Martin’s laughter echoed in the courtyard. “Do you take me for a fool? To accept a duel with Golborne’s finest swordsman?” His laughter dropped. “And deprive myself of the sheer pleasure of watching your neck snap in two? I think not, Mr. Al-Sayer.”
Had Rami’s punishment lain in Newtorn Prison, theremayhave been a chance to escape, but to concede to Martin’s demand now would mean Rami would never step foot outside of Weavingshaw again. His sister’s face once more flashed through his mind, eyes alight with laughter. She might never smile again after this.
More frantic than ever, his mind leaped to St. Silas, his eyes very briefly darting to the man standing in front of him. Was thereanythingthe Saint of Silence could do to get them—him—out of this? Clearly the threat of revealing Martin’s secret guaranteed only St. Silas’s safety, but surely there must be something else?
Arthur?No, damn it, he had gone ahead to Golborne. And St. Silas had brought no other staff with him save for Mrs. Van, trusting no one else in the search for the red diary.
There really was no way,Rami thought, his chest airless. Bleakly, he replied, “I accept on one condition: that you let my sister leave with St. Silas unharmed.” When he saw Martin was going to interrupt, he raised a hand. “Yes.Aftermy hanging.”
“I have no ill will toward the rest of your party.Afterward,they may all leave. That includes you, sir.” He looked at St. Silas with a slight smile. “And as I will ensure this unfortunate business will be concluded quite quickly, you should reach Golborne in plenty of time to…er…reassure your man of your safety.”
It played, Rami thought with disgust, perfectly into Martin’s hands. He would have executed Rami and safeguarded his secret in one fell swoop.
“While I salute your…generosity in allowing the rest of us to leave unaccosted, there is”—St. Silas began indifferently, as if he were speaking about the weather, not the lives of the four of them—“another option. You may not accept a duel with Rami—sound reasoning—but perhaps dueling with me might be a better choice.”
Martin’s entire body stilled, his gaze shifting from Rami’s flushed cheeks to St. Silas’s carefully neutral eyes. The astonishment that played across Martin’s face was slowly replaced by a speculative gleam.
“To clarify, sir, it would beyouwho would fight, not the boy?”
St. Silas bowed his head.
“What would be the terms, then, Mr. St. Silas?”
“If I win, we dismiss the matter of the ruined merchandise entirely—and myself, my servant, and my wards are free to leave your pleasant company unimpeded.”
“And if you lose?” Martin prompted.
“I would imagine that is self-explanatory. If I lose, I will die—and all your secrets die with me,” St. Silas responded smoothly.
Martin didn’t lower his gun from Rami, but his entire posture seemed to vibrate. He released a staggered, disbelieving exhalation. “What will happen to the envelope you’ve given to your man if you are slain in this duel of honor? Your absence would mean he would go on to publish my secrets to the world and ruin me.”
“My man, Arthur, takes orders from only three people in the world. Myself and my wards.” St. Silas shrugged. “Should I…unfortunately perish in our duel, then upon the safe arrival ofbothmy wards in Golborne, they will instruct Arthur to cease all publications about you.”
Rami’s head whipped toward St. Silas.What indamnationwas he playing at?Arthur would never listen to either him or Leena, unless—it had to be—it was St. Silas’s way of ensuring that if he died, the Al-Sayers would still reach Golborne unharmed.
It was obvious St. Silas did not care a fig about whether Rami lived or died, but it was clear to Rami that even St. Silas, shrouded in reclusiveness and reticence, was softening toward his sister. No, more than softening—yielding.
Martin seemed to be considering this new proposition carefully. “Swords, then, at dawn.”
St. Silas pocketed his pistol. “I feel sure, Martin, that I do not need to question your integrity with regards to tomorrow’s affair.”
Mr. Martin huffed. “Are you casting doubt on whether I will participate in an honorable duel, Mr. St. Silas?”
“Your outrage does you credit. My doubts are now laid to rest.”
Rami looked at St. Silas carefully, yet neither doubt nor reassurance was shown on his closed face. Rami was suddenly gripped with panic. In all the fear of being hanged and the subsequent life-and-death exchanges, he had not thought, for a minute, that Martin might play dirty.
But of course he would, lest Rami forget the wood cabin and Mackenzie Crane.
Damnation.
But St. Silas already suspected this, and was likely making plans based on those suspicions.
Mr. Martin jerked his head in assent, but he did not look any happier. He then turned to Rami. “Throw your sword to the ground, Mr. Al-Sayer. You will be kept locked in your room as leverage, to ensure the duel takes place.”
Rami had no choice but to walk forward toward the entrance to the parlor. As he passed St. Silas, he was subsequently patted on the shoulder in what seemed uncharacteristically like comfort. Then, just before St. Silas turned to go, he murmured low enough for only Rami to hear, “If you see Leena, do not inform her of the treachery Martin will likely attempt tomorrow. Otherwise, she will try to follow us in a misguided attempt to help.”
Rami nodded tightly. That was exactly what Leena would do, should she suspect Rami’s life was in danger.
