Dedicated to a random commenter AlanKarihage - Thank you for all your support, o sweet one. <3

Chapter 18: Masked Once More (Part 1 of 2)

Drake collapsed into bed, exhausted from his recent travels. He turned his face into a pillow and breathed deeply.

Ever since she'd been taken away, he'd moved himself into her bedchamber. Despite her eye-sore of a room, with her lingering scent on the covers and pillows here, it was the only way he could sleep.

But unlike his newfound love for her, scents faded with time.

Did she miss him, too?

He breathed again and found only the slightest trace of her. His heart ached in emptiness.

The scouts and eyes he'd placed in the villages, farms and inns all along the road to Lyons had reported to him of the whereabouts of Amelia and her abductors. They watched from afar, ready to intervene should her life be at stake. So far, it has brought him the barest comfort to know that they had not needed to. The descriptions in their reports, though simple and matter-of-fact, said enough for him to know that those lowlives had treated her in ways that pained him every day—but she was alive.

The latest message by pigeon informed him of her impending arrival in Lyons. With his business here complete, the wait was over.

Like all skilled assassins, D'Arcy was an elusive creature that walked the shadows. Even the Guild has had difficulty tracking him down. By accepting a disgraceful mission such as this, he has unwittingly exposed himself and his crew. All the information Drake received on their locations and patterns of behaviour, he passed on to the Guild. Now, they were waiting for him. He will let the Guild handle their Guild business, but he has also submitted a very firm request: D'Arcy was to be skinned alive.

Drake pulled the bedcovers up to his face and held them to his chest. Soon. Soon, he shall have her in his arms again.

The night was still early, but he forced himself into a deep, restful slumber—the last he will have for a while. For tomorrow, he will ride.

* * *

Amelia kept her head down as she closed the door of her chamber. With the turn of a brass key, the locks fell into place with a 'click' that rang loud and eerie in the dark hallway. Candlelight flickered and tremored about her on the walls, guiding her treacherous path ahead.

Balancing a tray of emptied platters in one hand, she reached her free hand into the deep pockets of her dress—nay, Tanya's dress—to check, once again, that she had brought the hairpins she needed.

Three days. There was precious little time to waste.

Slowly, she turned away from the door, mentally coaxing herself to calm her nerves and will her hands to cease shaking around the tray. As she started towards the dim lights ahead, she muttered curses about Drake under her breath. This new ritual cooled her trepidation.

She was confident that in this lighting, no one would be able to tell that her hair was a tinge darker than Tanya's. The only thing she worried about was her height.

Nearly there... Almost a head taller than Tanya, Amelia strained to keep her posture slouched and her weak, bruised knees slightly bent as she came up to the two guards posted on either side of the corridor.

As she'd hoped, immediately after the evening meal, the guards were more relaxed, enjoying a conversation between them in hushed tones, probably discussing the newest tavern wench in the city that has captured men's hearts, or cocks.

Other than a fleeting glance at her servant's garb and empty tray, they paid her no mind. Amelia released a nervous breath as she turned the corner and continued down her path to the palace kitchens, following the directions from Tanya.

Darting her lowered gaze left and right, Amelia made a mental count of the guards she came by. They were triple the numbers she usually saw on her prior visits to the palace. Escape was out of the question.

Everything else, however, was as she'd remembered. Unlike the rest of the city, the palace—especially its interior which has never been seen by the poor and average citizens—was built to the epitome of opulence and grandeur. There was certainly no sombre mood to portray the recent passing of a king.

Unlike the narrow corridor she exited out of, the main hallways of the palace were bright with chandeliers of countless candles. It may take plenty of work to replace them each day, but it was needed to showcase the architectural wonder of tall arched ceilings and gold gilded columns. That was well worth it in the eyes of the narcissistic royals of every generation.

Amelia's footsteps fell soft on the lush red carpet that lined the entire length of the hallway, and it was no difficult feat to blend in amongst the busy serving maids that headed to the kitchens shortly after the evening meal service.

Still, she kept her eyes turned to the ground, playing the role of a timid young maid at the bottom of the palace hierarchy whose only role was to heed the orders of others. The more she acted as though she had a purpose, the more others would assume she was merely following orders like a minion with no mind of her own.

Her plan was simple: bring the empty tray from her own evening meal to the kitchens; swap it for a simple platter of supper; pretend it was for the Duke of Marlborough; then lock-pick her way into her father's chamber the same way she'd done to Drake's to plant all manner of traps and unseemly creatures.

And after that? Well, she did not know yet. She was no far-sighted plotter like her husband. The first rule of Amelia's playbook was to dive right in and hope things worked out.

The large palace kitchens bustled with activity. Where there is congregation, there is gossip. Always. Even more so in any space filled with maids milling about. As Amelia set down her tray in one discrete corner, her ears perked.

"... see the fight between 'em?"

"Nay, what happened?"

"Lord Howell was slain in his sleep."

Several voices gasped in unison.

"But he is— was the commander of our army!"

"And his house is built like a fortress, near impenetrable!"

"And most loyal to Prince Dane, who could even..."

"With Sir Myles injured from the hunt too..."

"If there is war—"

"Be hard to fight off an invasion methinks."

"You worry wort, you. We are still the strongest kingdom—"

"Without a king though."

"Shh!"

Amelia dawdled a little while longer in her corner, her hand palming the signet under her dress as the palace chatter twisted her plan this way and that.

With all the girls gathered together in a circle of gossip, the lone wolf in the dark stood out like a beacon of light.

"Hei, you there!" Amelia turned to see a skinny, long-faced maid with one hand on her hip, the other hand pointing at her with an angry, bony finger. "What d'ye think ye're doin' just standin' around?"

She stared back at the whole lot of them who did nothing but stand around and suppressed the urge to call out the hypocrisy. Now was not the time to draw attention to herself. Instead, she muttered an apology—as a young, timid maid would—and made quick work of piling fruits, wine and cheese onto a new platter.

"Lazy, stupid girl." The angry maid shook her head and turned back to the crowd behind her. "Young 'uns these days are always lazy. Back in my day..."

Ignoring the insults, Amelia slipped out of the kitchens with her new platter.

The second rule of her playbook was that plans are never fixed in stone. She has already carried out the first part of her plan. The next part, however... she resisted her desire to visit her father.

Under the guise of an innocent, dim-witted maidservant with a sweet, charming smile, she asked for a few directions, and headed to the chambers of the royal bastard Prince Dane.

* * *

Anyone who knew the royal bastards would know also that Dane loved his brother dearly. Rumour said that the late Queen, in a bout of jealousy, caused the death of their mother, a beloved mistress of King Theodore. And so began the feud between Warren and the Crown Prince. Dane, who was still young when he lost his mother, was practically brought up under the wardship of Warren, who was ten years his senior. The brothers were joined at the hips.

Other than that, Amelia had only ever seen Prince Dane from afar at a few royal events. She did not know what to expect. But if one brother wanted to cut off her ears, she'll have to lay her bets on the other one.

Hiding around a corner near Dane's chambers, Amelia smoothed out the slight wrinkles of her dress and pinched her cheeks for a bit of colour. After that hard travel to Lyons, even young Tanya's dress hung loosely on her frame. Hopefully, she has made up for it in other departments.

She was glad to have asked Tanya to carefully wash out the grime in her hair, and to smuggle an assortment of paints, powders and perfumes into her 'prison cell'.

Not only did she disguise the bruises and sallowness of her face with the powders (which she'd become quite adept at using during her time in the north), but with the tricks she'd learnt from Isabella, she also made up some coloured paints to accentuate her features. With the hairpins she no longer needed for lock-picking, she pinned her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, letting a few stray curls frame her face.

At last, with great self-questioning and reluctance, she tugged the neckline of her dress down before picking up the platter from where it rested on the floor. After all, Marge said it was easier to please a man if one pleased his eyes. She'd primped herself earlier in case she needed to charm her way past the royal guards. Now, there was a more important man to charm.

"I bring supper for His Highness, sirs," she announced meekly to the guards at the entrance to Dane's study.

They took in her young appearance and sweet smile, and surmised she was yet another ambitious pretty maid come to wriggle her way into the bed of a prince still in his prime at thirty years. With a snicker, they waved her through.

Amelia paused only a little before she took dainty, cautious steps into the prince's study, and curtsied. "Your Highness." He paid her no mind, his full attention devoted to the papers and map spread out across his desk.

With no acknowledgment or dismissal from him, she continued to hold her curtsy. Was there a different convention with Prince Dane that she did not know of? Soon, her bruised legs were trembling; the plates clinking on the silver platter with each jerk and wobble of her knees.

Unable to hold any longer, Amelia straightened and walked forth, setting down the plate of supper delicacies on an empty corner of the desk.

He looked up.

Whereas Warren's face was contorted by the permanent cruel sneer of his lips, Dane was cool, expressionless. And absolutely handsome. His high cheeks, sharp nose and jawline, even the thin press of his lips—every feature combined into a masterpiece of the most talented sculptor. It was no surprise, really, for a king had the pick of any woman he wished to bed. It made perfect sense that he chose the most beautiful for his harem, who would go on to produce the most attractive offspring.

She swallowed nervously. "Your Highness, I—"

He leaned back into his chair, his lips turned up ever so slightly. "Lady Amelia, to what do I owe this honour?"

———

Hmm. Will Amelia's plans clash with Drake's, I wonder... ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ