A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  “Ah, Marguerite, I have distressed you. Please accept my apologies.” He swept a bow. He hadn’t attempted to kiss her again since the evening after dining with his parents, evidently unsure of his status with her now that they were involved in an intrigue together.

  “I’m not angry at you, Brax. It’s just that, honestly, Mr. Pitt never plagued me like my new masters do. He just let me do my work. I do know that swiftness is critical.”

  “You are certainly the most intelligent of women. Never fear, I will convey your assurances that the figure is being worked on expeditiously and will be completed in the shortest time possible.”

  Without Fox and Grey pestering her, the work progressed faster. She held thoughts of Darden at bay as she worked far into the night, reminding herself repeatedly that a traitor cannot be countenanced.

  No matter how the man I thought I knew contradicted the man the government had unearthed.

  You’ve been a poor judge of wickedness and dishonor these past few years. And remember that you are playing your part to bring a Judas to justice.

  Yes, but it’s little consolation.

  Once this task is finished, you should think about Brax. He obviously wants to marry you. You could have a happy life with him, especially since you will undoubtedly grow closer after this.

  I suppose. I’d just hoped to feel what I felt with … Darden.

  Yes, yes, I know. The traitor.

  Marguerite wrinkled her nose. The whole business was so distasteful and upsetting. Thank God, though, she was at least doing her duty.

  But she should have known that doing one’s duty generally meant involvement in distasteful and upsetting events.

  She was nearly finished with Ferdinand, and one evening was applying additional flesh-toned paints to his face to increase his natural qualities. Marguerite stepped back to observe her work. She thought she had captured his features well and that he could easily pass for the real man, especially passing by crowds in a carriage.

  Even locked in her workroom she could hear the insistent knocking on the exhibition’s front door.

  Drat it all, she thought. The building is dark. Why do customers think they can have the exhibit opened up especially for them at all hours of the night?

  She considered ignoring the rapping, but its continued repetition was too vexing to be disregarded. She sighed, put down the paintbrush, and wiped her hands on a rag before picking up one of the candlesticks positioned around the workroom to illuminate her work.

  She hastened through the exhibition, calling out, “I’m coming!” which at least ceased the infernal racket the visitor was making. She unlocked and opened the front door, and held up the light to see who her visitor was.

  Darden Hastings.

  He looked considerably better than he had the last time she’d seen him. Well, she supposed she looked a bit more polished, too. Although she was undoubtedly wearing paint across her nose and under all of her fingernails. She self-consciously wrapped her hand tighter around the light to hide her work-worn fingers.

  Darden wore a crisp, new uniform that bore his captain’s insignia on the sleeves, over which he wore a long, woolen cape. His own dark hair was neatly pulled back in a queue. He no longer smelled of sweat, blood, and gunpowder, although the faintest whiff of tar still lingered about him. And it was not an altogether unpleasant smell. In fact, she felt rather nostalgic about it.

  Silly goose! A traitor stands before you and would slit your throat if he knew what you were up to, and you’re feeling sentimental about his scent?

  Darden cleared his throat. “Were you going to let me in, or must I remain out here, chilled to the marrow?”

  Marguerite debated. Why was he here? Did he know about the wax figure she was finishing up in her workroom? Was she in any danger?

  Please, dear God, they must be mistaken about him.

  But they have evidence.

  Quiet! I won’t listen to this.

  You know your duty. Pretend nothing is wrong.

  “Of course.” She held the door open to allow him in, then shut it against the cold. The single taper’s light kept them together in an intimate, warm glow. It was unnerving. “I was just a bit surprised to see you. Especially so late in the evening. How did you know I was here?”

  “Your landlady said you’ve been keeping late hours at the exhibition. I’m glad to see you remembered my advice about lodging with widows.” Darden removed his cape and hung it on a hook near the door.

  Marguerite gritted her teeth. Whereas she had been proud of following his advice mere weeks ago, now it seemed like she’d been blithely following the devil.

  “What brings you to London, Captain Hastings?”

  He self-consciously touched his insignia. “What, am I no longer Darden?” he asked with a crooked smile.

  She wanted nothing more than to rush into his arms, cover his face with unladylike kisses, and assure him that he was her Darden and she was his Marguerite.

  You know your duty.

  She ignored the question. “I suppose you’re on some leave? Or are perhaps surveying some strategic fortifications?”

  “Yes, among other things. I’m sorry for the lateness of my visit, but I’ll be leaving soon on a mission and wanted to see you, since I’m not sure when I’ll return.”

  “All of a sudden? You’ve been absent a long time.”

  “Yes, well, Victory didn’t get into Portsmouth until November, then I had many duties surrounding Nelson’s funeral in December. I spent time on leave with my family in Somerset, and only just came back to London in recent weeks to receive my promotion and a new assignment.”

  “And where will you be heading on your new assignment?”

  Darden shifted his weight to one foot, the one that had been injured at Trafalgar. A full recovery, apparently. “I can’t really speak of details. It’s confidential, you might say.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “After you left Victory, I realized I was most unhappy with our parting, and just wanted an opportunity to convey to you my … regret … over things.”

  “Your regret, Captain?”

  “Yes. That further association was not possible at the time. Given our circumstances.”

  “Our circumstances? What are those? I’m just a simple waxworker’s apprentice trying to ply her trade.”

  Darden laughed. “Simple? To the contrary. You’re as complex and varied as a blustering headwind.” He reached out a hand to touch an errant curl that had slipped out of her bandeau. She jerked away from his touch.

  He held his hand in the air as if confused by her reaction, then dropped it back to his side. “I suppose I deserve your disdain.”

  “Why, Captain, you deserve neither my disdain nor my appreciation. I believe things are very clear between us.”

  He sighed. “But they aren’t. There are events occurring you cannot possibly understand. Which brings me to another reason for my visit. To caution you. Certain national affairs could place you personally in great danger, and I want you to promise me you’ll be as careful as possible. I’m afraid it’s my fault you’re in this position.”

  “This is all very mysterious, Captain. Please speak plainly, or not at all.” She set the taper down on a nearby stand and crossed her arms in front of her. It provided a physical barrier that brought her comfort.

  “I can’t. I shouldn’t be here at all. It was wrong of me to come. I just couldn’t let events unfold as they might without seeing you one last time.”

  So he’s admitting to it all.

  The Darden Hastings she knew aboard Victory was a sham, a fake, a forgery. Standing before her now was the real man: a scoundrel who was gladly trampling on his honor to fill his pockets with French livres.

  She could almost hear the metal cage slamming shut around her heart.

  “Well, then, I must certainly thank you for the notable risk to your livelihood you undertook to warn me against persons and events unknown. Is that all, Captain?” She
picked the taper up and moved toward the door to let him out.

  Even in the soft reflection of the candlelight, she could see that his face was red, though from embarrassment or anger she couldn’t tell.

  Without a word, he plucked his cloak from the hook, threw it about his shoulders, and stepped back out into the freezing night air.

  Marguerite shut the door softly and locked it. Setting the taper down again, she put her forehead against the door and let the tears stream according to their own undisciplined will.

  Once the wax figure was complete, Brax brought delivery instructions from Fox. They were to move the figure in the middle of the night one week hence.

  “And so our little adventure will be concluded, Marguerite. At least your part in it will be finished. I have further, private instructions with regard to Darden.” Brax was practically standing on the balls of his feet in his excitement.

  “Please, Sir Brax, I’ve no wish to discuss this further. Once we stow the figure, let’s not ever talk of it again.” She hadn’t confided in him about Darden’s visit, since it would serve no purpose—Darden would be arrested soon enough anyway—and the thought of his visit still pained her with excruciating force.

  “You’re right. You know, I have an idea. What say we go to the theatre together to celebrate Ferdinand’s, shall we say, rebirth? It seems to be the most popular activity in London since we entered hostilities with France again. There’s a young actor, William Betty, whom everyone raves about in his Shakespearean roles. They call him Young Roscius.”

  “Who is Roscius?”

  “Some actor who rose from slavery to fame in ancient Rome. I guess Betty comes from the lower classes. He’s playing Hamlet at Drury Lane. It will be a night of entertainment away from all of the exertion you’ve been at these past few weeks.”

  Wasn’t it absurd to sit down for lighthearted entertainment when the very outcome of the alliances against France might depend on the figure now wrapped in layers of muslin in her workroom? But what else was there to do?

  “I suppose you’re right. A theatrical performance might be wonderfully distracting to attend. With a friend.”

  “A friend. I am, of course, ever your devoted friend.”

  Marguerite’s last act the day of their planned cargo transfer to the ship Lord Grey had arranged was to send a letter to Claudette. She said nothing of her planned intrigue, only that Brax had been assisting her and the exhibition had thus far proven successful. She hating being so deceptive with her beloved aunt, but hopefully soon she’d be able to tell her everything. And presumably there would be no need for Claudette to come looking for her. She waited anxiously after closing the exhibition for the evening, tense, if not necessarily fearful, of what lay ahead.

  Brax tapped quietly at the same door Darden had nearly pummeled down just a week prior. Together they carried the bundled wax Ferdinand into a waiting carriage provided by Fox, and sat him up as a third passenger. Marguerite giggled in nervous tension at their fellow traveler, who looked as though he had been swathed in bandages from very serious burns.

  The night was clear and not quite as chilly as it had recently been. Spring was sure to arrive soon. The moon hung full, low, and bright in the sky as it made its descent on the horizon. They would have to work quickly before the sun rose.

  Unable to see much beyond the carriage’s lanterns through the vehicle’s smudged windows, she was only able to know they were arriving at their destination by the crunch of pebbles under the wheels and the nearby sloshing of water after nearly an hour’s journey. She stepped out of the carriage and back into the moonlight. The ship sat anchored out in the river, and a small launch was lodged on the shore, waiting for them. Brax and the driver silently lifted Ferdinand out and Marguerite followed them closely to the launch. A man sat inside, oars in his lap. Brax and the driver hoisted Ferdinand into the launch, then the driver saluted Brax before heading back to the carriage.

  “He’ll wait for us to return,” Brax whispered to her. She nodded her understanding.

  The man rowed them to the merchant ship without a word, the only sound his oars slicing through the water as he maneuvered their craft as quickly as possible. The ship’s crew lifted up the launch, and another man, who was obviously the captain, silently escorted Marguerite and Brax, the figure balanced between them, down into the ship’s hold. As soon as it was positioned to Marguerite’s satisfaction, they returned to the launch and back to the shore. The edges of Marguerite’s dress were soaked and heavy, so she leaned on Brax’s arm as they made their way across the loose pebbles and stones of the shore back to their carriage.

  He helped her back into the carriage and said, “Wait here,” slipping back out himself. Moments later he reentered the carriage and sat next to her as the driver urged the horses forward.

  “How very interesting our night has just become,” Brax said.

  “More interesting than stowing a wax figure on a ship in the dead of night?”

  Brax laughed quietly. “Yes, Marguerite, even more fascinating than that.”

  Brax rapped on the ceiling of the carriage so the driver would stop. He opened the door and called out, “Please, Captain, permit us to give you a ride to your destination. You shouldn’t be out so late at night.”

  To Marguerite’s surprise, Darden’s scowling face appeared in the doorway. He leaped into the carriage and sat across from them.

  “Where to, Captain?”

  Darden growled out an address, after which complete silence ensued. Marguerite could sense Brax’s exhilaration over their extra passenger, and knew he could not remain quiet for long.

  “So, Captain Hastings, what do you think of the weather tonight? Or should I perhaps say this morning?”

  “It’s mild, as you well know.”

  “Yes, yes. I see you are out alone on this mild night. No lovely lady to keep you company, hmm?”

  “No.”

  “No. Well, perhaps your duties as a new captain prevent you from enjoying the companionship of exquisite damsels, such as Mrs. Ashby here.” Brax brushed a finger across Marguerite’s cheek. She refrained from her desire to jerk away.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Marguerite could hear the strangled note in Darden’s voice.

  What was Darden doing in the same place as she and Brax in the middle of the night? Dear God, this confirmed everything Brax had told her. Darden was spying on them. He really was a traitor to the Crown.

  Oh, Darden, how could you?

  She could feel his penetrating stare on her, even inside the dark carriage. She kept her face averted.

  But Brax was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of working closely with Marguerite—I mean, Mrs. Ashby—lately. To some extent, I must thank you. For not being in the way of our courtship.” “Right.”

  “You probably don’t know that she granted me the pleasure of having dinner at my parents’ town house. They adored her. A man likes to know that his intended is well loved by his family, eh?”

  Darden rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, and it slowed to a stop.

  “I’ll take my leave here.” He opened the door and stepped out.

  “But, Hastings, we’re nowhere near your address.”

  “No, but I want to hasten the moment in which I can be as far from you as possible.” Darden slammed the carriage door and stalked off into the waning darkness.

  Marguerite flinched at the slam, which seemed to symbolize a shutting of the door on whatever there had ever been between her and Darden Hastings.

  She touched Brax’s arm and tried to maintain a steady voice. “What was Darden doing at our seaside location?”

  “Watching us, I suppose. And isn’t that just very interesting?”

  Nathaniel Ashby was also watching from atop the deck of his ship inside a nearby cove. He rubbed the week’s worth of whiskers on his plump and sunburned face. How very interesting. Two people—and one looked to be a woman!—carting off a l
arge bundled package to a ship under cover of night. Surely they were up to evil intent. Smugglers, probably. Although the package had an unsettlingly familiar outline. What did it remind him of? Well, no matter.

  Finally, this was his opportunity to do a service of undeniable value for the government. He would accost the ship, capture its valuables, and present them—along with the smugglers, of course—to Mr. Fox.

  Mr. Fox had never responded to his letter that accompanied the bottle of vintage port he’d sent. One of the loathsome rascals working in the parliament offices must have pinched it for himself.

  Nathaniel had never stopped applying to the government for a letter of marque, but his requests had gone unanswered. He bemoaned to himself the incompetence and prejudice of the government that kept him from achieving recognition.

  After the debacle at the French garrison, he’d licked his wounds by sailing around the Kentish coastline to Faversham and joining his men in whoring and gambling for a week. Once he was refreshed and his mind cleared of the humiliation the cursed French had inflicted on him, he was able to devise his next plan: to continue on around and into the Thames toward London so he could scour the banks of the Thames for any suspicious, unpatriotic activities.

  How gratifying to have found something so quickly. Now he’d finally receive the laurel wreaths he deserved.

  Nathaniel turned to his able assistant, who was watching the activities with his master. “Mr. Watson, I do believe our hopes for glory have just been realized.”

  Late the next night, under his own dreams of glory, another man stood along the shore of St. Margaret’s at Cliffe, a continuation of the chain of cliffs at Dover, but far enough away from the reinforcements so as not to be seen. He held a lantern in one hand and a small valise in the other.

  He held up the lantern as he picked his way across the pebbly coast and stepped quietly into the small skiff he had earlier rented from a local fisherman who was finding it difficult to ply his trade in the navy-infested waters. The man rowed quietly out into St. Margaret’s Bay. He faced the white, chalky cliffs as he glided silently away. They glowed in the predawn sky like the apparitions in Philipsthal’s Phantasmagoria Show Marguerite had talked about.