Page 15 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Darcy, who was currently trying to hold his breath to avoid the cabbage stench, did indeed look as if he wished for death. He stared at the man with watery eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line.

The bruiser studied Darcy. He saw the boots (worth a year's wages). He saw the coat (worth two years). He smelled the brandy.

"Five guineas entry," he decided.

Robert laughed. It was a bright, sharp sound. "Five? For the privilege of entering this hole? Charming."

He snapped his fingers.

Darcy jumped. He fumbled in his pocket, retrieving a heavy purse. He tossed a few gold coins at the bruiser. One missed and rolled into the gutter.

Darcy made a move to retrieve it.

"Leave it," Robert hissed, grabbing his arm. "Rich men do not chase coins in the muck, you idiot."

Darcy straightened. "It is a guinea! That buys a cow!"

"To you, it is a pebble," Robert whispered furiously. He turned back to the bruiser with a dazzling smile. "Keep the change. Buy yourself a neck."

The bruiser stepped aside. The black door swung open.

A wall of heat, noise, and smoke rolled out to meet them.

"Into the breach," Richard muttered, hand on his sword hilt. "Try not to faint, Darcy."

"I never faint," Darcy lied, stepping into the dark side of London.

The interior of The Serpent's Tooth resembled a library, if the librarian had been Satan and the books replaced by gin bottles.

Chandeliers thick with wax drippings hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly glare through a haze of tobacco smoke. Men huddled around green baize tables, their faces illuminated by greed and candlelight. The air vibrated with the click of dice, the slap of cards, and the low murmur of fortunes vanishing.

Darcy coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. "The ventilation is inadequate."

"Stop assessing the architecture," Robert commanded. "Be dissolute. Slouch."

Darcy attempted a slouch. The result was less 'casual repose' and more 'ramrod afflicted with gout'.

"We need the Butcher," Richard murmured, his eyes scanning the room with predatory efficiency. "Where is the target?"

"There," Robert pointed with his cane.

In the far corner, separated from the rabble by a velvet rope, was a man who could only be the Butcher.

He was wide. Not fat, but expansive, taking up two chairs. He wore a coat of violent purple silk and enough gold rings to sink a frigate. His face was a map of scars, and he was currently eating a chicken leg with one hand while holding a hand of cards with the other.

"Subtle," Richard noted.

"He resembles a toad dressed for a coronation," Darcy observed, his lip curling.

"Perfect," Robert beamed. "That sneer, Darcy! Hold that sneer! It is magnificent. It says, 'I am better than you and your purple coat.'"

"Iambetter than his purple coat. It clashes with the upholstery."

"Excellent. Now, watch and learn."

Robert strode into the centre of the room. He stopped, looking around. And then, he exploded.

"Garçon!" Robert roared. The sound cut through the din like a trumpet blast.