wait for them. “I think it is time we go.”

No one took notice of them as they departed the yard. St. Seville’s height and formidable width drew little attention in an area such as this. Nor did Patience’s simple skirt and blouse draw undue fascination from the crowd.

Climbing aboard the hack, St. Seville took the seat next to her.

“My lord?” she asked, as if being alone with the earl, unchaperoned in the Strand, was not enough to cause a scandal, but sitting side by side would push them into dangerous territory.

A smattering of raindrops covered his face when he looked down at her. “The rain will only increase on our drive. The least I can do, after everything you’ve taught me, is keep you from catching your death of cold.”

To prove his point, he slipped from his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders and head to block the rain from drenching her as they started toward Southlund’s House.

Patience nestled closer to St. Seville, allowing his warmth and the scent of him to wash over her as the rain would have if he hadn’t created a makeshift shelter for her.

It was such a simple gesture, yet one she was wholly unfamiliar with. Not because her father and brothers didn’t attempt to shield her. Mainly because she never allowed anyone this close, finding fault with every man who sought her hand.

Shifting, Patience looked up at the earl. Surprisingly, his stare was focused on her, as well—but not on her eyes. No, his narrowed, russet-brown eyes were trained on her lips.

Heat coursed through her, banishing the frigid cold that stung her reddened nose and seeped through her gloves.

Patience had never been faced with such a situation.

The earl leaned closer, and her lips parted as her tongue darted across her bottom lip. Something in her chest fluttered at the same time she exhaled. She fisted her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out for him, laying her gloved palm on his cheek and drawing his face to hers.

Suddenly, the hack dipped and jostled, hitting an uneven patch in the street and tossing Patience back a few inches. Not far, but enough to break whatever spell had kept the earl’s focus trained on her lips. His jacket slipped down to the seat behind her.

Rain sprinkled her face, and Patience laughed.

The sound seemed foreign and strained, even to her own ears.

The earl coughed and straightened, retrieving his jacket and lifting it up once again to cover her, but he did not lean close again. Instead, he retreated to the far corner of the hack.

Patience searched her brain for something—anything—to draw him close again.

The moment had faded…gone as swiftly as it had set upon them.

“I shall collect you tomorrow evening at the Albany, and we will set out for Seven Dials?” Patience still needed to figure out how to dissuade Merit and Valor from tagging along on her escapade to West End. And now, it seemed all the more important to keep the earl hidden. They had tomorrow evening, and then Patience’s obligation to St. Seville would come to an end.

Win or lose, the earl had agreed that this would be his final prizefight.

What would come then? Could she return to her crusade against pugilism? Draft more pamphlets and send her father into hazardous boroughs to distribute them as if she hadn’t been training a fighter only a few nights before? Could she be content to return to the life she’d led up until the night she stumbled upon the earl bare-chested and escaping her house?

She sighed, but the sound was swallowed up by the wind as the rain increased.