Amos smirked and stood, bidding the table goodbye before signaling for the butler at the door. “Send the girl to my room.”
A knock sounded on his door, and Amos threw it open, ushering the butler and girl inside. “You may leave,” he told the man.
The butler hesitated, shooting worried eyes at the young girl. “We already reprimanded her, Your Grace.”
“What’s your name?” he asked the butler.
The man blanched. “Henry.”
Making a mental note to add Henry to the good list, Amos smiled. “Thank you, Henry. That will be all.”
With a last withering look at the girl, the man left, and Amos motioned for the trembling girl to follow him away from thedoor. “I’m not going to hurt you.” The trembling didn’t stop. “What’s your name?”
“Lucy, Your Grace.” Her voice shook right along with her body.
“How old are you, Lucy?”
“Fifteen, Your Grace.”
His stomach dropped. He’d thought she was at least eighteen. “Listen closely. You put yourself in danger when you accused Paul of grabbing you.”
“But he did!” the girl insisted, tears streaming down her face. “I swear!”
“I know he did,” Amos agreed, “but you’re among monsters who don’t care about the truth, and it’s important you remember that.”
She cried harder. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
“Cry louder. I need them to think I’m hurting you.”
Her face screwed up with confusion, but she complied. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Beg me to stop.” Lucy, he thought, was an excellent actress.
“Keep going and follow me.” He opened the door to his room and slipped inside, closing the door loudly behind him. “You can stop.”
The girl lifted her apron and cleaned her face. “I don’t understand.”
“How does your family treat you?”
Her confusion grew. “Good. We lived in a small village right outside of the capital until my father got a better paying job here a month ago.” She sniffled.
That explains her ignorance of the way things worked here. The majority of the men in political positions of power were worse than most commoners, and being in the palace put Lucy in close proximity to a lot of them.
“We’re going to your house right now.” He stopped and eyed her dress. Reaching out, he tore her top down the middle and averted his eyes. She scrambled to hold the fabric together with wide eyes. “You need to cry when we leave and hold your dress together.”
Walking to his bedside table, he pulled out sacks of coin then grabbed her arm. “What direction is your home?”
She chewed on her lip. “I can show you once we’re out of the front courtyard gates.”
He gathered his daggers and whatever else he needed, forgoing his hat. There was no need for it at night, and he’d be back before dawn.
Amos led her through the palace by her upper arm and winked at the guards as he left. Two of them chuckled, but one looked away. He tried to memorize the men who laughed so he could find out their names later.
Once at Lucy’s house, she let them in, and a man Amos assumed was her father jumped up from an overstuffed chair. “What is this about?”
The man took in his daughter’s torn dress and started toward her, but pulled up short when Amos said, “I’m Amos Stratton, crown prince.”
A woman ran into the room, looked from Lucy to Amos and covered her mouth to muffle a cry.
“He didn’t hurt me,” Lucy said, trying to soothe them. “He tore my dress to make it look like he did.”
