"First, you can send someone to contact The Guardian and show them these documents.
I'm confident that, given their professionalism, they'll immediately understand what's going on.
After that, we finalize cooperation and divide the profits—this part will have to trouble you, Father."
Mary spoke calmly.
"Next, we contact Lloyds Bank. We express concern about the case and request confirmation that everything in the safe deposit box remains secure.
If nothing unexpected happens, Lloyds will refuse—citing reasons like ongoing maintenance of the underground vault.
At that point, you only need to show understanding. Lloyds will certainly reassure you that these documents are absolutely safe.
Which is why you'll need a Guardian reporter at your side—acting as a witness—to record Lloyds' breach of trust."
"And then?" the Duke of Morstan asked.
"Then we let the bullets fly for a while," Mary said with a smile.
"Give The Guardian time to write the piece, and give Lloyds time to perfect their disguise.
As for us—we wait. And from time to time, we apply pressure, even raise doubts."
"Put Lloyds under stress?" The duke was starting to grasp it.
"Exactly." Mary inclined her head slightly. "Under extreme pressure, people tend to do things they normally wouldn't."
"Such as?"
"Such as—if Lloyds is pushed too hard, and chooses to forge documents just to satisfy us?"
Mary delivered the sentence with a gentle smile—words that made even the duke's expression shift.
She didn't elaborate.
That was enough.
The Duke of Morstan wasn't a fool. He understood.
Covering up was one thing. Forgery was another. A far bigger one.
In short: keep the floor intact, then apply controlled pressure to gamble for a higher ceiling.
"I understand." The duke nodded in satisfaction, eyes fixed on her. "Following your process, this will take time."
Since he'd gotten what he wanted, it was time for him to show his sincerity.
"Let's see… this whole chain likely takes a week."
He said it lightly, then picked up the schedule book on his desk.
"But next week there's also a dinner party…" He looked up. "What do you think, Mary?"
"With The Guardian supporting us, the Morstan family effectively gains substantial influence in the media.
And compared to profit, the nobility cares more about reputation—while MPs care about their name and their votes."
Mary answered without directly answering.
"That's true." The duke neither agreed nor disagreed—then tore a page cleanly out of the schedule.
"In that case, we'll shelve the dinner party."
He placed the torn page on the desk and slid it across to stop in front of her.
"I need to arrange other matters. So, Mary—could you write the apology letter to Admiral Simpson on my behalf?"
"Of course." Mary accepted the page with a smile. "It would be my honor."
"It won't affect your studies?"
"Family interests come first," Mary replied smoothly. "Isn't that what you taught me, Father?"
Father and daughter held each other's gaze—then smiled in perfect, practiced harmony.
"All right. If there's nothing else, go rest," the duke said, waving her off. "It's cold. Dress warmly."
"And you as well, Father."
Mary dipped her head, then left the study.
On her way back to her room, she stopped a passing servant.
"Prepare a pot of black tea, and some pastries."
"Yes, miss. Shall we bring them to your room?"
"No. I'll carry it myself."
Mary returned with the tray.
The room was empty—save for the open window, pouring cold air inside.
"Mister Moriarty?"
Her voice was level, more a confirmation than a call.
"Are you still here?"
Up on the roof, Russell—who'd been enjoying the night view—glanced down. He hopped off the eaves and landed on the windowsill like a nimble cat.
He shook rainwater from his coat and looked at the girl holding the tray.
"So polite now?" His tone was as flippant as ever. "I almost miss the days you'd pull a cane on me without hesitation."
Mary stepped aside to clear the window, her face unreadable.
She simply stared at him—those sea-blue eyes, in the dim light, like two patches of ocean soaked in night. Bottomless.
"Come in. Close the window. It's cold."
Russell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden invitation, but he obligingly climbed inside. His shoes touched the carpet without a whisper.
The room was warm. Flames danced in the fireplace, painting the walls in soft orange.
Mary didn't look at him. She set the tray on the coffee table, poured tea into two white porcelain cups with smooth, practiced elegance, every motion composed.
Russell stood where he was, amused, taking in the room—and the girl.
"Sit," Mary said, pushing one cup toward the opposite seat, her tone wrapped in polite convention. "Don't be shy. Consider it thanks for your 'gift.'"
Russell shrugged and sat down on the sofa across from her.
He didn't touch the tea. Through the rising steam, he watched her.
"So," he broke the silence first, "how did your talk with your father go?"
"Thanks to you, quite smoothly." Mary took her cup and sipped. "I got back what belongs to me."
"That's wonderful," Russell said with absolutely no sincerity. "Looks like I did a good deed."
"As much as I hate to admit it…" Mary's voice stayed cool, "…it is one of the few good things you've done."
"What about the time I 'acted righteously' at Lloyds Bank?"
"Some topics become irritating when repeated," Mary replied, then took another sip.
"Even though I'm your benefactor?" Russell teased, picking up a cookie.
"The line between benefactor and enemy isn't uncrossable."
Mary's gaze tracked his hand. It looked like she was waiting for the moment he'd remove his mask to eat.
But Russell only toyed with the cookie briefly—then put it back.
"If you're not going to eat it," Mary said, displeased, "don't play with the food."
"Relax. My hands are clean." Russell shrugged. "And besides—dirty food doesn't make you sick."
Mary shot him a cold look.
For no good reason, that expression reminded him of Watson.
"Speaking of which," Mary said, "I have a question. I wonder if Mister Moriarty can answer it."
"Hm?" Russell looked at her with curiosity. "What is it?"
"In the underground vault," Mary stared at the mask as if trying to pierce it and see what was real beneath, "how did you manage to take down five armed robbers alone?"
....
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