The carriage moved steadily through the street.
Mary sat quietly in her seat, gazing at the shortcut barely visible through the rain-blurred window. Across from her sat the Duke of Morstan, watching her intently.
"That was Russell Watson," he said suddenly. The familiar name startled the girl a bit.
"What is it, Father?" she asked, shifting her gaze from the window to meet his eyes.
"What's Russell Watson's background?" the Duke of Morstan inquired.
"I... don't remember that surname."
"He's..." Mary started, wanting to say something about Russell, but the words eluded her. "He was just an ordinary student—nothing more, nothing less."
"An ordinary student? And yet he calls you by your first name?" The Duke narrowed his eyes.
The moment those words were spoken, the atmosphere inside the carriage seemed to freeze.
His voice wasn't loud, nor was his tone angry—just pure, calm curiosity.
Faced with the question, Mary hesitated only briefly before finding her answer.
"It's just…" she began, her voice steady, neither humble nor proud.
"At the school's icebreaker party, he invited me to dance and, as a matter of courtesy, I accepted. Nothing more."
She tried her best to make her words sound honest and believable.
"I've heard this story before," the Duke said, leaning back into the soft cushions, twining his fingers together. "What a ludicrous charade."
His tone dripped with disdain.
"You refused nearly everyone's invitations, and then waited in front of everyone's watchful eyes for him to appear, didn't you? Mary, this is not 'just that.'"
Raindrops hammered the carriage roof, a deep and unpleasant sound.
Before Mary could come up with a reply, he continued:
"And I've also been told you embarrassed Ethan Roy's son in public—ruined his reputation and made a laughingstock of him."
Regardless of what happened afterward, on that very night, Ethan Roy was still a cabinet minister.
She had shamed a minister's son in front of everyone.
"What on earth did you do, Mary?"
The Duke fixed her with his sharp gaze, noting her tightly-pressed lips.
"Mary, I have a question for you."
"I—danced with Russel," Mary said gently.
"Yes. You danced with him. And you know what that means."
"I'm sorry… Father."
Mary tried neither to justify nor explain herself.
At such times, any defense or explanation would only come across as defiance—the thing that man detested and endured least of all.
When he saw her head lowered and her clenched hands, a satisfied look flashed in the Duke of Morstan's eyes.
Excellent. Everything is still under my control.
All these are but brief interludes in the play—nothing that will affect the overall picture.
"Raise your head, my daughter," his tone softened. "You've always been obedient since you were a child."
"Every child goes through a rebellious phase. I went through mine as well—and was a far worse child than you, back then.
I went against my father's words, did all manner of outrageous things.
He was furious, summoned me to his study, forbade anyone else to enter.
I thought he would scold or punish me harshly. But he didn't.
Do you know what he said to me?"
He looked at Mary, who looked up at him. "What?"
He said: 'I'll forgive your first mistake.'
The man spoke slowly, repeating what his own father had told him, and in that act, giving a warning to the girl before him.
"But the second mistake will be punished harshly."
Mary's breath caught for a moment.
"…Understood, Father."
At last, she spoke slowly, her voice so soft it seemed it would shatter at the slightest touch.
She lowered her eyes, hiding the emotion in those blue pupils.
"I'm glad you understand."
The Duke leaned back, relaxing, as if there had never been any confrontation, his voice resuming its usual calm.
"He is just an interlude—a hurdle you happened to meet on your path to maturity. Sometimes, brief curiosity makes us pause, but in the end, you must keep moving forward."
He paused, then continued:
"Today's business is wrapped up.
In exchange for a short-term loan, two properties in the eastern part of the city have been mortgaged to Lloyd's Bank.
Your appearance today was proof enough that House Morstan still holds its good reputation, that our credit is still good. That's all that's required."
Mary's fingers unconsciously played with the edge of her lace gloves.
No… That's not true.
Russel is not made of stone.
He is the only one who sees her, not as "Miss Morstan," but as "Mary."
"You know the reason I compromised today, Mary."
His voice cut into her brief flight of fancy and pulled her abruptly back to reality.
"Mycroft's punch combination was flawlessly executed. I admit I underestimated him."
"Our family's finances are tight. We need new, trustworthy allies."
Allies?
Mary instinctively became wary.
She said nothing—only waited in silence for him to go on.
"The youngest son of Admiral Morrison just graduated from the Royal Naval Academy.
I've met him once—an exemplary young man.
His family wields considerable influence in Parliament. More importantly, their family has no connection to the Holmes family."
The Duke's tone was as flat and lifeless as when reviewing a business deal, weighing pros and cons.
"I'll be hosting a dinner party in a fortnight. You must attend."
"…"
Mary said nothing, just looked up at the man in the dim light. That familiar look crept back into her eyes again.
He looked at her as one would a rare commodity that must fetch a high price.
A thing to be kept exclusive.
"As you wish, Father."
"Very good."
Satisfied, the Duke nodded, closed his eyes, and began to drift into a doze.
For him, the conversation was already over.
He had simply fixed heavier shackles on the canary that was about to flutter out of its cage.
The carriage rumbled slowly into Morstan Manor.
Somewhere along the way, the rain had stopped.
When Mary stepped out of the carriage, the cold air helped clear some of the confusion weighing on her heart.
"Remember this, Mary."
Behind her came the Duke's nauseatingly sweet voice.
"Do not disappoint me."
"Mm."
The girl nodded, lifted her skirt, and stepped into the grand prison before her.
"As you wish, Father."
…
Returning to her room, Mary sat down at her desk.
On the table lay crisp stationery and a fountain pen filled with ink.
She seemed to hesitate, but finally, the pen touched the paper and, with a movement of her wrist, she began to write.
She wrote slowly and carefully, sometimes pausing to consider, almost as if compiling a meticulous laboratory report.
It took her nearly half an hour to finish the letter.
Mary picked up the filled sheet, inspected it from corner to corner like a student checking an exam paper, scrutinizing every detail.
Once satisfied that everything was in order, she finally signed the letter at the end.
[The Professor]
...
PS: So, since the title Moriarty was stolen, Mary was The Professor?
…