“Try not to restrain yourself, Harry.” Lord Benjamin Deane, who had been Harry’s friend since their days at Cambridge, lounged in one of the wingback chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. “Tell me what you really think about her.”
Harry paused. “This is not the least bit humorous, Ben.”
“On the contrary, Harry old boy, it may well be the funniest thing I’ve run into in a long time.”
“Exactly what do you find so amusing?”
“First and foremost the fact that you can’t see the humor in it is in itself most amusing. You do seem to be wound tighter than a watch spring these days.”
“Nonsense.”
“But I suppose when one has abruptly become an earl—an eligible and eminently marriageable earl—without realizing it was even a remote possibility, one does tend to lose one’s sense of humor.”
“Rubbish, I haven’t lost anything.” Harry denied it but he was indeed more serious of late. Although, as he’d never been particularly serious about anything in his life until recently, it was perhaps past time. “Indeed, I find the convoluted manner in which I came into this title to be damn amusing.”
And completely unexpected. Harry had always known the man he considered his father, Sir Arthur Armstrong, was his mother’s second husband and a distant cousin of his natural father, who had died before Harry was born. Harry had heard the story any number of times growing up of how Arthur had fallen head over heels for Harry’s mother the moment he met the lovely young widow. Unfortunately, they had only a few years together before she succumbed to influenza. Harry scarcely remembered her and had long suspected the stories of his mother Arthur told were meant to keep her close to both Harry and Arthur.
Both men were aware that they each shared an ancestral link to the tenth Earl of Brenton although it had never seemed of particular importance. Arthur was a scholar of history and long-dead civilizations and a highly regarded expert on ancient Egypt and its artifacts, knighted several years ago in acknowledgment of his scholarly work as well as his efforts in furthering the reputation and collections of the British Museum. He had not raised Harry as a man who would one day be an earl but rather as the son of a man with his nose perpetually in a book and his head more often than not in a long past century. It was only due to fate, death and the fact that there were more females than males in the earl’s direct lineage that Harry became the fourteenth Earl of Brenton some eleven months ago.
“And—” Harry flashed his friend an unrepentant grin and, for a moment, felt like the Harry Armstrong of old “—the money doesn’t hurt.”
“A definite benefit.” Ben laughed. As the youngest son of a wealthy marquess, Ben had never been without funds and had in fact financed their first excursion to Egypt nearly twenty years ago.
Arthur had a respectable family fortune of his own although finances had never been particularly important to him, and Harry had grown up in modest surroundings. Now, in addition to the country estate that accompanied Harry’s title, he had inherited a large London mansion and had, after much debate, convinced his father to change residences. While Arthur was initially reluctant to uproot his life, he had been lured to the Mayfair house by its grand library and spacious rooms. Arthur’s domicile was close to bursting with books, relics and various collections he had accumulated over the years. Besides, Harry had argued, even though he was thirty-eight years of age, a man could always use the company and wisdom of his father.
“Although that entire business about my being eligible and eminently marriageable is somewhat bothersome.” Harry was far more used to being the pursuer than the pursued. He pinned his friend with an accusing look. “You could have warned me.”
“Where would be the fun in that?”
“I had no idea the mothers of unwed daughters could be quite so determined.” Harry shuddered.
“This is just the beginning,” Ben said, “and you may consider that your warning. Heed it well. When you were merely the son of a scholar, those fearsome mothers looking for an excellent match paid you no attention whatsoever. Now that you have a title and fortune, you have become a highly sought after commodity.”
“I’m not sure I like being a commodity, no matter how highly sought.”
“None of us do.”
“It’s easier for you.” Harry strode to the decanter of brandy the butler, Jeffries, had thoughtfully placed on a nearby table. “You have a mother and sisters to help guide you through the morass of society nonsense.” Harry poured two glasses and handed one to Ben.
“You would think that would make it easier.” Ben raised his glass to his friend. “But you would be wrong.”
Ben was at least more used to the social requirements of the aristocracy than Harry. On those occasions when the two would return to London from Egypt, Ben was immediately pulled into the orbit of his formidable family and their endless social obligations whereas Harry usually spent those interludes in companionship with his father.
“On that score, you should be grateful. It’s the females in my family who are the most determined to see me wed. Fortunately, I have three older brothers, including the next marquess, who have engaged their matchmaking tendencies to this point.” He took a deep swallow of the brandy. “Unfortunately, my brothers have now all married and I am apparently fair game since I am now home for good.”
It was not necessary for either man to mention the reason why Ben was home and yet it hung in the air between them. Unspoken and always present.
“All you have to do is find a suitable wife and you’ll be off the market.”
Harry sank down into the chair next to Ben’s. “I can’t say I’m interested in marriage. At least not now.”
“Sorry, Harry. Your interests are of little concern.” Ben shook his head in a mournful manner. “One of the prime responsibilities of any title holder is to marry, produce an heir and preferably a spare, so as to secure the title for the future.”
“In my case it’s a title I never sought, feel no particular loyalty to and don’t especially want.” Harry paused. “Except for the money, of course. The money is nice.” He glanced around the elegant room with its paneled walls, shelves reaching to the distant ceiling and portraits of unknown ancestors glaring down at him. “And the house.”
“Consider the house a bonus as you are stuck with the title, Lord Brenton.”
“Yes.” He blew a long breath. “I suppose I am.”
Harry still wasn’t used to the idea of being Lord anything. When he, Ben and Walter Pickering, had left their studies at Cambridge to seek ancient treasure in the deserts of Egypt, he had—they all had—assumed they would return having made their fortunes. Their friends were not as confident and many wagered the trio would come to a bad end and never be heard from again. There were moments when they came perilously close to fulfilling that expectation. What no one expected was that Harry and his companions would discover a passion and respect for Egypt and the mystery of its past that, combined with the influence of his father, would turn them from somewhat disreputable treasure hunters to relatively respectable archeologists. Why, Harry couldn’t remember the last time they had blatantly smuggled or stolen a valuable piece of Egypt’s past. Although admittedly, there might have been a piece or two, or several dozen, that they had obtained for the British Museum in recent years through questionable and possibly less than legitimate means. Not as much fun—or profitable—as their earlier days but fairly satisfying all in all.
But then Walter died of a fever that probably would have been a minor ailment in England. Logically and rationally, Harry knew it was no one’s fault but knew as well that Ben blamed himself just as Harry did. Perhaps it was indeed Walter’s death, or perhaps they had overstayed their welcome, or perhaps the passion they’d had for the excitement and adventure to be found in the land of the pharaohs had run its course. Or possibly they had at last grown up. No doubt th
e death of a close friend would do that to a man. Walter had been gone for more than a year when Harry received notice of his inheritance and decided to return to England permanently. Ben too was ready to turn toward home.
Harry wasn’t quite sure what he had expected but his first few months in England had been filled with documents to be signed, legalities to be attended to and endless details regarding his new position in life. He’d had to hire a secretary to oversee his affairs and found himself not only with a country estate but an estate manager and tenants as well. He and his father had resided at Brenton Hall, a few hours by train from London, for several months while Jeffries was charged with moving Arthur’s possessions and readying the London house.
Jeffries had been his father’s butler for as long as Harry could remember and he was as much his father’s best friend and a second father to Harry as he was servant. Theirs had always been a bachelor household. Harry had installed him, as well as the rest of their modest staff, in the new residence. The Mayfair house itself was apparently little used as the previous earl was somewhat reclusive and had preferred to reside at the country estate. It had then sat vacant for over a year due to the complexities of inheritance as well as identification and location of the new earl and the previous staff had moved on to other positions. Jeffries had been hard-pressed to hide his glee in overseeing setting the grand house to rights as well as hiring the additional staff the new abode required.
The frantic pace of the first few months did not prepare Harry for the tedium that followed. He had always been a man of action. His predecessor had retained competent employees—solicitors, estate managers and various other agents—who had been in their respective positions for years and from Harry’s assessment no changes were necessary. His new secretary managed his correspondence, business and social obligations—invitations had virtually flooded the house since his arrival—and he had no particular interest in politics. All of which led him to wonder if perhaps he and Ben had made a mistake in deciding to return home permanently. Life now was rather dull and he feared he’d become somewhat dull as well. But upon further reflection—and God knew he had plenty of time for reflection—he realized his heart was simply no longer in the life of adventure he’d once savored. The past was the past and it was time to forge ahead.
Still, why waste a lifetime of experience? He was intelligent and capable. Why not take his almost twenty years of exploits and share them with the world? Why not write of his adventures? And not his alone but his and Ben’s and Walter’s. If H. Rider Haggard—who hadn’t nearly the background Harry and his friends had—could become successful at it, so could Harry. He no longer needed the money but the fame—or rather—the acknowledgment of their deeds, validation of their life’s work and recognition of their efforts in furthering the field of Egyptology as well as a modicum of respect would be rather nice. And didn’t Walter deserve at least that?
“I think Mrs. Gordon’s stories are remarkably well done,” Ben said, bringing the topic back to the object of Harry’s ire. “I find the Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt most entertaining.”
“You have no taste.”
“And you have no tolerance.” Ben picked up the latest copy of the Daily Messenger with Mrs. Gordon’s newest offering from the table between the chairs. “The lady’s stories are great fun, Harry. They have adventure, a touch of romance, even a bit of mystery. I quite enjoy them.”
“They’re inaccurate.”
“Certainly she has left off some of the more unpleasant aspects of life in Egypt—”
“Some?” Harry scoffed. “You won’t find so much as a mention of sand fleas or vermin in any of her stories.”
“Perhaps because people don’t really want to read about sand fleas and vermin. I know I don’t.”
“Details,” Harry said firmly, “are important. You cannot go about leaving out particulars simply because they’re disagreeable.”
Still, upon the kind of deliberation one can only have in hindsight, too much accuracy might well have been Harry’s problem. He had written several stories, and indeed had nearly an entire book completed, before submitting anything for publication. Each and every submission was met with polite but firm rejection and nicely phrased, yet still unflattering, comments about his ability to relate a story in an interesting manner. It made no sense to him whatsoever. Even worse, he was tactfully told that as long as Mrs. Gordon was writing stories about Egypt that were adored by the public, there was no place for his less-than-entertaining work. But he wasn’t merely writing stories—his were true. Harry could only surmise that those who never stepped foot outside of London could not possibly be expected to appreciate the gritty realism of his work, ignoring the fact that his readership was likely to be made up of those very same people. He then asked his father—a man as well-read as ever there was—and Ben—who had lived Harry’s adventures by his side—to read his work.
Their reactions were less enthusiastic than Harry had hoped. Father was evasive over the quality of Harry’s writing while swearing he wouldn’t have had a peaceful night’s rest if he had known all that Harry was engaged in during his years in Egypt, while Ben had simply muttered how it was all rather duller than he remembered.
Apparently, Harry Armstrong, who had never lacked in confidence about anything and had mastered very nearly everything he had ever attempted could write a grammatically accurate sentence that was of no interest whatsoever. He intended to work on that.
“Regardless of what people want, or think they want, if one purports to be detailing factual experiences one cannot leave off the less than pleasant aspects. Details are what brings a story to life and facts are indisputable,” Harry said in a lofty manner.
Ben laughed.
“This isn’t funny.” Harry scowled. “This is how I intend to spend the rest of my days. I am of an age where squandering my time and money in a futile pursuit of pleasure seems absurd and, oddly enough, has no particular appeal—”
“Who would have thought?” Ben shook his head in a mournful manner.
“And I’m far too young to do nothing at all. But no one is interested in my writing, which is based on unvarnished truth and unsentimental reality, because this woman—” he grabbed the paper from Ben’s hand and shook it at him “—has fed them frothy tales of gallant desert chieftains, bandits more dashing than deadly, virtuous treasure hunters interested only in uncovering the grandeur of the ancients—”
“I’d say that’s a fairly accurate description of us.” Ben grinned. “Although I would add handsome and daring as well.”
“The stories she spins are of a land of illusion and fantasy with no more substance to them than fairy tales. They’re full of feelings rather than facts.”
“There’s nothing wrong with feelings and she does say she has taken occasional liberty with facts in pursuit of a good story,” Ben noted mildly.
“Occasional? Ha!” Harry glared. “Camels, as you well know, are not noble beasts gliding over the sands like ships at full sail but unpleasant, rude, disgusting creatures whose only redeeming quality is their suitability for the desert climate. It’s utter rubbish for God’s sake. And people have accepted it all as fact.”
“People, all in all, aren’t very bright.”
“Did you know they call her the Queen of the Desert?”
“Yes, I believe you have mentioned that.” Ben pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “More than once.”
“More like the queen of deception, ill-conceived fables and outright fraud.” Harry dropped the paper on to the table and then tossed back his brandy. It did not help.
“And you did not hesitate to say exactly that in your letters to The Times.”
“Of course I did. I could do nothing less. People deserve to know when they’re being hoodwinked,” Harry said staunchly, ignoring what might have been the tiniest stab of regret.
He ha
d always been rather gallant where women were concerned and women had always liked him. He did now wonder if boredom with his new life coupled with frustration at his inability to sell his work might have had something to do with initiating his letters to The Times. Not that he was wrong in calling attention to Mrs. Gordon’s misrepresentations of fact in her Tales. Nor was he wrong in threatening her membership in the Antiquities Society, but he had opened the proverbial Pandora’s box.
“And Egypt deserves better. She is grand and glorious, timeless and dangerous. And worthy of respect. The place is already overrun with tourists. Stories like Mrs. Gordon’s, that depict the country as little more than a fanciful winter resort in the shadow of the pyramids, only encourage more visitors who refuse to relish in the very land they’ve come to experience but rather insist on bringing their own ways with them. This woman, with her inaccuracies and rose-colored portrayal, is assisting in the ruination of an ancient land.”
“I can’t say I entirely disagree with you there.”
“Even worse, those who believe her nonsense, who think seeking the treasure of the ancients can be accomplished as easily as writing a few paragraphs, and with as little risk, flock to Egypt only to be rudely awakened.”
“Isn’t that what we did?”
“We were young and stupid and it was a different time. And, ultimately, we paid a price for being seduced by Egypt.”
Ben was silent for a long moment. “Regardless, you could have been a bit more diplomatic in your censure.”
“Yes, I suppose I could have.” Harry blew a frustrated breath. “And I probably should have. I realize now that it might have been wiser, and certainly more courteous, to have been less strident in my condemnation.”
“You did stir up something of a hornet’s nest.”
Lady Travelers Guide to Deception with an Unlikely Earl Page 3
