The rules of this variant of poker were simple.
Each player received three cards at the start. Then, one card at a time was dealt by the dealer, and after every card the player decided whether to bet or not. Once seven cards had been dealt, the hands were revealed.
Out of those seven cards, four were visible to the opponent—including the first card revealed openly.
By studying those four cards, a player tried to infer the opponent's hand and decide whether to continue betting or fold.
Anyone who had ever played card games—even casually—would naturally attempt to predict the opponent's final hand.
Jack was no exception.
Even if he had made most of his money through crooked games—perhaps precisely because of that—he certainly understood the basic strategies.
But people like him were often the easiest to manipulate.
After all, if a player decided whether to bet by comparing his own hand to the visible cards, then all one had to do was deal the cards in such a way that he believed he had a good chance.
That was exactly how the first round had gone.
And the second.
Just look at Jack's face when he opened his cards with complete confidence, only to see them crumble like worthless scraps.
I could easily imagine how Lord Wellesley felt watching it.
There was no doubt in my mind.
The most satisfying revenge in the world was to return humiliation in exactly the same form—and then rub it in.
From Jack's angle it was impossible to see, but from mine it was perfectly clear.
Lord Charles was struggling desperately not to burst out laughing.
His lips kept twitching upward. He tried to suppress it by breathing deeply, even pinching his thigh under the table. Eventually he began twisting the flesh outright just to maintain his composure.
If I let this continue much longer, he might genuinely explode with laughter.
So I dealt the final round without delay.
"Well now," Lord Wellesley said cheerfully. "Already the final round? If I'd known my luck would be this good, we should have played five."
Jack said nothing.
While Lord Charles chatted lightly, Jack kept glancing sideways at me as I shuffled the deck.
He probably believed he was being subtle.
Unfortunately, it was painfully obvious.
After I finished shuffling, Jack took the deck and split it in half, placing the bottom portion on top and the top portion below.
A cut.
By cutting the deck, a gambler prevented a cheat from stacking strong cards at the bottom and drawing them later.
Considering he had already lost two suspicious rounds, Jack's suspicion was understandable.
And the only person capable of manipulating the cards now was the dealer.
Which meant me.
The fact that he insisted on cutting the deck himself proved he suspected I had been dealing from the bottom.
He probably believed that once he had cut the deck, it would be impossible for me to draw from beneath.
Unfortunately for him—
I had not taken a single card from the bottom during the previous two rounds.
"…I'll deal now."
I murmured timidly, my voice small and hesitant—perfectly befitting a boy dragged into this situation by accident.
Even so, Jack kept glancing at the hand supporting the underside of the deck.
Naturally, he found nothing suspicious.
Because I wasn't dealing from the bottom.
I was drawing from the middle.
Jack failed to notice not because he was foolish.
The technique—known as the middle deal—was simply unheard of in the early nineteenth century.
The method would not become widely known until the early twentieth century. Even before then, it existed only as an incredibly rare skill practiced by a handful of professional cheats.
The difficulty was absurd.
Even seasoned cardsharps required five to ten years of training before they could perform it reliably.
When I first attempted it with this unfamiliar body, my movements were clumsy enough that I had to practice relentlessly to eliminate any visible flaws.
Even in the modern era, the technique was considered inefficient—a near circus trick rather than a practical method.
But here?
In an age where the concept itself did not exist?
No matter how cautious a person might be, it was impossible to guard against something he didn't even know existed.
Which meant that Jack being manipulated like a puppet from start to finish was simply inevitable.
"Whew…"
Jack's cards were two eights and an ace.
Just as promising as his previous hands—yet after losing twice already, tension had stiffened his entire body.
Lord Wellesley, on the other hand, appeared relaxed, following the sequence I had explained beforehand while observing Jack's reactions.
Jack had already lost two rounds.
Folding now would mean immediate defeat.
And defeat meant the gallows.
So no matter what Lord Charles bet, Jack had no choice but to follow.
And in this round, I had given him even better cards than before.
Naturally he could not abandon hope.
"—!"
When the fifth card gave him three of a kind, Jack inhaled sharply.
Then the sixth card arrived.
Four of a kind.
His posture straightened instantly.
Considering his life was on the line, he was doing a remarkably poor job controlling his expression.
His eyes darted rapidly between his own hand and the four cards visible in front of Lord Wellesley.
Those visible cards already showed a pair of aces.
Lord Charles continued raising the stakes.
"Raise. One hundred pounds."
"…Call."
"Raise another hundred."
"…Call."
With four of a kind in hand, Jack had no reason to refuse.
And since I had slipped an ace into his hand from the start, his thoughts were perfectly transparent.
I have an ace. That means Wellesley can have at most three aces. Four of a kind is impossible. The strongest hand he could realistically have is a full house. My four of a kind wins.
From Jack's perspective, Lord Wellesley's aggressive betting was perfectly logical.
In fact, Jack was worried Lord Charles might grow suspicious and stop betting too early.
Then the moment of judgment arrived.
The pot had reached five hundred pounds.
Jack pushed his cards forward with complete confidence.
Four eights.
He exhaled in pure relief.
"Hah… hahahaha! You see? The game isn't over until the end! Looks like I've won—"
"Sorry to interrupt your celebration," Lord Wellesley said mildly. "But perhaps you should take another look at my cards."
"I am looking. Three aces. You promised not to have me arrested if I won. There are plenty of witnesses here."
"No, no," Lord Charles said patiently. "Ignore the two aces for a moment. Look at the other five cards. Do those look like three of a kind to you?"
"What else would they be—? They're the same suit, so perhaps a flush? But even then—wait."
Jack blinked.
"A… K… Q… J… ten…"
His voice faltered.
"…Straight… flush…?"
The possibility had never even occurred to him.
Assuming it was impossible, his mind had simply refused to recognize it.
He blinked repeatedly.
Rubbed his eyes.
Even shook his head before looking again.
But nothing changed.
The ultimate hand in poker.
A combination many players never saw even once in their entire lives.
Five cards of the same suit—A, K, Q, J, and 10.
A Royal Straight Flush.
Jack's pupils trembled violently.
"T-this is impossible. Impossible! I have four of a kind and you have a royal straight flush?!"
"So it would seem," Lord Wellesley replied calmly. "Even I have never seen such a hand before. Quite a memorable evening."
"No! This can't be right! This—this must be cheating!"
"Oh?" Lord Charles said coolly. "You're accusing me of cheating?"
"How else could this happen?! First a triple, then a straight, and now a royal straight flush! Even professional cheats couldn't arrange hands like this!"
"Let me ask you something instead," Lord Wellesley said quietly.
"You claim I cheated. But how exactly would I do that? In your establishment. Using your cards. With a child—who knows nothing about cheating—as the dealer."
Jack opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
He examined the deck desperately.
Naturally he found nothing.
This was his own establishment.
No hidden devices.
And Lord Charles had never touched the deck during the shuffle.
Cheating was impossible.
"Surely you aren't suggesting that boy manipulated the cards," Lord Wellesley continued calmly. "You cut the deck yourself after he shuffled it. And you watched him closely to prevent a bottom deal. Did you see any cheating?"
"N-no…"
"Exactly. If you had seen cheating, you could have exposed it immediately—as I did earlier. Which means you're making baseless accusations."
"B-baseless? Even if we can't prove the method, the cards themselves are proof—"
"No matter how small the probability, as long as it isn't zero, it can happen," Lord Wellesley said with a faint smile.
"You're saying a good hand alone is proof of cheating? I wonder whether a judge would agree."
A promise made before witnesses—especially involving money—often carried legal weight.
Even more so when the agreement involved a nobleman.
Realizing the reaper's scythe now hung over his neck, Jack collapsed to his knees.
"I'm sorry! I was out of my mind! Please—just spare my life!"
"Well," Lord Wellesley said thoughtfully, "although our agreement was that you would face the full penalty if you lost, I am a merciful man. I will spare you the gallows."
"Thank you! Thank you!"
"However, that is one matter. This is another."
He leaned back calmly.
"You lost the game. Pay what you owe—and then prepare for prison."
"Pay… what I owe…?"
At last Jack realized exactly what hand he had lost to.
Cold sweat poured down his face.
Of course.
Did he truly think Lord Wellesley would simply send him to prison?
If that had been the intention, the game could have ended the moment the cheating was exposed.
But that would have recovered only a small portion of the money Jack had stolen.
Even in court, execution or imprisonment was the most likely outcome.
Extracting serious money would be difficult.
So instead—
Jack had agreed to gamble.
With his own methods.
And now he would pay everything.
"Let's see," Lord Wellesley said thoughtfully.
"I won three hundred eighty pounds in the first two rounds. The final pot was five hundred. A royal straight flush pays two hundred fifty-six times the pot, correct?"
"My lord," the steward said calmly, "that totals one hundred twenty-eight thousand pounds."
"Ah yes. One hundred twenty-eight thousand three hundred eighty pounds in total. Quite expensive—but your life is worth more, I imagine. Deliver the sum to me by tomorrow."
"W-what?! That's impossible!"
"Then surrender assets of equivalent value," Lord Charles said lightly. "Can you produce that amount by liquidating your property?"
"…Not even close…"
"How unfortunate," Lord Wellesley replied calmly.
"In that case, I will generously forgive the remainder—once I take everything you own."
His gaze swept across the room.
"Let us begin with this gambling house and the building itself. Conveniently, we have a lawyer present. No need to waste time."
"You expect me to hand over the entire establishment?!"
"Don't misunderstand," Lord Charles said coldly.
"This is not a negotiation. You owe me one hundred twenty-eight thousand three hundred eighty pounds. Since you cannot pay, I will simply claim your assets. Surely a man who runs a gambling house understands such matters."
The smile he had suppressed earlier finally surfaced openly.
And why wouldn't it?
He now had the legal right to seize everything Jack owned.
Meanwhile poor Jack—
who had just lost everything—was staring at the floor in despair.
Of course, none of the spectators felt the slightest sympathy.
After all—
he had been caught cheating.
What could he possibly say now?
But there was one secret nobody here knew.
Except Lord Wellesley.
Half of the income from this confiscated gambling house would belong to me.
Taxes, disputes, legal complications—Lord Charles would handle everything.
My name would never appear.
Setting down my now-lukewarm glass of milk, I smiled innocently like the rest of the spectators.
"Wow! So that cheating man has to give all his money to Lord Wellesley now? Lord Wellesley is amazing!"
The crowd laughed.
"Isn't he? I don't know how he did it, but he played that man like a puppet!"
"That's right! Justice really does exist!"
I nodded enthusiastically.
"When I grow up, I want to become a noble as cool as Lord Wellesley!"
Everyone laughed again.
Except Jack.
Ah…
This was sweet.
No wonder I could never give it up.