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.
"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.
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 of real value? 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."
"Wait," Robert interrupted. He stepped forward, waving his cane. "This is highly irregular! We require an inspection! How do we know it is real? It could be glass! It could be paste!"
"It ain't paste!" the Butcher shouted.
"I demand an assay!" Robert cried, his voice pitching up into the rafters. "I demand a jeweller! I demand competence!"
The Butcher turned his glare on Robert. "Sit down, you peacock, or I'll have my man break your legs."
The heavy-set guard took a step towards Robert.
Richard uncrossed his arms. He stepped in front of his brother, blocking the guard's path.
"Touch his ridiculous coat," Richard said, a pleasant smile on his face, "and I will feed you your own teeth."
The atmosphere in the room shifted from tense to combustible. Men reached for bottles. Chairs shifted.
Darcy kept his eyes on the box. The Butcher was distracted by the shouting match. His hand had lifted slightly from the emeralds.
"Now," Robert shouted.
It was not a conversational "now." It was a command.
Robert spun around. He grabbed the nearest patron—a small, bewildered man drinking gin—and hauled him upright.
"He touched me!" Robert shrieked, flinging his wine into the man's face. "The cad! The villain! He has insulted the honour of Viscount Keathley!"
The wet, confused patron sputtered. "I never!"
"He is a French sympathizer!" Robert bellowed, flipping a nearby table. Coins and cards went flying. "Death to the Republic! Brawl!"
Pandemonium erupted.
It was instantaneous. In a room full of drunk, angry men who had lost money, Robert's invitation to violence was accepted with glee. A bottle flew through the air and smashed against the wall. A chair disintegrated. Two men started punching each other for no reason at all.
The Butcher turned his head towards the noise.
"What the—"
Darcy moved without thinking. He lunged across the table. His hand closed around the cool, hard metal of the snuffbox.
"Hey!" the Butcher roared, realising his mistake. He grabbed Darcy's wrist.
Whack.
Richard appeared. He brought the pommel of his sword down on the Butcher's knuckles with a sickening crack.
The Butcher howled, releasing his grip.
"Run!" Richard shouted, grabbing Darcy by the collar and hauling him backward.
The room was a swirling vortex of violence. Robert was in the centre of it, fending off the guard with his cane, laughing maniacally.
"En garde, you oaf!" Robert shouted, parrying a blow and rapping the man sharply on the nose. "That is for the bad wine!"
"Go!" Richard shoved Darcy towards the door. "Get the box out!"
"But Robert—!"
"I am fine!" Robert yelled, ducking a flying tankard. "Go! I shall cover the retreat!"
Darcy scrambled over a fallen chair, clutching the snuffbox to his chest. The bruiser blocked the exit, a wall of muscle and no neck.
"You ain't leaving," the bruiser grunted.
Richard did not slow down. He did not even draw his sword. He simply lowered his shoulder and hit the man in the midriff like a battering ram. The bruiser folded, wheezing.
Richard kicked the door open. The cool, foggy night air rushed in.
"Out!" Richard shoved Darcy out and then grabbed Robert by the velvet coat tails, dragging him away from the fight. "We have the package!"
The three of them tumbled into the alley.
"My hat!" Robert gasped, straightening his lapels. "I lost my hat!"
"Forget the hat!" Darcy yelled, adrenaline coursing through him. "Run!"
They sprinted down the alley, their polished Hessians splashing in puddles. Behind them, the sounds of the brawl spilled out into the street—shouts, crashing glass, and the Butcher roaring for blood.
Darcy ran faster than he had ever run in his life. He clutched the emerald box so tight the corners dug into his palm. He was not thinking about posture. He was not thinking about dignity. He was thinking that he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, had just robbed a crime lord.
They reached the waiting carriage at the end of the street. The driver, sensing the urgency, had the horses already moving.
Richard threw the door open. He pushed Darcy inside, then Robert. He leaped in last as the carriage lurched forward, wheels clattering on the stones.
They collapsed onto the squabs, gasping for air.
Robert was missing his hat. His cravat was gone. But his eyes were shining like a madman's.
"Do you have it?" Richard demanded, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Darcy sat up and opened his hand.
There, resting on his palm, was the Emerald Snuffbox. Safe. Intact.
"I have it," Darcy breathed.
Robert let out a whoop of delight. He pulled a flask from his boot—one of his endless stashes—and raised it.
"To the School of Scoundrels!" he said gravely.
Darcy looked at the box. He looked at his crazy cousins. And then, he did the unthinkable.
He threw his head back and laughed.