It took fewer than a few days for Lord Wellesley to take possession of all of Jack's property.
The speed was possible because he had already prepared everything in advance—lawyers included—several days earlier.
Had Jack been given more time, he might have attempted to conceal some of his assets. But the operation had been carried out so swiftly that he never had the chance.
Even so, the total did not reach one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.
Of course, neither of us had expected it to.
Lord Charles understood that perfectly well. Even so, he could not wipe the grin from his face, bursting into hearty laughter again and again.
"Ha! Ha! Killian, did you see his face? That Jack fellow looked like a man possessed by the devil."
"Well," I replied calmly, "anyone would look like that after losing their entire fortune overnight and ending up in prison."
"That's what you call reaping what you sow," Lord Charles said with great satisfaction. "In my entire twenty years of life, I've never felt such satisfaction. It's all thanks to you."
"It wasn't my work alone," I said modestly. "It only succeeded because you trusted me and carried out your part so perfectly."
Half of it was courtesy.
The other half was sincere.
Charles Wellesley might be somewhat careless at times, but once he was given a role he had the ability to carry it through.
At first his occasional clumsiness had worried me a little.
But now I realized it was perfect.
Someone too capable might eventually decide he no longer needed me.
Charles himself had powerful backing as the son of the Duke of Wellington, but he was still merely a young man in his early twenties.
To the outside world he was an elite—yet still a promising youth who had not fully stepped out of his father's shadow.
If we were to go forward together, that balance suited me perfectly.
"Now that I think about it," Lord Charles said thoughtfully, "this is the first time I've ever obtained such a large sum without relying on Father's help. And now that I own a gambling house, it will generate steady income as well. Have you decided what you'll do with your share?"
"Yes," I said with a smile. "I already have plans."
"Really?" he said with interest. "Let's hear them. Investment? Business?"
Normally no man would ask a ten-year-old child for advice on how to invest money.
Yet Lord Wellesley's first concern was how I intended to use my half of the profits.
After everything we had been through together, he clearly regarded me as an equal.
Which meant it was time to harvest the seeds I had been planting.
"I do have an investment plan," I said quietly. "But it's extremely confidential. I haven't told anyone."
"Whenever someone starts with words like that," Lord Charles said skeptically, "it usually ends in bankruptcy."
"I intend to put every penny of my share into it. Not just that—every bit of income from the gambling house will go there for the time being."
"If you're that confident, it must be a golden opportunity. Tell me as well. We're partners now, aren't we? Good things should be shared."
"Of course," I replied calmly. "Since we're going to walk the same road, I don't mind telling you. But first we should make something clear."
It was time to show him a glimpse of the future I had in mind.
Not merely as business partners—but as allies whose ambitions were intertwined.
To earn absolute trust, one had to satisfy the other person's ambitions as well.
"Lord Wellesley," I said quietly, "why do you think I chose to work with you?"
He shrugged.
"Well… because being close to me benefits you enormously, I imagine."
"That's true," I replied. "You're the son of the Duke of Wellington, the national hero of this country. But you're also the second son—someone who will not inherit the dukedom. That's exactly why I want to work with you. And I mean that in a good way."
He frowned slightly.
"That sounds backwards. Shouldn't you prefer someone who will inherit the title?"
"Not necessarily. Someone destined to inherit immense power often becomes passive. They only need to maintain what they receive. But you're different. You have a strong desire to rise higher through your own strength."
Lord Charles nodded silently.
After all, that was why he had joined the army immediately after graduating from Eton.
His own father, the Duke of Wellington, had been the third son of a noble house—without the prospect of inheriting land—so he had thrown himself into a military career.
"But unfortunately," I continued, "becoming another Wellington will be difficult for you."
His eyebrow rose.
"And why is that?"
"Because there will never again be an enemy like Napoleon standing in Britain's path."
"Ah," he said with a laugh. "That does make sense."
"No matter how high you rise in the army, it's unlikely you'll follow the same path as Scipio defeating Hannibal—or the Duke defeating Napoleon. And I'm not much better off. Even if I inherit the Earl of Arran's title, I'll remain an Irish peer. I wouldn't even be able to sit in the British House of Lords."
On the surface our backgrounds seemed impressive.
But both of us had subtle limitations.
Lord Charles chuckled wryly.
"So what—you're suggesting I spend some time in the army and then move into politics?"
"Exactly. There's no need for you to cling to the House of Lords. The balance of power is shifting. The House of Commons will grow stronger with time."
"The Commons, hm…"
"You have every qualification to become its leader. And if I stand beside you as your right hand, I might even gain an English peerage of my own someday."
He laughed.
"So your grand ambition is that I become Prime Minister while you sit in the House of Lords. Quite a dream for a ten-year-old."
Children were expected to dream big, after all.
"So that's why I intend to become extremely wealthy," I continued casually. "Politics devours money. Elections devour money. The more capital we accumulate, the more power we'll have to invest in the future."
Lord Charles stared at me.
"…Be honest. You're not really ten years old, are you?"
"I told you before," I replied with a smile. "Sometimes people appear who can't be explained by common sense. Just assume I'm one of them."
He burst out laughing.
"Well, if you insist."
He had taken my words as a joke.
Which was exactly what I intended.
After a moment, however, his expression grew serious again.
"So you want us to become true partners for the long term."
"Yes. But I understand if you can't fully trust the words of a ten-year-old. So I'll share something useful. You asked where to invest your money."
I leaned forward slightly.
"Invest in America."
"In America?" he repeated. "Across the Atlantic? I've heard the economy there is booming lately, but is it really such a promising opportunity?"
"Real estate," I said calmly. "Specifically around Chicago. There's a massive canal project planned in that region. Land prices there will skyrocket soon. I intend to invest every available pound for the next two years."
"Where did you hear this?"
I smiled faintly.
"Let's just say it's the result of analyzing information from several sources."
In truth, it came from something I had memorized long ago.
The Panic of 1837.
One of the first truly global economic crises of the nineteenth century.
The canal projects in Illinois—especially around Chicago—would inflate land prices into a massive bubble during the early 1830s.
And when the bubble burst in 1837, countless European investors would be ruined.
"I can't explain all the details," I said lightly. "But trust me and invest—or wait and watch for a while before joining."
Lord Charles considered it carefully.
"…Then I'll observe for a few months before investing. Canal construction isn't finished overnight. It's not that I don't trust you—I'd simply prefer to see how things develop."
"That's perfectly reasonable," I replied.
Even a few months would mean he entered the market almost a year later than I did.
By then my investment would already have multiplied several times.
But that was fine.
Once he realized what he had missed, he would trust my judgment even more.
And the image of him eventually becoming a perfectly obedient ally made me smile.
* * *
"Whom do you want me to write a letter of recommendation for?"
The Duke of Wellington—Britain's national hero and one of the most powerful men in the empire—frowned as he looked at his son.
"Killian Gore," Lord Charles replied. "The eldest son of the Earl of Arran. You know his father."
"Of course I do. He once won a seat in the Commons as a member of our party. I thought he retired to Ireland after receiving his title. I didn't even know he had a son."
"He's technically illegitimate," Charles admitted. "But the Earl intends to make him his heir. It's complicated. I promised the boy I'd secure Father's recommendation."
"You promised him my recommendation?"
The Duke sighed deeply.
"Charles, do you have any idea how influential my recommendation is?"
"Of course I do," Charles replied quickly. "Ever since Waterloo, you've never once lost the title of Eton's most distinguished alumnus. A letter from you is practically a guarantee of admission."
"Exactly," the Duke said sharply. "Which is why I only give such letters to those who truly deserve them. And yet you made this promise so casually?"
Charles straightened.
"Father, Killian is a genius. If he fails to enter Eton, it would be a loss to the entire nation. As a nobleman of this country, I felt obligated to ensure such talent receives the best education possible."
The Duke blinked.
It was such an unexpected answer that he felt momentarily stunned.
At the same time, curiosity stirred.
Just who was this boy that his son praised so highly?
"The Earl of Arran's son is that intelligent?"
"Yes."
"Then bring him here," the Duke said after a moment.
"If he truly is as brilliant as you claim, I may consider writing the letter."
Ultimately the matter was simple.
He would judge the boy himself.
Whether this Killian Gore truly possessed the qualifications to receive a recommendation bearing the name of the Duke of Wellington.