A/N: I've never written canon/OC in all my 17 years of fic-writing, but this idea would NOT leave me alone, so here we are!

The Boyds are a fictitious family I've created for my own amusement/storytelling purposes. If they happen to share names with any actual historical figures, it was completely by accident, and not my intention. With that said, despite the historical references, this isn't meant to be accurate - though I suppose that's obvious, given the insertion of this fictitious family!

The title is from Mark Twain's The Prince and the Pauper, since I liked the idea of borrowing from a classic lit story featuring mistaken identities. There are some 18th century slang terms in here, and the definitions can be found at the end of each chapter. Hope you all enjoy!

CH 1: Mistaken Identity

When Caleb entered Ben's tent that morning, the whaler could feel the tension emanating from his friend in strong, blatant waves. Ben's anxious fussing, however, wasn't what drew Caleb's immediate attention. He gave a low whistle. "Christ Almighty, you look like a high-flyer…"

"That's the idea." Turning toward the other man, Ben adjusted his cravat and sighed. "Fortunately, I was able to find a willing donor. There's no way I would've been able to afford this disguise on my own."

Bedecked in a tan, silk brocade waistcoat with a rosette on each button, an embroidered blue wool coat over top with white satin appliqués, gold silk and paste jewels, and a pair of simple cream breeches, Ben was quite striking despite the hint of gloom in his eyes.

"You've got your story straight?" Caleb pressed, concern flashing across his dark eyes.

"I'm a Tory sympathizer looking to lend my aid," Ben recited, sounding bored despite the clear tension in his shoulders. "I am in town seeking new residence with the hopes of expanding my lucrative business."

"And your business is…?"

"Shipbuilding – in Philadelphia."

"Good man! Sounds like you've been practicing," Caleb crowed, his eyes twinkling with relief.

"This mission is a serious one," Ben reminded him. "If I can infiltrate the Boyd family, perhaps we can also get a hold of Governor Tryon."

"Aye, the true dream," Caleb grumbled, resisting the urge to spit. "Hopefully it won't take too long. I've heard Jedediah Boyd is a bit of a loggerhead."

"He can't be that stupid," Ben muttered. "Thus far, he's managed to avoid capture in his aid to the enemy."

"Hard not to, seeing how New York's crawling with redcoats," Caleb agreed. "Well…" He shrugged, brightening before socking Ben on the arm. "I imagine you'll wrap this one up in a jiff. While you're at it, perhaps you can have a bit of fun?"

Ben's face twisted in confusion. "Fun?"

"You know…at a bawdy house?"

He snorted. "I have never even remotely entertained the idea of entering a bawdy house, Caleb."

"Aye, and a lot of good it's done you, too! There's been plenty of boxing the Jesuit in your spare time."

"Plenty of freedom from the clap, as well."

Caleb huffed. "I do not have the clap!"

Not wanting to further this conversation, Ben instead reached out and took the other man's hand, shaking it fondly. "I'll send word the minute I learn something," he promised.

Slowly, Caleb's face sobered. "I'll keep close by," he agreed. "And remember: stick to the story."

Ben's smile grew lopsided. "I'm not much for deviation, as you'll recall."

Unfortunately, his words would soon prove to be false.

In New York City, the Boyd family lived on a street with large, ostentatious houses. Despite many of these being used for billeting soldiers, the Boyds had been spared of this inconvenience due to their close ties with the British generals and Governor Tryon, himself.

Jedediah, a successful attorney, lived with his wife, Laura, and their three beautiful young daughters, Charlotte, Clara and Catherine. The eldest and youngest were both well-poised and charming, but the middle daughter – well…she'd nearly brought the Boyds to great shame, seeing how she had already succumbed to "premarital carnalities" that were best to be kept hidden. After paying off the young man who'd stolen Clara's virtue, the problem had more or less disappeared… Though Clara's outrageous behavior most certainly had not.

Presently, as she sat on a bench in the foyer with her youngest sister, Catherine, Clara irately listened as she was regaled with a story of young love and heartbreak.

"What a cad," she spat, her red curls bouncing. "Right after you throw yourself at his feet, he decides to sow his oats in that cow's pasture? Unbelievable!"

Catherine blushed. "I did not throw myself at him. And besides, Mr. Havenshire is still a gentleman... I'd prefer not to speak ill of him just because I behaved like a fool."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Well then allow me to speak ill of him, because I certainly have no qualms with dragging him through the mud. Truly, I am surprised he hasn't bored his new mistress to death with his wealthy knowledge of literature and arithmetic. He's a complete dullard!"

Catherine soured. "I like to learn."

"Yes, but he didn't allow you to learn the one thing you were truly interested in, if you get my meaning."

"Do you ever tire of your own perversions?"

"Of course not! The day I tire of men and sex is the day I no longer have a pulse."

Anxiously, Catherine tugged at the itchy lace of her fichu. "Did Mr. Shaw rebuff you? I-I mean, you've told me he was your first lover, but did he come to you, or did you come to him?"

Clara's green eyes grew almost feline, as they often did whenever she spoke of her conquests. "Oh, he most certainly came to me. It's all about setting an irresistible trap, and then seeing it through to the end. All men are idiots, so if you flash a bit of skin or wink or toss your hair, they'll be eating out of your palm…among other places."

"Clara, please."

"What? You asked!" Gently, she brushed a finger along a loose strand from Catherine's strawberry blonde bun, then promptly nudged her arm. "Why don't you send a letter to Mr. Hepplewhite instead?"

Catherine paled. "I really don't think that would be wise…"

"Why ever not?" Clara fired back. "The man is smitten, and he's not nearly so boring. I suppose all men are rather dull, when you get down to it, but he at least has excellent hands."

Catherine's brow creased, confusion flashing across her wide grey eyes. "What on earth do his hands have to do with anything?"

"Why, everything, of course! If a man has nice hands – long fingers, in particular – he should be an excellent lover, indeed," Clara said, winking. "Mr. Shaw had nice hands. He knew exactly what to stroke and rub."

"Good Lord… Clara, I have told you time and time again: please do not speak of such filth!"

She huffed, unimpressed. "How is it filth? God has blessed us with these bodies! Not to mention, procreation is wholly natural. If it were not, why would we ever wish to lie with men in the first place?"

Catherine sighed. "But what about Charlotte? She has found a man of fine breeding, and seems quite content, judging by her letters."

"Ah, yes…the ever-elusive Mr. Philip Ashby," Clara agreed, rolling her eyes. "Were she actually to return from Philadelphia and show us his face, I might be more inclined to believe in his existence. Why, it's complete fudge that Father seems indifferent to their courting – he hasn't even met him!"

"Charlotte has excellent judgment," Catherine said, only to immediately realize her mistake.

Clara pursed her mouth, though her green eyes were flashing. "Yes, yes, perfect little Lottie would absolutely never let any man enter her carvel's ring."

Scandalized, Catherine swatted her arm. "Don't speak like that!" she warned, blushing. "I cannot believe you even know such words!"

"Why? I have a carvel's ring – and so do you."

"Stop it, stop it!"

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Jolting to attention, both women turned toward the door in surprise.

"Was Father expecting someone?" Clara asked. When Catherine shook her head, the redhead nodded to the tall, thin servant standing at the far end of the foyer – William, his name was – and he nodded to them before going over and opening the door.

Eager, both Boyd daughters tried to see around William's shoulders, but couldn't quite get a good view. They could hear a pleasant, masculine voice, and Catherine gasped in delight.

"Oh, it must be Mr. Ashby!" she crowed. "See? I knew Charlotte wasn't lying!"

"Mr. Ashby?" Clara echoed, her interest piqued. "How ever did you come to that conclusion? Is any old fool Mr. Ashby now?"

"I heard that man mention Philadelphia!" Catherine said, annoyed. "Though I'm loath to break my vow, Lottie told me she was scheduled to come home next week with Mr. Ashby – it's to be a surprise!" Furrowing her brow, she added, "Though from the looks of things, Lottie has not yet arrived."

"Well, perhaps she sent down Mr. Ashby first to earn Father's approval," Clara said, choosing to ignore the sting over having been excluded. As the black sheep of the family, she'd grown rather accustomed to it. Allowing the snub to roll off her shoulders, she rose from her perch and folded her hands over her ornate stomacher, adapting an air of superiority as she called, "Show him in, William."

The servant bowed, muttered a curt, "Very good, Miss Clara," and stepped aside to admit their new guest.

All at once, Clara's eyes lit up, and her rosy lips twitched into a sly, lopsided smile. If she didn't love her sister, she supposed she might actually be a bit jealous. This Philip Ashby was not only young, but very handsome. His eyes were a warm, enchanting cobalt blue, his features both sharp and soft, and his ash-blonde hair was pulled back into a braid at the nape of his neck.

With a simper, Clara stepped forward and extended her hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Ashby."

The man's eyes widened, and for a moment, he appeared genuinely confused. "I-I am-"

"Mr. Philip Ashby," Clara said again, nodding. "Yes, yes, I know. Despite her best efforts, Charlotte has failed to keep you hidden from us. We know all about your secret intentions to marry."

If it were possible, the man seemed to pale even further. "I…am he, yes," he finally allowed, taking her hand. "I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss…Clara, was it?"

"Ah! A man who is not only handsome, but capable of listening? Why, I'm smitten already!" Clara teased. Nodding to him, she withdrew and gestured to her left. "This is my sister, Catherine. Mother is presently napping, but I can wake her, should you desire it? Father is in court, so I imagine he will be detained for quite some time."

"No. No, no, that won't be necessary."

"Splendid! Well, if that's all there is to it, William will show you to your room," Clara said, beaming. "The supper gong will go off at six, so do make sure you aren't late. Father detests a lack of punctuality."

Mr. Ashby bowed, and Clara and Catherine both curtsied in response.

While William led the newcomer off to the guest bedroom, Clara leaned over to her sister and whispered, "He has the backside of a Greek god."

"Clara Boyd!" Catherine hissed, mortified. "Have you no shame?"

"Why no, none that I'm aware of," she said, beaming. "Shall we read for a bit? I've grown rather bored." Linking her arm through her sister's, Clara grinned further and spirited Catherine off toward the library. Things suddenly seemed far, far more interesting in New York City.

Ben was in a state of absolute panic. Pacing back and forth in his assigned guest bedroom, he pressed a fist over his mouth and exhaled through his nose, his head ducking downward as he moved from one side of the floor to the other.

This wasn't happening. This was not happening. As promising as the lie had seemed at first, Ben was quick to realize that he was ill-prepared. Not only did he know absolutely nothing about this "Philip Ashby," but he also didn't have a wardrobe beyond the clothes on his back. He couldn't very well pose as a rich, successful Tory – Ashby or otherwise – with only one outfit to spare. Why on earth had he never taken into account that he might be invited to stay?

"Bloody hell," he grumbled. The daughters had seemed delighted enough by his arrival, but swaying two young, impressionable women was a far cry from persuading a prominent, tough-as-nails attorney. Perhaps if he got one of the daughters to take pity on him, the Boyds could be convinced to overlook his lack of clothing…

Just as he was concocting his story in his head, a knock came at the door, and Clara Boyd popped her head in.

"Pardon me, Mr. Ashby," she chirped, "but have you gotten yourself settled in?"

Stunned, Ben gaped back at her in shock. Checking on the welfare of a guest, let alone one of the male persuasion was most certainly not something a female member of the elite would do. It was inappropriate – scandalous, in fact, and Ben felt a faint flush overtake him up to the tips of his ears. What would her father think, were he to become aware?

Suddenly able to picture a noose around his neck (or worse), Ben self-consciously touched his throat and swallowed. "Miss Boyd," he greeted. "Though I appreciate the concern, this is hardly appropriate."

To his surprise, Clara snorted. It was a coarse, unladylike sound and she shrugged, stepping farther into the room.

"I thought I would lend my assistance," she said. "I noticed you weren't carrying any baggage…not entirely wise, if you want my opinion."

"I don't," Ben snapped, only to immediately regret his tone.

Clara, however, seemed enchanted by his brusqueness. "Well! At long last – a man who isn't trying so desperately to pucker-up at my backside." Simpering, she folded her hands. "I imagine in your haste to acquaint yourself with your lady-love's family, you must have forgotten everything: your clothes, your servants, your…" She trailed off then, appraising him uncomfortably close. "…fiancée, now that I think about it. Where is our darling Charlotte?"

"Philadelphia," Ben said, praying for this to be true.

Clara arched a brow. "You decided to come to town separately?"

"Yes. I wanted to do the honorable thing and ask for your sister's hand, face-to-face, man-to-man with your father." Palms sweating, Ben's cheek twitched and he composed himself with a tight smile. "I adore Charlotte, Miss Boyd. I intend to do right by her."

"And so you shall," Clara said, suddenly sounding bored. "Father worships the very ground Lottie walks on, so I trust he'll roll out the carpet for your arrival." Again, she appraised him. "Part of this mystery still remains unsolved. Why ever did you travel without any accompaniment?"

"I was nervous," Ben fumbled, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "I do my best thinking whenever I am by myself, so I…I panicked and departed on my own."

"And your carriage is…?"

"Stolen. I was robbed by highwaymen. They took everything: my clothes, my carriage, my very dignity."

Finally, Clara's unruffled demeanor developed a slight chink. "Highwaymen? Good gracious!" Concerned, she inspected him with a different sort of invasiveness. "Are you hurt? Should we send for the constable?"

"No, no, I trust they're long gone by now," Ben said. "I came the rest of the way by foot."

"By foot? Lord above, you truly are mad!"

I truly am, he bitterly thought, shaking his head. "I trust that was all you needed, Miss Boyd?"

Pursing her mouth, she took a slight step back and nodded. "I'll have William lend you some raiment. You and Father aren't so different in stature, though you might be a bit taller."

"I would be much obliged, thank you."

"Remember, Mr. Ashby: the supper gong is struck at six." Slowly, Clara's good humor returned and she smirked. "Might I make one small suggestion?"

A prick of unease filled Ben's chest, but he nodded.

"When you do finally speak with Father, please try and appear as though you don't have a stick lodged up your bottom. It's rather uncomely." With her face breaking into a sly grin, she winked and offered him a curtsy. "That is all, Mr. Ashby. I look forward to seeing you at suppertime."

When Clara ducked out of the room, smug and with her head held high, Ben exhaled and sank down onto his bed before dropping his face into his hands.

A/N: This was a lot of fun for me to write! I sat down and wrote it all out in one sitting (I rarely do that), and revisiting Clara was quite the experience lol. She's a side character from my first gothic romance novel, but for whatever reason, I felt compelled to resurrect her for this fandom. I created her as a middle finger to the whole "the impure character must die" trope found in most old horror/gothic lit, and I felt her sexual openness would be a fun contrast to Ben's more stiff/uptight regard for intimacy...hence my choosing to write her again.

I've missed Clara, so I hope you like her as much as I enjoy writing her! I can't guarantee speedy updates, but feedback is always appreciated. 💖 Just saying hi is welcome, too! You can find me on my Tumblr at musicboxmemories!

18th century slang featured:
high-flyer: Tories, Jacobites
loggerhead: blockhead or stupid fellow
bawdy house: brothel
boxing the Jesuit: to masturbate
the clap: venereal disease
fudge: nonsense
carvel's ring: a woman's private parts
highwaymen: robbers