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And then he let the ax fall.

“I ended John’s life.”

Silence fell over the room as Patience sucked in air.

“John…who?” asked Mrs. Rose in confusion, looking around at her family for help.

“Your son, Mrs. Rose,” he said softly, and her eyes grew into two saucers. “I was with him in Oxford. One night, I was a witness to him committing a grievous offense against a young woman. I intervened to defend her honor. It got very heated, and I challenged him to a duel. Sir Bertram witnessed that challenge. That’s why he was so surprised I married you, Patience.”

Mr. Rose jumped to his feet, his face paling at first, then reddening to beetroot.

“My John? An offense against a woman? He’d never⁠—”

“Of course he’d never—” began Patience’s mama.

“Papa, Mama,” said Beatrice—the second oldest sister, Dorian remembered. “You knew John wasn’t all goodness and honor. We all knew it, didn’t we, sisters?”

Her sisters all exchanged glances, looking sheepish.

“It’s true,” said Emily, the oldest. “I knew him best. He could be…quite petty. And vengeful, about small things. If I didn’t give him what he asked, he would break my doll…and he broke your bottle of French brandy, Papa, and said it was Beatrice.”

“No…” mumbled Mrs. Rose. “He didn’t mean it, surely.”

“It’s just that you closed your eyes to his misgivings,” said Clarice, who Dorian remembered was the third eldest sister.

“Locking them in the basket, perhaps?” suggested Patience.

Anne’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her porcelain features a mask of conflicting emotions. “I…I had suspicions of John’s cruelty, although I did not remember him doing anything to me. But to hear it confirmed…” She drew a shuddering breath, her slender frame trembling.

Silence fell on the room as Mrs. Rose and Mr. Rose stared at the worn, moth-eaten carpet.

“What happened during the duel, Duke?” asked Patience softly.

“While our seconds and I were distracted, I noticed John doing something to my pistol,” he said. “I was sure of it. But his second assured us of Mr. Rose’s honor, and then both seconds inspected the pistols and found no fault. However, when I fired…it burst right in my hand.”

Slowly, he removed his glove. He winced when leather scratched over the aching flesh. Heat flushed through him. Even if he had allowed Patience to see it, letting others see it was another matter. But he had to take all of the pain on, all of the discomfort, and accept his punishment. Slowly, he stretched it out for everyone to see, the burn scars like the landscape of an uninhabited world.

He cleared his throat as the memories of that morning clawed into him. “Wrath completely took me over. Had I been a normal human, a balanced man, or someone who has your ability, Mr. Rose, to turn away from dark emotions, your son would still be alive.”

Mrs. Rose released a shuddering breath, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to know. Please, stop. We should not talk about this.”

Patience watched him with the stoic expression of a queen. “I want to know about my brother’s last minutes. And you all need to know, too. What happened, Duke?”

He swallowed hard. The horror and pain in their eyes—he needed to bear it and finish his story, tell them what was in the folder, and leave. He owed them that much. “Overcome with rage, I strode to him. I did not know what I was doing. All I could see was red. I attacked him. We struggled. He had his charged pistol in his hands. It fired with my finger on the trigger. He died in my arms.”

Silence fell on the room, and then a pained sob broke it as Mrs. Rose turned to Anne and buried her face in her daughter’s shoulder, her body shaking in tremors. Mr. Rose stood stoically, breathing hard, his mouth crooked as he attempted to hide his grief but was unable to do so.

“And then you arranged it to look like suicide,” finished Mr. Rose.

Dorian nodded. “I was a coward. An angry, despicable coward. I made it look like a suicide, and then I left for Rath Hall.”

Patience frowned. “For your papa’s funeral?” she asked. “Chastity said you came back with an injured hand and that you were not yourself…”

“Just prior to John’s assault on the barmaid, I received a letter informing me of my papa’s death,” he said.

Patience’s breath shuddered. “It is little wonder you lashed out as you did. You would not have been yourself after such a letter… That must have been quite a shock for you. He was your papa…even if he was a monster.”

How did she do this? He was telling her exactly how he’d killed her brother, and she still found a way to feel compassionate towards him.