Chapter 11: The Golden Jubilee Gambler (rewrited)

Barron took a deep breath, staring at the four betting slips in his hand. He had split his 40,000-pound bet across different companies to avoid looking like a lunatic—or worse, an aristocrat with a gambling problem. If Senegal won against France, he'd walk away with a cool 600,000 pounds. If they lost… well, at least he'd get to enjoy some expensive self-loathing.

Ramos, his loyal butler, was watching him with an expression that could only be described as deeply concerned but too polite to say anything. The man had served the Devonshire family for years, and while he was no expert in football, even he knew betting on Senegal over France was like betting on a pub football team to win the Champions League.

"Master Barron… are you absolutely sure about this?" Ramos asked hesitantly.

Barron smirked. "Ramos, let me ask you this—who was the last Frenchman to win anything without a complete disaster happening first?"

Ramos opened his mouth, paused, and then nodded as if Barron had just delivered some profound historical truth.

"Exactly," Barron continued. "Besides, I have insider knowledge."

"You mean… you've seen the future?"

"More or less."

Ramos muttered something about the young master's sanity under his breath but wisely decided to hold his tongue.

While Barron was making plans to expand his newfound career in high-stakes betting, another matter required his attention—the Queen's Golden Jubilee Celebration.

June 2nd marked 50 years of Her Majesty's reign, and as one of the last remaining non-royal dukes, the Devonshire family had been invited. Originally, his father and older brother were supposed to attend, but since fate (and a tragic accident) had made Barron the new head of the family, he was now the one representing House Devonshire.

Traditionally, someone in mourning wasn't supposed to attend social events, but this was different. Skipping the Jubilee could be seen as a slight to the monarchy, and more importantly, this was an opportunity for Barron to rub elbows with other aristocrats and maybe—just maybe—find a few who'd be willing to help him out financially.

Julia, the family's trust fund manager, and Sean, the butler, had both strongly advised him to go. Their reasoning? Rich people help other rich people. Barron wasn't so sure about that, but at this point, he'd take all the help he could get.

"Master Barron, your suit has arrived," Ramos announced, laying out the high-end ensemble before him.

It was an expensive, impeccably tailored suit, the kind that practically screamed, Hello, I'm rich, and I may or may not have a title that makes me slightly more important than you.

Barron slipped into the outfit and took a long look at himself in the mirror. He had to admit—he looked damn good. At nearly 190 cm tall, with a naturally athletic frame and striking features, he didn't just wear the suit. He owned it.

"Master, at this rate, you'll be the dream of every noblewoman at the celebration," Ramos said, clearly impressed.

"Ramos, I already am," Barron said with a wink.

The World Cup match between France and Senegal took place on May 31st. The time zone difference meant the match was held at night in Japan but around midday in London—perfect for Barron, who didn't even have to stay up late to watch his bank account (potentially) skyrocket.

He watched with growing excitement as the match unfolded exactly as he remembered from his past life. France, the reigning champions, looked sluggish. Senegal, the underdogs, played like they had nothing to lose.

Then it happened.

Goal!

Senegal scored, stunning the world. France—mighty, arrogant France—lost their opening match 0-1.

Barron sat back in his chair, grinning like a man who had just won the lottery. Because, in a way, he had.

600,000 pounds.

Tax-free.

Legally made.

For once, the system wasn't designed to screw over the common man—it was designed to reward time travelers with good memory and questionable morals.

Barron immediately cashed out his winnings, making sure to do it in a way that wouldn't draw too much attention. The UK's gambling laws weren't as strict as they would be in a few years, but still, dumping too much money into bookies at once might raise a few eyebrows.

Besides, this was only the first game. The World Cup was long, and he had plenty of chances to turn his 600,000 into millions.

As he pocketed his winnings, he smirked to himself.

The Golden Jubilee might be Her Majesty's big celebration, but for Barron Cavendish, the real party had just begun.