The word VIP hadn't become fashionable yet, but the idea was older than empires:treat your "important customers" differently.
Important customer—written politely.Sucker—read honestly.
It didn't really matter what you called them, as long as they didn't realize it. If they stayed ignorant, they'd chalk it up to bad luck, curse the cards, and hand over their money with a bitter smile.
And the man seated at the central table—the one they'd placed at the best seat in the room—had that kind of scent.
A premium mark.
I kept my face blank and tugged lightly at James's sleeve, pointing toward the raised table.
"Those people… the ones playing over there. Who are they?"
"Probably the ones with money," James said, squinting. "Or status. That gentleman… I feel like I've seen him somewhere—"
Before James could finish, the house manager slid in smoothly, eager to fill the silence.
"Quite right, sir. That table is reserved for our distinguished guests. We make a special effort to ensure our… noble patrons enjoy themselves."
A special effort, huh.
He wasn't even lying.
If you cheated ordinary tradesmen, you could slip away with bruises and an angry mob.If you cheated men with names and power—men who could ruin you without touching a courtroom—you didn't get a second chance.
You had to be careful. Methodical. Invisible.
That kind of caution took skill. And the way the dealer at that table moved—how the wins and losses arrived in neat little doses—confirmed it.
They weren't stripping the man bare in one night. They were feeding him victories like sugar, letting him taste the high, then slowly collecting the debt with interest.
It was disciplined. Patient.
Not amateur work.
I forced my voice to sound younger—airier, harmless.
"So he's super rich? Like… ridiculously rich?"
"Not necessarily," the manager replied with a practiced smile. "We don't only consider money. We consider position."
"Position?"
James's eyes sharpened as if a memory clicked into place. He snapped his fingers once.
"That's it. My lord—pardon, my young master. I remember him now. That's Mr. Charles Wellesley."
Wellesley.
The name rang like a bell I'd heard in another life, somewhere between textbooks and gossip.
James leaned closer, lowering his voice as though the room itself might listen.
"He's the second son of His Grace, Arthur Wellesley—the Duke of Wellington. The hero of Waterloo. The Prime Minister. Napoleon's rival… and the man who finally brought him down."
Ah.
That Wellesley.
Britain's eternal victory—reheated and served for generations. In this era, the man's shadow must have stretched across the entire kingdom.
"So… his son must be a big deal too, right?"
"I've heard he attended Eton, then entered the army. He should be a major by now—perhaps higher."
Eton. Army.
A spotless path for a second son from a name like that.
And this den? It was treating him as an "important customer" for exactly the reasons you'd expect: not because he needed the money, but because his displeasure could be expensive.
Good. Now I understood the board.
Still, something bothered me—enough that I asked the question out loud.
"Wait. The Prime Minister is supposed to lead the Commons, right? Don't nobles sit in the Lords? How can the Duke be Prime Minister?"
James blinked, then smiled faintly—half impressed, half wary.
"You're sharp. Normally, yes. But the current party—the Tories—lost successive leaders to illness. His Grace stepped in because there was no one else strong enough to hold the ministry together. And…" James hesitated, then added, "your father is aligned with the Tories as well."
So the man being fleeced at the best seat in the room wasn't just nobility.
He was the Prime Minister's son. A thread tied straight into the spine of power.
Opportunity didn't knock in my life.
It kicked the door down.
James shifted uneasily, as if he'd sensed where my thoughts were going.
"My young master… you've seen enough, haven't you? We should leave."
"Just a second." I kept my tone light. "If that's him… shouldn't I greet him? Even as a second son, he'll likely end up with a seat in Parliament someday."
James exhaled slowly.
"That may be true. But he's losing badly. Approaching him now might leave a poor impression."
"Then I'll wait for the right moment."
I tilted my mug—warm mulled wine, barely alcoholic—and watched.
Not long after, Charles Wellesley pushed away from the table with a sharp click of his tongue.
"Damn it. I won a good bit last time, and tonight I'm bleeding it all back. I need a moment. I'll clear my head and come back."
Laughter and false sympathy answered him.
"Win some, lose some. Take your time, sir!"
He strode toward the corridor.
James lifted a hand and gave me a little encouraging wave, completely relaxed—because to him I was still just a bright child with shaky English and polite manners.
He didn't know what I was.
He didn't know what I'd been.
And he certainly didn't know what I could do to a crooked table.
I slipped after Wellesley, quiet as a shadow.
In the washroom, he stood at the basin with an expression like he'd bitten something sour, scrubbing his hands too hard—anger trying to become control.
I stepped close enough that he couldn't pretend not to hear me.
"Good evening, Mr. Wellesley."
He glanced sideways, surprised.
"Do I know you? And who brings a child into a place like this?"
I bowed slightly—just enough.
"My name is Killian Gore. I'm the eldest son of the Earl of Arran, Arthur Gore."
Wellesley paused. His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.
"Arran… ah. County Donegal, wasn't it? Inherited the earldom. But I didn't know he had a son this young."
"It's… complicated," I said, letting the discomfort live in my voice. "But I am his acknowledged heir. My father's steward is with me."
"Hm." He gave my hair a careless pat—more dismissal than kindness. "Well. Pleased to meet you, Killian. But I'm busy. Tell your father I'll pay my respects later."
He turned to leave.
And I dropped the match into the powder.
"My steward says you're being cheated."
Wellesley stopped so abruptly it was like the air had thickened.
"…What did you say?"
"The dealer at your table is manipulating the cards," I said softly. "Adjusting outcomes. Guiding them."
He stared at me—then scoffed.
"Nonsense. If that were true, I'd have noticed. I've played here plenty."
"Then let me show you," I said, calm as if I were offering a parlor trick. "I'll give you a signal. If I keep holding my cup—never set it on the table—that hand was rigged. And you'll lose."
That was the key.
A test.
Something he could verify without risking dignity.
Wellesley drew a slow breath through his nose, then nodded once.
"Fine. We'll test it. But answer me this—if your steward knows, why didn't he tell me himself?"
"Because they'd become wary," I said, letting my tone stay naïve. "No one watches a child. I can walk in and out without anyone thinking twice."
He looked at me again—really looked—and the irritation in his eyes shifted into something sharper.
"Alright," he muttered. "And another thing. If they're cheating me, why did I win big here the other day?"
"Because that's how they hook you," I said simply. "They let you taste a huge win once. Then they collect it back—slowly, cleanly, with interest. It's planned."
His jaw tightened.
"Bastards…"
He took a step, then stopped again, anger demanding an outlet.
"If you're right," he said, voice low, "I'll make sure every last one of them rots."
"One more thing," I said, and he glanced back.
"Don't expose them yet."
His brow furrowed.
"What? So I'm supposed to sit there and be robbed?"
I tilted my head like a child asking an innocent question—while pouring gasoline into his rage.
"Mr. Wellesley… aren't you furious?"
He blinked.
"Of course I'm furious."
"Then don't just get your money back," I said softly. "That's not enough. They'll deny it. They'll wriggle. At best you'll shut the place down."
He stared.
"And what, exactly, are you suggesting?"
I smiled—small, polite, deadly.
"Give them back what they've been giving you."
"Their way," I whispered. "But stronger. Enough that they'll never recover."
His eyes changed.
Not anger now.
Interest.
Hunger.
I met his gaze and delivered the bait that no man like him could refuse.
"My steward has a plan," I said. "A beautiful one."
And in my mind, I finished the sentence:
Let me dose you with a victory so sweet it becomes an addiction.Then you'll help me crush them with your own hands.