Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Two

He'd been robbed, Roman realized, upon thorough inspection of his pockets. Letting out a foul word, he collapsed into his seat as the carriage rolled further away from White's, where the crime had likely taken place. He knew his wallet was in the hands of the hoodlum who'd mindlessly bumped into him as he made his way out of the gentlemen's club. If he hadn't been so distracted by his misfortune at the cards table tonight, perhaps he might have noticed what the little rascal was up to and handed him over to the authorities to be dealt with for his crimes. But there was no weeping for shed milk; the thief was gone, and Roman was five hundred pounds poorer than when he left his house.

Roman returned home that evening in a foul mood. He was greeted at the door by Mr. Healy, his butler, who, after handing him a sealed package from his steward, inquired where Roman might be inclined to eat his dinner tonight. It was a courteous question, for although Mr. Healy knew Roman hadn't had dinner at home in two years, he was obligated to ask. Roman took the package and waved Mr. Healy off, before retiring to his study. He tore open the envelope, his mood growing darker as he inspected the report before him; his addiction was eating into his accounts.

Too deep.

He'd lost over forty thousand pounds in two years gambling. At the rate he was going, he would be broke before the year was over, and if he stayed faithful to the destructive path he was on, in spite of his financial state, he would be thigh-deep in debt before the middle of the next year. Eventually, his debts would drown him. He saw his ruination from several miles away, yet, for the life of him, he couldn't stop himself from running into it. Gambling was the only thing that made him feel like his heart still pounded where it lay in his chest—It thrilled, it invigorated, but more than that, it distracted.

A knock on the door pulled him back to the present. He buried the financial report in his desk drawer, before giving the command to enter. The door cracked open to reveal Mr. Healy.

"Forgive my intrusion, sir, but you have visitors," Healy announced.

"Visitors?" Confused, Roman pulled out his pocket watch to be certain of the time. Just as he suspected, it was several minutes past midnight. Who was mad enough to call on anyone at such an unholy hour?

"Indeed. A Miss Sara and Frances."

Roman frowned. "I'm unfamiliar with those names. Vagabonds, I suspect. Have Cook pack some leftovers from dinner for them, then send them away with strict warnings never to return or they shall risk being arrested for trespassing," Roman said with a wave of his hand, but Healy maintained his position by the door. "Is there anything else, Mr. Healy?"

Healy shook his head, his throat working on a swallow. "The woman, Miss Frances—" he swallowed again—"claims to have known Mrs Brown."

Layla. He felt the familiar stab in his chest at the thought of her. Pushing the feeling aside, he raised a brow. "How so?" While Layla had many friends, Roman was nearly certain he had never met or heard of any Miss Frances before now. Unless, of course, he'd ingested too much wine this evening at White's, and the damned liquid helped pollute his memory. Either way, he didn't think himself in the right frame of mind, least of all, in the mood to accommodate visitors.

"She—"

He raised his hand to silence Healy. "Never mind it still. Send them away. I shall not see to uncouth guests who've chosen the worst time of day to call."

"Yes. I thought to do so, sir. As a matter of fact, I tried. But, not only does Miss Frances claim to be acquainted with Mrs. Brown, she says they're sisters."

"What?!" Healy's announcement forced bile to Roman's mouth.

"Indeed, sir. The two women have made the strangest request."