Page 16 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

A terrified waiter scuttled over.

"Sir?"

"What is this swill?" Robert gestured wildly at a passing tray of drinks. "I asked for claret! This is vinegar! It is an insult to the grape! It is an insult to France! It is an insult tome!"

The room went silent. Card games paused. Dice froze in mid-air. Everyone turned to stare at the lunatic in burgundy velvet.

"Sir, we—"

"Do you know who I am?" Robert demanded, his voice rising an octave. "I am Viscount Keathley! I possess a palate of refined sensitivity! If I drink this, I shall perish! And then my ghost will haunt this establishment and critique your curtains!"

Richard leaned close to Darcy. "He is good."

"He is embarrassing," Darcy hissed, wishing the floor would open up.

"Exactly," Richard grinned. "Look at the Butcher."

Darcy risked a glance. In the corner, the purple-clad toad had stopped eating his chicken. He was watching Robert with a mixture of annoyance and calculation.

"My friend," Robert continued, now grabbing the waiter by the lapels. "I require wine that has seen a grape. And I require a table that does not wobble. My companion"—he gestured grandly at Darcy—"is Mr Darcy. He wishes to play cards. But he refuses to play on furniture that is structurally unsound!"

The Butcher's eyes shifted. They landed on Darcy. They took in the brandy-soaked coat, the sneer of disgust, and the distinct aura of a young man with more money than sense.

The Butcher wiped grease from his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He beckoned to a heavy-set man standing guard by the rope.

The guard approached the cousins.

"Mr Butcher invites the gentlemen to his table," the guard grunted. "The furniture is sturdy."

Robert released the waiter. He smoothed his velvet coat. He winked at Darcy.

"On stage, Prig."

The walk to the private table was a march to the gallows, if the gallows were upholstered in red velvet.

Darcy's heart hammered against his ribs. He focused on his breathing.In. Out. Do not vomit.He thought of George in the cellar. He thought of his father. He thought of the five hundred guineas.

They reached the rope. The guard lifted it.

The Butcher did not stand. He leaned back, picking his teeth with a gold toothpick. Up close, he smelled of roasted meat and lavender water—a combination that nearly finished Darcy off.

"Viscount Keathley," the Butcher rumbled, his voice carrying the sound of rocks grinding together. "And Mr Darcy. I hear you have property."

"Some." Darcy's voice came out flat, cold. The sheer repulsiveness of the man made the acting easier. He did not have to pretend to be haughty. Hewasoffended by this man's existence. "I own a significant portion of Derbyshire."

"Derbyshire," the Butcher mused. "Lots of rocks in Derbyshire."

"And coal," Darcy added. "And sheep. And dignity."

Richard choked back a laugh, turning it into a cough.

The Butcher narrowed his eyes. "You're here for a game, Mr Darcy? Or just for better wine?"

"I am here for a challenge," Darcy lied, channelling every ounce of Robert's coaching. "My cousin tells me this establishment offers high stakes. So far, I see only penny-ante whist and bad tailoring."

The Butcher's face turned a shade of puce that clashed violently with his coat.

"Penny-ante?" He slammed a heavy hand on the table. The gold rings clattered. "I play for blood, man. I play for estates."