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The feeling of impending doom grew inside her like a storm. Like she was seconds away from a disaster and could not do a single thing to stop it, only stand and watch the worst thing imaginable unfold.
“Sir Bertram, do calm down,” snapped Dorian. “Our having been acquainted in Oxford does not give you the right to speak to me this way.”
“What are you going to do? Challenge me to a duel like you do with anyone who angers you? Kill me?”
A collective gasp ran through the crowd. Dorian’s eyes blazed in fury.
A chilling realization hit Patience in that moment: Dorian could actually kill a man.
Sir Smith hurried towards Sir Bertram, begging him to come outside and take some fresh air. But the drunk man only waved his hand dismissively.
“I suppose if you can’t win fairly,” mumbled Bertram, “there’s always another convenient suicide to be arranged, isn’t there?”
Patience’s heart stumbled, her breath catching in her throat. The room seemed to tilt around her as the pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.
John assaulting Christine and Dorian protecting her. The mysterious Oxford incident. The treatment of Dorian’s hand for a pistol wound on the day of John’s death. Dorian’s guilt-ridden eyes…
The truth was at her fingertips, but her mind refused to look at it too closely, refused to put the final piece in the puzzle.
“You go too far, sir,” Dorian growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I demand satisfaction. Name your second.”
An agitated murmur ran through the soirée. Patience had the sensation of falling into an abyss.
Sir Bertram scoffed. “Of course you do. Heaven forbid anyone speak the truth about the great Duke of Rath.”
Dropping Chastity’s hand, Patience walked through the crowd, feeling as if she were watching herself from above. She went to stand by Dorian’s side. Her voice trembling, she said, “Dorian, what is he talking about? What does he mean about John?”
Dorian whirled to face her, his expression a mix of anger and anguish. “Patience, not here.”
“It’s never the right place or the right time, Dorian, is it? You can never tell me about what truly happened at Oxford. Can never explain to me…” she said, tears blurring her vision. “That you… That my brother… Oh God.”
The full understanding of what must have happened hit her like a slap. Dorian was an angry man.
He used to challenge many men to duels.
But not after Oxford. Not after the Oxford incident involving him and John.
The puzzle pieces moved together in her mind, and this time she was unable to look away, to not see the image that formed.
John assaulted Christine and Dorian stopped him.
His hand was burned, pieces of metal needing to be removed from his flesh…because of a pistol explosion.
On the same day as John’s death.
From a gunshot.
Convenient suicide to be arranged…
Her blood chilled and goose bumps rose on her flesh as she acknowledged the truth.
Dorian was not a hero who had protected Christine and walked away.
Dorian had challenged John to a duel. He killed her brother. Then he made it look like a suicide.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting back a sob.
The hall erupted in whispers, curious eyes fixed on the unfolding drama.
