Page 14 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"The Butcher does not fear neatness. He fears money he cannot catch." Robert reached out and ruthlessly yanked Darcy's cravat loose. He mussed the starch. He unbuttoned the top of Darcy's waistcoat.

"Robert!" Darcy batted his hands away. "I am unravelling!"

"You are relaxing," Robert corrected. He grabbed a flask of brandy from the table and splashed a small amount onto Darcy's lapel.

"You ruined the wool!" Darcy gasped, sniffing the fumes.

"Now you reek of a mark," Robert declared. "Rich, slightly foxed, and careless. That is the character, Darcy. You are not Mr Darcy of Pemberley, responsible scholar. You are Mr Darcy, heir to a fortune, bored by your own wealth."

"I am not bored," Darcy grumbled. "I am nauseous."

"Use it," Richard advised, checking his pistols one last time. "Be disdainful. As if the smell of the room offends you."

"That will not be difficult since we are going to a gaming hell."

Robert checked his pocket watch. "The carriage is waiting in the mews. We enter through the rear. Richard, you flank us. If trouble starts, someone flips the table."

"I love flipping tables," Richard grinned.

"Darcy," Robert placed a hand on his cousin's shoulder. The mockery vanished for a second, replaced by steel. "This man has your family name in his pocket. He thinks he can bully George. He thinks the Darcys are weak."

Darcy straightened. The nausea settled into a cold, hard knot in his stomach. He thought of his father. He thought of the terror in George's eyes.

"He is mistaken."

"Good." Robert picked up his cane. He flourished it like a sabre. "Then let us go and educate him."

They marched out of the room, leaving the safety of the Earl's house behind. A few streets away, in the dark, the prisoner waited. Ahead of them, the Butcher had no idea he was about to lose in his own game.

And Darcy, with brandy on his coat and ice in his veins, was ready to play.

Chapter Five: The Serpent's Tooth

The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of Covent Garden, a vehicle of luxury descending into the bowels of the city. Inside, the air smelled of old leather and Robert's liberal application of brandy to Darcy's lapel.

"Remember," Robert lectured, checking his reflection in the darkened window. "You are not Fitzwilliam Darcy, scholar and prig. You are Mr Darcy, a man so wealthy he uses guineas to level wobbly tables."

Darcy sat rigid on the squabs. "I feel ridiculous. My cravat is loose. I can feel the draft on my neck. It is unsanitary."

"It is rakish," Robert corrected. He turned to Richard. "And you? Are you ready to menace?"

Richard cracked his knuckles. The sound was loud in the confined space. "I am always ready to menace. I have not punched a civilian since Sunday services. I am due."

The carriage jolted to a halt.

They stepped out into the fog. The Serpent's Tooth did not advertise its presence. It sat behind a black door in a narrow alley, flanked by piles of refuse that smelled aggressively of rotten cabbage. A single oil lamp sputtered above the lintel, casting a sickly yellow light on the bruiser.

The bruiser was a slab of meat carved into the vague shape of a human. He had no neck, he had knuckles that grazed his knees, and an expression that suggested he ate gravel for breakfast.

"Members only," the slab grunted.

Robert stepped forward. He did not cringe. He did not apologise. He raised his quizzing glass and inspected the man as if he were a fungus on a prize rose.

"I am Viscount Keathley," he drawled, his voice dripping with aristocratic boredom. "This is Mr Darcy. He owns Derbyshire. All of it. Even the sheep. And we are incredibly thirsty."

The bruiser blinked. "Mr Darcy?"

"In the flesh," Robert sighed, waving a hand at Darcy. "Look at him. Have you ever seen a man that miserable? Only the truly rich can achieve that level of existential despair."