Chapter 11
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: An Eye for an Eye (3)
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Several days had passed since I began the special training at Charles Wellesley’s estate.
He was a bit slower than I’d expected, but thankfully, Wellesley was gradually developing the eye to catch a bottom deal.
At first, his inability to spot it was worryingly bad, but it wasn't because his perception was terrible.
It was simply that I was regaining my old proficiency faster than his senses were sharpening.
Of course, if I told Wellesley to glare and watch for a bottom deal, he could have easily spotted it.
But what kind of madman would pull a bottom deal right in front of someone watching him like a hawk?
I could probably manage it in a different way, but the charlatans at that gambling den certainly couldn't.
No, in fact, the moment Wellesley showed any sign of suspicion, they would likely make up a plausible excuse and refuse to let him join the game.
Or, if they did let him play, they’d lower the stakes to a minimum and keep him in safe games.
Swindlers are a naturally suspicious bunch; they constantly observe and size up their marks.
So, to fleece them in return, we needed to maintain the appearance of a juicy, delectable target at all times.
The moment they caught even a whiff of something off, they’d bolt.
“You’re finally getting the hang of it. We should be able to put the plan into action next week.”
“I just… I can’t believe it, even after practicing together for days. It’s natural for my skills to improve, I suppose. But why does it seem like your technique is getting even better?”
“I’m not getting better. This is just how good I’ve always been.”
“Ah, I see. You were holding back to match my level at first.”
“Something like that. By the way, are you sure about getting that letter of recommendation from the Duke of Wellington? I’ve been using that as an excuse at home, and things could get complicated if our stories don’t line up later.”
It would have been fine if it were a one-time thing, but I was now visiting Wellesley’s estate regularly.
I was using the recommendation letter as an excuse with my father and James, so I had to consider the possibility that my father might meet the Duke of Wellington someday.
What if the Duke of Wellington reacted with, ‘And who is this Killian?’
It wouldn't be impossible to talk my way out of it, but it could create a slight crack in the otherwise perfect trust they had in me.
That could never be allowed to happen.
Besides, one of the minor goals of this plan was to establish a connection with the Duke of Wellington, so I needed Wellesley to do his part.
But why did he seem so unreliable?
Graduating from Eton College and succeeding in the military suggested he was a genuine elite, not just pretending to be one, but my first impression of him was poor.
The first time I saw him, he was getting fleeced by swindlers who were, in my eyes, pathetically inept.
It would be stranger if I did trust him.
Wellesley seemed to notice my apprehension and scratched his head with an awkward laugh.
“I’ll take responsibility for the letter, so you can trust me. I’ll just tell my father you’re a bright and intelligent student I happened to meet.”
“Did I say otherwise? I trust you implicitly, Lord Wellesley. Still, as you just said, I am nothing more than an intelligent student. No one, apart from my partner, you, should know the details about me.”
“Of course. From now on, your gains are my gains. It’s in my best interest that no one else knows your true worth.”
In truth, that last request was, as Wellesley said, rather redundant.
From his perspective, if someone else discovered my true capabilities, they might try to poach me with a better offer.
He would want to hide me away like a precious treasure.
Though it would be more accurate to say that I chose him, not that he was hiding me. But there was no need to point that out.
It was only a plan, after all; nothing was set in stone.
Of course, if he handled this task well, he would be more than capable of serving as my shield.
Honestly, it wasn't easy to find someone with his kind of background.
So I could only hope he had the ability to swallow what was being spoon-fed to him.
But surely, the son of the hero who defeated Napoleon and a prodigy from the British Empire’s most prestigious school could manage that much, right?
I’ll believe. I’ll believe in Wellesley.
“By the way, Killian, what was that line you told me to shout when I grab their hand?”
“No, I was just joking when I said that.”
Hmm. I can trust him… right?
***
Fortunately, it seemed Wellesley wasn't a completely hopeless case.
Or perhaps my relentless "if it doesn't work, keep trying until it does" approach had paid off.
Through grueling special training, I had finally managed to transform Wellesley into a living bottom-deal detection machine.
Once I was convinced he could pull his own weight, I decided to proceed with the plan immediately.
And so, the very next day, with all preparations complete,
I visited the gambling den as usual, accompanied by a single guard assigned by Wellesley.
“Oh, Young Master, you’re here again today. Here for another round of odds and evens?”
“I’ve been playing nothing but odds and evens. I’d like to try something new today.”
“Then how about guessing the color of the marble? That’s also a fun little game. By the way, what happened to the butler you first came with? You always seem to be with someone different these days.”
“James despises gambling dens. It’s easier to come with someone else if I want to enjoy a few light games.”
“Hahaha, that fellow did seem a bit stiff. Please, have a seat. I’ll bring you a glass of warm milk.”
It went without saying that even after meeting Wellesley, I had continued to show up at the gambling den regularly to monitor the situation.
If I had stayed away for a while and then suddenly reappeared on the day of the plan, it might have aroused unnecessary suspicion.
They were unlikely to view a ten-year-old boy like me with suspicion, but overconfidence was a fatal flaw.
After getting burned once in my past life, the word ‘complacency’ had been erased from my vocabulary.
As I settled into a suitable spot, Wellesley’s trusted men, whom we had registered as members over the past few days, began to enter.
Most of them took seats surrounding the table where Wellesley would soon sit, pretending to enjoy their games.
The stage was set. It was time for the main character to make his entrance.
About thirty minutes later, Wellesley walked in, accompanied by his butler, his gait as casual as ever.
As soon as he saw him, the gambling den’s owner personally went to greet him, bowing at a ninety-degree angle.
That man’s name was Jack, I think.
Wellesley had done some digging and found out the man was competent enough to run a sizable establishment like this.
He’d made some money as a merchant in the past and built up a decent network by cleaning up after nobles.
This place was the result of his ambitious venture, and up until now, the profits must have been quite handsome.
He should have been content with that, but I suppose human greed knows no bounds.
“Welcome! Thank you for gracing us with your presence again today.”
“Of course I’d come. Where else would I go to relieve my stress?”
“As always, I’ll show you to the best seat.”
“Ah, and today, find me some players with deep pockets. I recently had a big card game with my unit and wiped the floor with them. I’m here today with those winnings. A game where about a thousand pounds are on the line would be perfect.”
Hearing the words “one thousand pounds,” the owner’s mouth stretched into a wide grin.
It’s not easy to make a precise comparison between the modern era and the 1830s, but a rough estimate puts the difference in monetary value at over 130 times.
This means that 1,000 pounds back then was worth roughly 130,000 pounds by modern standards.
That’s nearly 200 million won in modern currency. In an era where even a skilled worker’s annual income was barely over 50 pounds, 1,000 pounds was a substantial sum.
Of course, fleecing him for the whole amount at once would be too obvious, so they wouldn't go that far. But even taking just 30 percent would be 300 pounds.
That alone was an amount skilled workers would have to toil for five or six years to save, and unskilled workers would have to save for over a decade without spending a single penny.
For someone who could rig the game and guarantee a win, how could he not be ecstatic?
“A thousand pounds, you say… Let me see. I’ll need to gather some high rollers. Please wait just a moment. I’ll have it arranged for you shortly.”
“Excellent. Let’s really go all out today.”
“Thank you for your understanding. I’ll get it ready quickly!”
“Take your time, no need to rush. Hahaha!”
The sight of both men, beaming as they prepared the game, looked like a scene from a black comedy to me.
If you were to personify the phrase ‘same bed, different dreams,’ it would look exactly like that.
As I waited, pretending to be guessing the marble’s color, the dealer and other players soon began to arrive and take their seats.
When Wellesley finally sat down, the main event was at last underway.
“The rules are the same as usual, I assume? And the stakes?”
“Yes. Everything will be just as you’re used to.”
“Good, good. Well then, with such a hefty bankroll today, let’s enjoy ourselves all day.”
It was still the beginning, so they exchanged playful banter as the cards were dealt.
The pot was only about a pound, and the other side wasn’t pulling any obvious tricks yet.
But that was only a matter of time.
As the game progressed, the atmosphere grew more heated. Wellesley, too, began his act, speaking less and pretending to focus his gaze on the cards in front of him.
The pot, which had been increasing by one pound at a time, suddenly jumped to ten-pound increments. The other side must have felt the time was right.
Sure enough, the dealer shot a subtle glance toward Wellesley, so slight that only I could see it.
It was a look to confirm if he was engrossed enough in the game not to notice them starting their work.
The old Wellesley might have missed it, but the man who had undergone my rigorous training couldn't possibly have failed to notice the dealer's glance.
The proof was in the way he kept his eyes fixed on the cards in his hand and made a soft hissing sound, as if to say, *I’m completely focused on the game*.
Was that his way of signaling to me that he saw everything and I had nothing to worry about?
I had planned to give him a signal if he failed to catch them in the act, but it seemed that wouldn't be necessary.
It wasn't quite the feeling of a mother bird sending her fledgling out of the nest… but I did feel a sense of pride in having turned a poor soul who was constantly getting suckered at the gambling table into a proper man.
While I was wallowing in this minor sentimentality,
the gambling den’s dealer subtly shuffled the cards so that the ones he intended to palm were at the bottom of the deck, signaling the start of the real game.
A familiar and nostalgic sight, yet for that very reason, a detestable one.
The dealer continued to feign a shuffle, his hands moving smoothly to pull out the hidden cards.
It looked like an even shuffle and deal, but his eyes darted between the cards he’d palmed and Wellesley.
In his mind, he had already planned out which cards to distribute and how.
With the same natural, calm expression he always wore.
It was the steady hand of a man who believed he had never been caught and never would be.
While the cards were being shuffled, Wellesley, as instructed, didn't look at the dealer, instead moving only his eyes to watch the player across from him.
It was a magnificent performance, the very picture of a perfect mark.
Finally, the dealer finished his shuffle, slid his hand smoothly to pull a card from the bottom, and just as he was about to deal it—
Wellesley snatched the dealer’s hand and smiled coldly.
“Quit the act! Slip in a bottom deal, huh?”
The dealer, his hand caught mid-air, and the den’s owner, who had been watching the whole scene, both turned deathly pale.
A strange silence fell over Wellesley’s previously noisy table, as if it had been severed from the rest of the world.
In the center of the frozen gambling den, I took a sip of my warm milk and scanned the faces of the still-rigid swindlers.
True professionals would have already reacted by now, but look at them, completely paralyzed.
This is why you’re the ones getting eaten.
The look on the faces of those who had firmly believed they were predators as they began to realize they were the prey.
If only I could drink, there would be no better snack to go with it. It was a shame this body couldn't handle alcohol yet.
By the way, I only said it as a joke, but I can’t believe he actually spat out that line.
I never thought I’d hear “Quit the act! Slip in a bottom deal, huh?” delivered with a classic 19th-century accent.
This is why you have to live a long life to see everything.
Even if it is in the body of a ten-year-old.