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They looked at each other. Whatever happened next, their lives would never be the same.

“He did sabotage your pistol…” murmured Pryde in shock as he looked over the remnants of Dorian’s pistol. “There’s a stone in the barrel… How did I not notice it? He must have found the exact right size so that it didn’t move…and before we loaded them.”

Lucien sighed and shook his head. “How are we going to hide this?”

And now, twelve years later, Dorian was faced with John’s grieving family. The hearts Dorian had broken because of his rage, because he couldn’t stop himself from attacking the man who’d maimed his hand.

He had killed a man, and these were the consequences—not just John’s life gone, but the lives of these people ruined. John’s sisters could have each been married. His oldest sister was probably thirty, far too old now to find a good match.

He met Patience’s gaze. She was eyeing him with an alert interest and attention.

She was onto him.

And they all were.

“No doubt you were as sad as we were?” asked Mrs. Rose again.

He clenched his jaws. “I did not know Mr. Rose at all.”

“Well, he wrote that he did know you,” said Mr. Rose. “I distinctively remember—I still have his letter…”

Unable to contain himself any longer, Dorian jumped to his feet, his chest heaving with barely contained fury. This had to end, this interrogation, this torture of his conscience. Had he not done enough for them? Marrying Patience, giving them money, and even promising them income?

“Enough!” he roared. “I beg of you.”

They all jerked back.

“Your Grace…” whispered Mrs. Rose. “What is it that we said?”

“It’s you who did not really know John,” growled Dorian. “Do not talk of him as if he was a saint!”

“Ah, that is indeed enough,” said Mrs. Rose with a tense chuckle. “You’re quite right, Duke, of course John was not a saint. He had his quirks. We all forgave him them because he was our only son, our beautiful boy, our hope for a better life.”

Dorian looked around the room. All of the girls looked at him with shock, Mr. Rose with a frown.

“Please forgive us, Your Grace,” he said. “We did love our John. You’re just another connection to him, part of his life we wish we knew more about.”

“Pray,” said Mrs. Rose. “Let us not spoil such a nice day. Let’s introduce the duke to a lovely tradition we have in our family.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Rose as he plastered a broad smile on his face just like Patience often did. “Now, girls. How about our little game of basket?”

“Oh yes!” cried several of them in chorus, most of them putting broad smiles on their faces.

It was a little unnerving to see that, but Dorian could now understand where Patience had acquired this strange habit.

“I’ll bring the basket!” Anne said and hurried out of the room.

Dorian had wanted to call after her suggesting that one of the footmen who stood at attention in the room could go and fetch it for her, but she was already gone.

Dorian sat back down in his chair, wishing for this evening to end and for this family to leave.

Not because he didn’t like them.

On the contrary.

It was just that they were a constant reminder of his worst sin, and he worried he would lash out again. His nerves felt like the strings of a violin, and the presence of John’s family did not make it better, especially since they kept singing his praises, and even forgave Dorian his very inappropriate and rude behavior.

Soon Anne returned with a simple square basket—one, Dorian imagined, that could be used to pick mushrooms or wild strawberries. Not that he had even done that himself.