"First, send someone to contact The Guardian and show them these documents," Mary instructed slowly. "Given their professionalism, I believe they'll quickly grasp what has happened. The next step is to formalize cooperation and split the profits—which will, of course, require your involvement."
"Afterward, we contact Lloyds and inform them of our concerns—ask if the vault contents are still secure. Barring surprises, Lloyds will likely refuse, making up excuses like 'the underground vault is under maintenance' and so on. At this stage, all we need is their reassurance: they'll guarantee those documents remain intact. That's why we must bring along a Guardian reporter, who can serve as an independent witness to Lloyds's betrayal."
"And after that?"
The Duke prompted her.
"Then comes the most delicate part: we must fire off bullets, one after another." Mary smiled. "Give The Guardian time to write their story, give Lloyds time to perfect their cover-up. All we have to do is wait—while occasionally prodding them, casting doubts, adding suspense."
"Applying pressure on Lloyds?"
The Duke already had a good sense of what she was getting at.
"Precisely," Mary nodded slightly. "People under extreme pressure are always prone to unpredictable actions."
"Such as?"
"For instance," she said, "if Lloyds, desperate to meet a deadline, resorts to forging documents, what then?"
Her words shocked even the Duke.
She didn't elaborate further. That was all she had to say.
The Duke was no fool; he caught her drift at once. Hiding something was one matter—committing forgery was altogether more serious. In short, it was about maintaining enough pressure to drive Lloyds right to the edge.
"I see."
The Duke nodded in satisfaction, gazing down at his daughter.
"You're right: this process will take time. I suppose… the entire thing might take about a week."
He flipped through the schedule on his desk.
"But there's a party next week… What do you think, Mary?"
"With the support of The Guardian, the Morstan family now wields major influence in the media. The aristocracy values reputation even more than profits, while MPs care most about votes and their image."
Mary replied with a noncommittal answer.
"You're right." The Duke, still as ambiguous as ever, tore the party page out of his schedule.
"In that case, let's postpone the party for now."
He slid the torn page across the table to Mary.
"I have other business to attend to. Could you write a letter of apology to General Simpson for me, Mary?"
"Of course," Mary smiled as she accepted the schedule. "It's nothing."
"Will it interfere with your studies?"
"Did you not teach me, Father, to always place family interests above all else?"
They exchanged a look, each smiling knowingly.
"If there's nothing else, take a rest then," the Duke dismissed her with a wave.
"It's getting cold—keep yourself warm."
"You as well, Father," Mary replied with a nod, turning and leaving the study.
On her way back to her room, she called to a passing maid, "Please prepare tea and pastries."
"Shall I bring them to your room, Miss?"
"No need, I'll do it myself."
Mary carried the tray back to her room. Inside, there was nothing unusual—except for the opened window, through which cold air continued to flow.
"Moriarty?" Mary called softly. "Are you still there?"
Up on the rooftop, gazing at the nightscape, Russell heard her and glanced down—then leapt nimbly from the eaves onto her window ledge, as agile as a cat.
He brushed rain from his trench coat, looking up at the girl carrying the tray.
"You call for me so sweetly—in truth, I preferred your rebellious moments more," he joked.
Mary ignored his flippant attitude. She simply looked at him, her blue eyes deep as twin oceans shrouded in night.
"Come in," she said gently. "It's cold out."
Russell, slightly surprised by the sudden invitation, raised his eyebrows, but soon accepted, slipping inside with barely a whisper of his toes on carpet.
The room was warm, the hearth fire glowing, casting orange light on the walls.
Mary didn't look at him, only set the tray on the coffee table and poured hot tea with steady, graceful movements into two white porcelain cups. Russell stood, observing the room and the young woman before him with interest.
"Won't you sit down?" Mary offered one of the teacups. "Don't be shy. Consider it a small thank you for your gift."
Russell shrugged and sat on the sofa opposite her, acting like it was all the same to him. He didn't touch the cup—merely watched Mary through swirling steam.
"So, how did your talk with your father go?" he finally broke the silence.
"Thanks to you, everything went smoothly." Mary lifted her cup and sipped. "I've reclaimed what was rightfully mine."
"How wonderful," Russell said, his voice dripping with insincerity. "It seems I've performed a good deed for once."
"I hesitate to admit it, but yes—this is one of the few good things you've ever done," Mary retorted.
"And what about my good deeds at Lloyds?"
"There are some topics that quickly become dull if discussed too much," Mary murmured as she took another sip.
"But I'm still your savior, aren't I?" Russell picked up a cookie with curiosity.
"There's not such an unbreakable line between a savior and an enemy," Mary replied, watching his movements as if waiting for him to remove his mask to eat. But Russell, contrary to her expectations, returned the cookie to the plate after examining it for a moment.
"If you're not going to eat, at least don't play with your food," she said, a little displeased.
"No need to worry. My hands are still clean," Russell shrugged, "and even so, a little dirt never killed anyone."
Mary rolled her eyes. Somehow, his attitude reminded her of Russell.
"By the way, I have a question," Mary spoke again.
Russell looked at her with a spark of curiosity. "What is it?"
"Last night, in the bank's underground storeroom… How did you defeat five criminals on your own?"
…