Patience pulled up to the square, her brow furrowing in confusion to see so many people—men and women of the ton: shop owners, dock workers, orange sellers—all gathered tightly at Bedford.

“Stop here,” she shouted over the cheering of the crowd, even as her heart thundered in her chest. At first, she hadn’t been certain what had made her instruct her driver to double back and follow St. Seville’s hack; however, at the sight before her…it was obvious. “I will depart here.”

“My lady, I cannot—“

Patience hopped from the carriage and turned her narrowed stare upon her driver. “I shall be well, I promise. How many days did I spend coming to gatherings like this with my mother?”

Allowing her voice to crack would have signaled Patience’s torment at the spectacle before her.

It was a prizefight.

Patience had accompanied her mother to enough matches to know what was to come. Ivory Bess may have retired her pugilist pursuits when she wed the Earl of Desmond, but that did not mean her passion for the blood sport had fled with her vows. Instead of fighting, her mother had trained other pugilists, both men and women, in the age-old art.

St. Seville had been on his way to meet Coventry to watch a prizefight, even after everything she’d shared about her mother? He’d been empathetic to the point of reaching out to comfort her with his hand upon hers. She hadn’t imagined the impact of her words on him. He’d listened, he’d heard, and Patience had believed he cared.

What lay before her negated all of that. Invalidated everything she’d expected of St. Seville.

Her first impression had been correct: he was no different than Lord Holstrom and the men of the Wicked Earls’ Club. Perhaps even worse as those men didn’t seek to keep their true natures hidden.

“I will wait here for you, my lady,” her servant shouted over the raised voices.

The match was preparing to start, and the crowd did as was common, they began chanting as each selected their fighter.

Some shouted “Lightning” while others chanted “Sin, Sin, Sin.”

Patience had been away from the training clubs frequented by many of the pugilists in London for the last several years after her father had bid her not to return. The anguish that always followed her visits only served to remind her of everything she’d lost. That was why she’d originally set her mark on the men who organized and funded the sport.

Patience’s pulse beat ever faster as the cheering grew in intensity. There was a time, in her youth, when attending a prize match was exhilarating. She’d taken on the role of her mother’s shadow. She’d watched her train others, and helped her demonstrate various moves and defensive tactics. Up until her mother had grown unable to walk, Patience had reveled in the experience, doing everything asked of her to make her mother proud. For a time, it had been their personal secret that, one day, Patience would enter a match of her own. Her father would have never allowed it, and knowing what she knew now, Patience would rather swim the murky Thames than step into a ring and risk injury. The loss of a dream, even one as foolish as her own career in the pugilist world, had filled her with a great void until she adjusted her path in life.

The crowd suddenly fell silent.

The match had started.

She searched the gathering crowd, two or three people deep, trying to spot St. Seville and Coventry, but her height and proximity prevented her from attaining the optimal view. Gathering her skirts, she dashed back to her waiting coach. Without warning her driver—for he would have surely attempted to halt her—Patience climbed aboard the boot at the back until she could see over the heads of the crowd. There was no reason for Patience to remain at Bedford Square. The Earl of St. Seville and his interests shouldn’t concern her. Getting angry or hurt by him, a man she’d only met a few days prior, was preposterous.

Yet, she continued scanning the gathering for the earl. He shouldn’t be difficult to spot as he towered over most men, and his shoulders were certainly broader than two average men combined.

“Where are you?” she mumbled.

What she planned to do when she did locate him was still a mystery. A tongue-lashing? Perhaps she only needed him to know that she’d seen him at the fight and let him watch her walk away, never to speak to him again. Again, Patience was well aware that her behavior was only justifying the names she was called in polite society. What other option was available to her, though? Her father had been distributing her pamphlets for over a year, and still, no one had heeded her warnings. She was going about things with single-minded determination…with no changes. How much more could she do before she gave up and gave in?

She determinedly kept her stare averted from the men in the center of the square. Nothing good would come from witnessing two men pummeling one another until one fighter drew blood, collapsed, or signaled defeat. Though the sounds, so familiar and once upon a time comforting, did nothing but increase her pulse. Something that should never again excite her had an odd effect on her in the present. Her senses betrayed her, and Patience worked to still her racing heart.

She refused to allow violence to thrill her.

A collective gasp disrupted her search, bringing Patience’s attention to the pugilists.

People began to chant once more.

“Sin, Sin, Sin.”

One man, bare-chested, staggered back, catching her notice.

She knew the exposed chest, even from this distance. Broad and etched with muscles strung tight. Arms as round as thick tree limbs with breeches tightly covering Herculean legs corded with the same brawn.

The Earl of St. Seville—Sin—regained his balance and advanced on his opponent, who countered the move by shuffling in a wide arch away from Sin’s long-reaching fists.

The earl may have the muscle and strength to throw a damaging blow, but he lacked the speed and agility of his opponent, who weaved and moved with the skill of a man trained under the likes of John Jackson. He flitted about the ring made by the crowd as if his feet didn’t actually touch the ground, while St. Seville lumbered in his wake, far too heavy on his feet.

Had no one taught him the need for balance and the advantage of remaining poised on the balls of his feet?

The small, agile fighter ducked under Sin’s outstretched arm, swept forward, and brought his clenched fist up to connect with the right side of Sin’s jaw. If she were closer, Patience would have likely heard his neck snap back sharply from the blow.

Sin appeared dazed for a brief moment before shaking his head stiffly and blocking his opponent’s next swing.

Brawn and raw strength would only get a prizefighter so far.

If St. Seville didn’t move his feet and put some distance between him and his opponent, he was going to be defeated…and quickly.

The skill of a pugilist was threefold, as her mother always said. A good fighter had two of three things: brains, brawn, and speed. A winning fighter knew he had to possess all three.

Sin—the fighter, not the lord Patience had thought she’d come to know—wasn’t aware of his weakness. And because of that, he would lose.

She should pray that would not be the outcome, but the surety that filled her with regards to her intuition left no room for doubt. The Earl of St. Seville would need more than her prayers.

“Separate!” The shout came from the far side of the square, and Patience spotted Lord Holstrom. “Fight.”

Two things were perfectly clear to Patience in that moment: her father had mistakenly rescued St. Seville from a fight he’d wanted, and Sin had been at Holstrom’s ball with the purpose of meeting about this very match.

She’d been foolish to worry St. Seville was off to meet a woman, and had thought that, perhaps, Coventry was worse; however, the true knave was Lord Holstrom. At that precise moment, Patience would have preferred St. Seville to be roaming about, courting a woman or ensconced in Coventry’s club.

She’d been stupid to believe that the earl had meant anything he said to her, even chastising Holstrom for his improper behavior toward Patience had been a ruse. Holstrom was a devious man, but the earl was far worse because he was the same as Holstrom. Yet, he took it a step further by lying to her about his intentions. At least Holstrom didn’t hide anything.

Had the two men laughed at her foolishness after Sin had returned her to the ballroom?

Heat flushed her body, and her stare hardened on the fighters.

The duplicitous lord deserved a sound thumping.

As if hearing her thoughts, Sin’s opponent dipped to the left and brought his right arm around, his fist connecting with Sin’s temple, sending sweat flying into the crowd as Sin grunted.

The pugilist known as Lightning raised his fists in victory when Sin dropped to the ground.

Her stomach twisted in a knot tighter than a fighter’s fist when she realized that the match was officially over and Sin had, as she’d predicted, lost.

The crowd jeered and moved in tight to congratulate the victor and hurl insults at the defeated boxer. Her heart sank further when she noted that Sin remained on the ground, barely pushing himself into a seated position as Lord Holstrom stalked across Bedford Square.

St. Seville had pledged himself as Holstrom pugilist, and he’d likely had quite a bit wagered on the earl’s head. When he lost, Holstrom abandoned him, standing on the far side of the square in conversation with a group of gentlemen. The crowd quickly dissipated as those who’d lost their bets moved on, and those who’d been victorious claimed their winnings and headed off to the local alehouse or, if they were wise, home.

And still, St. Seville sat in the square, his head hung in defeat.

Patience was hard set on him reaping what he sowed.

He’d lied to her. He’d done worse than omitting the truth with the intent to deceive her. Their entire time in her carriage had been meant to distract her from his true intentions. She hadn’t asked the correct questions; satisfied with his explanation that he was in London to help his family. Outrage licked at her chest. Something within her demanded that her fury and…hatred for this man and his sport be vocalized. Why would a gentleman in his prime—a lord who knew the repercussions of such an unnecessarily brutal sport—risk his well-being when he had a family waiting for him to return.

Despite her anger and disappointment, Patience couldn’t leave him. The blow that had struck him down was obviously hard enough to give Sin an excruciating headache and induce confusion. She’d spent years regretting that no one—anyone—had been there for her mother when she needed help. If someone had taken notice of her mother before her father had, she might have been spared the cruelty of her death.

And Patience and her siblings would have been blessed with many more years with her.

Perhaps the Earl of Desmond would not be the empty shell he was today had his love not been taken from him.

Never could Patience leave another in need, especially when she had the power to save them.

She scrambled to the ground and called for her driver to follow suit.

She and the servant pushed through the milling crowd until they reached St. Seville. His lip had been split wide once more, and his ear bled, a trickle of blood already drying.

“My lord.” Patience dropped to her knees at St. Seville’s side and grasped his face. His pupils were large, leaving only a thin outline of brown around the edges. “Sin.” When had the name come to represent the earl in her mind? “How many fingers am I holding up?”

She drew her hand back far enough for him to focus on it and held up her gloved fingers.

“Two,” he muttered.

“Very good.” Patience turned to her driver. “Collect his shirt and coat. We will meet you at the carriage when he is able to stand.”

“I will carry him.”

“No, please, collect his belongings and prepare the carriage to depart.” Patience wanted no one, including her servant, to see St. Seville in such a state. Just as her father had been her mother’s only caregiver during the worst of her deterioration, it was dignity Patience attempted to give Sin, despite his lies. Glancing around, she noted Lord Holstrom making his way back toward them, his thunderous expression certainly meant to incite fear in those he planned to confront. At that moment, his outright glare was focused on St. Seville. “I think it best we depart. Can you stand, my lord?”

“Of course.” He made to push to his feet, and Patience slipped her hand under his arm to assist him. Perhaps she should have accepted her servant’s assistance. If the earl had a difficult time remaining on his feet, he could send them both to the ground. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes focused on her before widening and glancing around the square as the crowd continued to disperse. He hadn’t realized it was she at his side.

“You should not be here,” he muttered, but she heard his voice grow stronger with each word.

“Your lip is busted open again, and your ear is bleeding,” she replied sternly. “Let us make it back to the carriage and then we can talk.”

When he nodded, they started toward the street. The crowd had dispersed enough that no one blocked their escape.

“St. Seville!” Holstrom shouted, and Patience felt every cord in Sin’s back tense. “A word.”

They remained facing the street with Holstrom at their back.

“We needn’t stop, my lord,” Patience prodded.

She wanted to be away from the scene, not that it would erase it from her memory or allow her to forget the jeers of the crowd or the sound of fists hitting flesh. Patience took another step toward her waiting carriage, but Sin pulled from her grasp. His head had cleared enough that his balance had returned. It was always the way of things her father had said. Those harrowing moments after a particularly brutal punch when the fighter couldn’t remember where they were, let alone their own name. It faded quickly, and so did the panic and terror of the episode, leaving only an incessant thirst for another match.

The physician had explained that it was akin to the draw of opiate dens for those dependent on the substance.

Patience watched helplessly as Sin strode back to Holstrom, his chin held high despite the almost unnoticeable limp in his step.

They stood twenty paces away, and Patience couldn’t hear what was said, but Holstrom spoke, and Sin nodded before he turned and returned to her. It wasn’t her right to ask what was said or why Sin had lied to her. “My carriage is up ahead,” Patience mumbled, unsure what to say as her fury at his deception clawed at her still. “My driver collected your discarded shirt and coat.”

“I do not need your assistance. I must return to Lord Holstrom and speak with him about…” His entire body tensed before he winced and allowed his shoulders to relax once more. “Thank you, Lady Patience; however, you did not—”

“You will return to Marsh Manor, and Dr. Durpentine will be summoned.” She did not reach out to assist him again but walked slowly by this side. “Your lip needs tending, and you will perhaps need laudanum for the vicious headache certain to come.”

“I can tend to my own wounds, Lady Patience.” Walking side by side, Patience felt the heat radiating off his shirtless upper body—was it anger, embarrassment, or resentment? It did not matter, nor did his misguided notion that she would forsake him now when he needed her.

She had to occupy her mind with thoughts of his injuries. The alternative was the anger, hurt, and betrayal already there. Her emotions were illogical and suspect. She knew this, but was still unable to stop them from coursing through her.

“Home,” Patience called to her driver when she and St. Seville finally made it to the carriage. The streets around the square, only moments before jammed with people, horses, and carriages, were now clear as the spectators moved along.

“No.” St. Seville halted, turning to her. “I can find my own way back to the Albany.”

“You are hurt.” Bloody hell, Patience shouldn’t care that he was injured. It had been his own foolishness that had led them to this point. “It is after dark, and the air is growing chilled with night. But if you prefer to hang on to your pride, I can leave you here in the coming cold. Perhaps you will find your own way home, or…your injuries may be more profound than you realize, and they will hinder you quicker than the elements.”

Patience shrugged when Sin glanced at her waiting carriage and her driver. It was his decision—as it had been her mother’s all those years ago. She could not force help upon those who did not want it. “Mayhap Holstrom will show mercy on you if there is a bit more blood coming from your lip and nose.”

Sin exhaled, and his gaze softened.

“At least allow me to see you back to the Albany,” Patience prodded.

Her driver held out Sin’s shirt and coat, and the earl quickly slid them on, officially transforming himself from Sin—the pugilist—to the Earl of St. Seville. His split lip, quickly bruising eye, and the spot of blood near his ear were the only lingering remnants of the fighter Patience had witnessed for the first time just moments before.

Reluctantly, he acquiesced and followed her into the carriage.

They both took the same seats as earlier in the evening when she’d caught him outside the Albany—on his way to fight. Yet, before her was not the man she’d come face-to-face with in her brother’s room a few nights prior. Nor was he the lord who’d championed her against Holstrom at the soiree.

Though neither was he the fighter she’d witnessed at Bedford Square. Her fury dissipated.

Could the Earl of St. Seville—Sin—be all of those things yet none of them at all?

Were there additional complexities to him that Patience had yet to learn?

They both remained silent as the carriage hurried through the dark London streets toward the Albany. Patience had too many questions milling about in her mind, the answers to which may or may not wound her more than watching helplessly as Sin’s opponent pummeled him.

Could Patience wait feebly in the crowd as the Earl of St. Seville—or any other fighter—risked his life at this violent sport?