Page 8 of Earl of St. Seville

The hack creaked and groaned as it stopped before a bleak, non-descript building made of sandstone. “This is it?”

“Yes, m’lord,” the driver confirmed. “Will ye be need’n a hack home?”

Sin dug into the pocket of his trousers for the few meager coins he’d brought with him. “Ah, no. No, thank you, mate.”

For Sin’s troubles the previous night, Coventry would be responsible for seeing him back to the Albany—and perhaps giving Sin a meal to go with the scotch he desperately needed.

He flipped two shillings to the driver and hopped down to the walk to stare up at the building.

The gathering place for the Wicked Earls’ Club—formally, The Earls’ Guild.

His father had often spoken of the place: a sanctuary where men could find a proper meal, a card game, a fencing match, or far more illicit pastimes.

Not that his father had been the type of man prone to debauchery, even in his youth. Spending all the family coin, yes, that he’d done. Enjoying nights of unsavory entertainments, no. It seemed that unwise and impractical business ventures were Sin’s father’s crutch. It was only years later that Sin realized it allowed his father to remain hopeful despite the crushing failures that continued to plague his every investment. Had his father and the Earl of Desmond met within these very walls? Had they shared meals together or played billiards?

With those questions came the realization of how truly alone Sin was in London. Besides his correspondence and meeting with Coventry, he knew no one. And in turn, that made him an unknown to anyone in London. Thankfully, Coventry had insisted that he knew a gentleman who would back Sin and help him acquire a few boxing matches, putting up the funds necessary to participate.

The door to the club opened, and a servant offered Sin a welcoming smile.

“The Earl of St. Seville, I presume?” the servant inquired, his speech not that of a common servant but cultured, bordering on educated. When Sin nodded, the man continued, “This way, please. Lord Coventry is awaiting your arrival.”

Sin stepped into the building and immediately regretted not tying his long hair back from his face—or having it cut in a proper fashion. He also lamented wearing his tattered, well-used coat—not that he had any other option. The luxurious interior of the club was unlike anything Sin had ever seen. The sheer amount of wood was enough to keep several servants busy for days polishing, and the floors glistened beneath his boots.

He was lucky he hadn’t been turned away and denied entrance.

But then he remembered the reason he was without his finely tailored new coat and the twenty pounds tucked in its inner pocket. His temper simmered, and Sin suspected it would be a task to keep it under control until his meeting with the earl concluded.

He needs must remember, despite what had occurred in the alley, Coventry was his only ally in London—at least until he was introduced to someone who could fix him up with matches worth large purse money. Then…then Coventry could go to the devil with his backhanded surprise and take his fancy club with him. Sin was an earl, but these were not the men he was used to associating with.

Sin followed the servant through the main room toward a long, narrow hall, staring at the many men reclining in overstuffed armchairs in groups or sitting before the open hearth, reading the London Post, conducting business, or simply enjoying a meal.

As he passed a room with the double doors thrown wide, he noted two men embroiled in a gravely serious billiards match. He had the urge to stop and watch—perhaps even join them. To be a man unburdened by the responsibilities of family and his title was something Sin hadn’t experienced in many, many years. To be a gentleman with genuine friendships, men—and even women—whom he could speak to of his many hardships and ask for advice, knowing the words spoken came from a place of kinship, was something Sin might never encounter. Taking on the burden meant that others were free of the weight that threatened to crush him. And for that sole reason, Sin would endeavor to keep those he loved disencumbered.

“Lord Coventry’s office is down this hall,” the footman said, gesturing away from the club’s common areas. “If you will follow me.”

Sin turned away from the two men and did as instructed.

He was shown to an office, though it nearly mirrored his father’s study from Brownsea Island. Books lined every wall, and the earl’s desk was neat and organized.

The lord did not stand when Sin entered the room, simply gave a vague nod of welcome as the man’s green eyes fixed on him. Was he taking in Sin’s size? Perhaps regretting his decision to have Sin set upon by the ruffian? Coventry seemed more than a bit startled by the man before him, and Sin couldn’t help but grin. The earl was not what Sin had expected either. The man was at least a decade older than Sin had presumed with his hair already turning a salt-and-pepper grey. His advanced age and greying hair seemed not to diminish his boyish appearance, though, and Sin understood why the man surrounded himself with young earls.

“Have a seat.” Coventry gestured to the chair across from him, and Sin noticed for the first time that the coat that had been stolen the night before was laid precisely over the back. “We have much to discuss, and I am a busy man.”

Sin responded by collecting his jacket and sitting. He must remember that he was here for a purpose. If he allowed his temper to flare, it could very well ruin any chance he had of winning the prize money he so desperately needed.

That Coventry knew how desperate Sin was only added to his disadvantage.

He was at the earl’s mercy.

Sin knew it. Coventry knew it. And he only hoped that all of London didn’t know the extent of his family’s financial situation.

When Sin laid the coat across his lap, something shiny and gold caught his eye in the folds of his lapel.

“Welcome,” Coventry said as Sin fumbled with his coat to get a better look at what was attached to the newly tailored material.

The bloody garment had cost him more than a year’s worth of seed for the field behind his stables. The land would have grown enough wheat to keep his entire estate fed with fresh bread for over six months.

“What is this?” Sin unclasped the gold W that’d been secured to his coat lapel as he attempted to keep his shock hidden. The pin itself was no doubt made of pure gold and worth five times more than the bloody coat. “And what do you mean, ‘welcome?’”