Page 18 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Darcy did not flinch. He glanced at Robert, who hovered near his shoulder holding a glass of claret he had no intention of drinking. He offered a microscopic nod.

"I see your fifty." Darcy counted the coins from his purse. "And I raise another fifty."

A ripple of whispers tore through the onlookers.

The Butcher narrowed his eyes. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He fingered the cuff of his purple coat—the exact spot Robert had identified as the Ace Repository.

"You got bollocks made of stones, man," the Butcher growled. "I'll give you that. Or you're stupid."

"Perhaps both," Darcy replied. "But I believe I have the point."

He laid down his hand.

The Butcher took in the cards. He turned purple, matching his coat. He threw his own cards down—a losing hand.

"Beginner's luck!" the Butcher roared, sweeping the coins towards Darcy with a snarl. "Again!"

"Happy to oblige, sir." Darcy stacked his winnings into neat, geometric towers. He felt a strange, cold thrill in his chest. It was not the joy of gambling. It was the satisfaction of order triumphing over a man who wore that much hair oil.

"He is cheating," Robert whispered in Darcy's ear discreetly. "Now he holds the King of Hearts between his thumb and the table edge. Do not look."

"I know," Darcy whispered back, keeping his eyes on the deck. "His mathematics are impossible."

"We need the box," Robert murmured. "He has not produced it yet. Bait him."

Darcy cleared his throat. He leaned back, affecting a boredom he did not feel.

"This is tedious," Darcy announced to the room. "I came for high stakes. This is child's play. I have won a hundred guineas, and I have barely engaged my intellect."

The Butcher froze. The vein in his neck throbbed.

"Tedious?" the Butcher hissed.

"Incredibly," Darcy sighed. "Do you have anything ofrealvalue? Or shall I take my winnings and find a game where the opponents do not breathe so heavily?"

The insult landed heavy on the table. The Butcher stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards.

"You want value?" he roared. "I'll show you value, you little fop!"

He reached into his heavy purple coat. He fumbled for a moment, then withdrew an object wrapped in a dirty rag. He slammed it onto the table.

The rag fell away.

The Emerald Snuffbox sat on the green baize. Even in the dim, smoky light, it gleamed with an arrogant brilliance. The gold filigree shone in the candlelight. The central emerald seemed to stare at Darcy like a disapproving eye.

His father's eye.

Darcy felt his breath hitch. It was there. The family honour. The steward's life. All sitting next to a pile of greasy coins.

"There," the Butcher spat. "Worth five hundred guineas easily. Probably more to the right collector. Or the right fence."

He placed a heavy hand over the box.

"I bet the box," he declared. "Against everything you have on the table. One hand. Sudden death."

Darcy glanced at the emeralds peeking out from under the sausage fingers.

"Done."