Page 17 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"I have no desire to win your estate," Darcy drawled, inspecting a speck of dust on his sleeve. "I imagine it is tacky. But I have coin. And I am bored."

He pulled the heavy purse from his pocket and dropped it on the table. It hit the baize with a heavy, satisfying thud.

"Five hundred guineas," Darcy announced. "To start."

The Butcher stared at the purse. Greed, naked and ugly, flickered in his eyes. He licked his lips.

"Sit," the Butcher commanded. He kicked the chair opposite him.

Darcy sat. He kept his spine straight, not because he was a prig, but because he was afraid if he relaxed, his knees would shake.

Robert pulled up a chair to watch, lounging with the elegance of a Roman emperor. Richard stood behind Darcy, his arms crossed, staring at the Butcher's guard until the man looked away.

"Piquet?" the Butcher asked, shuffling a deck of cards with incredible dexterity.

"If you insist," Darcy shrugged. "Though I prefer games of skill."

The Butcher laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound. "Cocky. I respect cocky. Reminds me of a lad I met last night. Wore a fancy waistcoat. Cried like a baby."

Darcy froze. His hand clenched on the table.

"Indeed?" He tried for nonchalance. "I do not cry. And I do not lose."

"We'll see." The Butcher dealt the cards. They flew across the table, snapping against the felt.

Darcy picked up his hand and looked at the cards. He knew the rules. He knew the math. But he did not know the man.

Robert leaned in, whispering in Darcy's ear under the guise of checking his drink.

"He holds the Ace of Spades in his left sleeve," Robert murmured. "And he scratches his nose when he bluffs. Destroy him, Darcy."

Darcy gazed at the Butcher. He saw the grease on the man's chin. He saw the arrogance. And suddenly, the fear vanished. It was replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

This man had terrified George. This man held the Darcy legacy in a greasy pocket.

Darcy arranged his cards. He raised his eyes to the Butcher. He did not smile. He let the "Mask" slide into place—the image of the absolute, unyielding judgment that would one day define him.

"Your deal, sir," he gestured to the cards. "Try not to cheat. It bores me."

Chapter Six: The Art of the Distraction

The parlour of The Serpent's Tooth vibrated with tension, cigar smoke, and the heavy, metallic scent of greed.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stared at his cards. To a normal man, the hand was a disaster—a jumble of low numbers and mismatched suits. But Darcy did not see disaster. He saw probability. He saw vectors. He saw that the statistical likelihood of the Butcher holding aQuarte Majorwas, given the discard pile, approximately 4.2 percent.

"Well?" The Butcher grunted, drumming his thick fingers on the baize. "You gonna play, Lord Popinjay? Or are you gonna admire the pattern on the back?"

"Patience," Darcy murmured. He discarded two cards with a flick of his wrist. "I am calculating."

"Calculating?" The Butcher laughed, a wet, snorting sound that sprayed crumbs onto the table. "This ain't arithmetic, man. This is war."

"War is arithmetic," Richard interjected from behind Darcy's chair. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Just with more bleeding."

The Butcher glared at the soldier, then turned his beady eyes back to the prey. He slammed a heavy gold ring onto the table.

"I raise," he declared. "Fifty guineas."

The room quieted. Spectators leaned in, sensing blood.