Chapter Five The Serpent’s Tooth
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."
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.'"
"I am better 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.
"Garcon!" Robert roared. The sound cut through the din like a trumpet blast.
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 to me!"
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. He was offended 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."
"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."