Lady Travelers Guide to Deception with an Unlikely Earl

by Victoria Alexander

“I am well aware of that.”

  While the wisdom of his first letter to The Times was debatable, he could see now that it had not been a good idea to continue to engage the woman via additional letters. It had only served to escalate their dispute to the point where he had challenged her to travel to Egypt and prove that she knew what she was writing about. Apparently justifiable indignation negated any possibility of intelligent thought, but then prudence and discretion had never been Harry Armstrong’s strongest qualities. Lord Brenton would have to do better.

  “Given your attitude toward your new title—” Ben nodded at the newspaper “—I was rather surprised that you signed your letters as Lord Brenton rather than Harry Armstrong.”

  “At first, it didn’t seem quite fair to identify myself as an earl and not at all sporting. She is a woman, after all, and a widow. I didn’t want to intimidate her.” Although, judging by her responses, a little intimidation might have served him well. “But the more I read of her work—” and the more rejection Harry Armstrong’s writing received “—the more I realized writing to The Times as Lord Brenton would give added weight to my charges.”

  Ben picked up the paper and paged to the latest installment of Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt. “Have you read the stories in the Messenger and those in her book closely or has your outrage prevented that?”

  “Close enough.”

  “I doubt it,” Ben said under his breath. “Have you noticed that her depiction of Egypt is somewhat, oh, dated if you will?”

  “Somewhat?” Harry snorted. “She might as well be writing in the time of the pharaohs themselves. Obviously, she has based her Tales on old, poorly researched, fictitious accounts.”

  “She never mentions the throngs of tourists that have increased in the last twenty years, thanks to the railroads and the Suez Canal, or the government regulations that only serve to complicate excavations and any number of other details.”

  “We’ve already established she is not overly fond of accurate details.” He paused. “Aside from vermin.”

  Ben studied the story for a moment. “It strikes me that these might well be the accounts of someone who has not been to Egypt for some time. Perhaps even decades.” Ben looked up from the paper and grinned. “I’d wager you’ve been exchanging letters with an old lady.”

  “Surely not.” Harry scoffed. “You’ve seen her responses to my letters. They’re confrontational, unsuitably forward and verge perilously close to rude although she never engages in blatant discourtesy. She was quite civil when she called me arrogant.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  “Admittedly, I would expect any woman who writes about lady adventurers in Egypt—whether those stories are true or not—to defend her position although I do think her polite implication that I am somehow resentful of her success because she’s female is going a bit far.”

  “I noticed that too.”

  Harry narrowed his eyes. “She is always polite.”

  “Indeed she is. It must be most annoying.”

  “You have no idea.” He shook his head. “But an elderly woman? Absolutely not. Those letters could not possibly be the work of a fragile, old lady. They’re entirely too assertive and forceful.”

  Ben stared. “You don’t know any old ladies, do you?”

  Harry frowned. “No, but—”

  “You, my friend, have been engaged in a battle with a dear, sweet old lady.” Ben chuckled. “And even then you couldn’t win.”

  Harry drew his brows together. “Are you sure?”

  “You should meet my grandmother.” Ben glanced at the paper. “These are exactly the kind of letters she’d write, this is the very tone she’d take and she’d do so with a great deal of satisfaction.”

  Harry stared at his friend. The idea that Mrs. Gordon was an older woman hadn’t so much as crossed his mind. If Ben was right... “Bloody hell.”

  “I say leave her alone. End this nonsense right now.” Ben sipped his drink. “Let this be, Harry. I don’t think this is a war you can win.”

  Regardless, he did feel compelled to defend himself. “Her reckless disregard of fact destroys any shred of credibility she may have. Her work reflects badly on those of us who know what we are writing about. In many ways, she is my direct competition. Indeed, I’ve been told as much. Discrediting her—”

  “Would probably expose her publicly. She obviously wants to be circumspect. You never see a photograph of her or hear of any kind of public appearance. I can’t believe you want to do that to a dear, sweet old lady—”

  “I would question your use of sweet,” Harry muttered.

  “Nonetheless, once the public gets a look at her, all that white hair and wrinkles, leaning on a cane—”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, but I daresay she’ll look something like that. And people will be entirely on her side. Poor, little old lady pitted against the arrogant Earl of Brenton.” Ben shook his head in apparent sympathy. “You will not only look like a fool, but like a mean, unpleasant sort as well.”

  “I would prefer to avoid that.” Ben might well be right about Mrs. Gordon’s age as well as the repercussions to Harry’s reputation should this go any further. “I do see your point about dropping this whole matter. Unfortunately...”

  Ben’s brow rose. “Unfortunately?”

  “You do know I challenged her to go to Egypt and prove her knowledge.”

  “Good God.” Ben groaned. “She’s accepted hasn’t she?”

  “The Daily Messenger did on her behalf.” Harry winced. “I was notified this morning. They’re sending a reporter as well.” It had sounded like such a good idea when he had first thought of demanding Mrs. Gordon prove her legitimacy. Now it seemed rather stupid. “We leave for Egypt as soon as arrangements can be made.”

  “Can you get out of it?”

  “Not without looking like an even greater idiot.”

  “One of those damned-if-you-do sort of things.”

  “So it would appear.” Harry considered his options. There didn’t seem to be any. “Say, why don’t you come along? I could certainly use a friend by my side. It would be like old times.”

  “Absolutely not,” Ben said firmly. “As much as I would love to witness this debacle, my father has decided to put me to work in one of the family interests. Shipping I think although it’s still rather vague.” He sipped his drink. “He and my brothers are trying to decide where I’ll do the least harm.”

  “Nonsense. More likely they’re trying to ascertain where you’ll be of greatest benefit.”

  Ben’s family had never been especially pleased with his choices in life—wandering the desert seeking ancient treasure, no matter how legitimate he had become, was not what had been envisioned for the youngest son of a marquess. But Ben was far more competent and capable than his family might suspect and had saved Harry’s neck on more than one occasion.

  “I’ve decided not to use my title on this venture,” Harry said. “In fact, the earl has already informed the Daily Messenger that he was sending a representative in his stead to accompany Mrs. Gordon to Egypt. One Harry Armstrong.” He winced. “The earl’s nephew.”

  “Nephew?” Ben snorted back a laugh.

  “It has to be someone the earl trusts.”

  “Of course.” Ben shook his head in disbelief. “Why not just use your title? It does open a lot of doors you know.”

  “You rarely used your title in Egypt.”

  “Mine is honorary.”

  “For one thing, I don’t intend to write as Lord Brenton. It’s Harry Armstrong’s exploits I’ll be writing about. Lord Brenton has never been to the desert.”

  “You do realize you’re one in the same?”

  “It doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel, well, right. It feels as if I’m wearing a suit of clothes that does
n’t fit. As if I’m trying to be someone I’m not. I was simply the only male on the right branch of the family tree. This title isn’t something I wanted although I suppose I’m resigned to it.” He paused. “Also, I wish to avoid undue attention and the possibility of unpleasant publicity and, well, scandal.”

  “Do you?” Ben snorted. “You have changed.”

  “Pity isn’t it?” Harry got to his feet, strode across the room, grabbed the brandy decanter and returned. “Harry Armstrong’s exploits need to be as far removed from the Earl of Brenton as possible. I am now the titular head of a family which evidently carries with it certain obligations, as was made very clear to me by a representative of said family. Not that they are interested in having much to do with me. Which does suit me, by the way.”

  “To be expected really.” Ben nodded and held out his now empty glass. “You’re the interloper who claimed their family heritage.”

  “Not by choice.” Harry refilled Ben’s glass, then his own, and settled back in his chair. “There are apparently a fair number of unattached female relations that I am now, at least in a hereditary sense, responsible for. My involvement in anything untoward, past or present, would reflect poorly on them, thus hindering their chances for a good marriage. Which would then be laid firmly at my feet.” He grimaced. “Do you realize I now have a rather large family?”

  “Again—the house in town, the estate in the country and, of course, the fortune make up for it.”

  “We shall see.” Although it was an excellent estate, a very nice house and an even nicer fortune. “There are all sorts of responsibilities I never considered.” He glanced at Ben. “It’s not actually a requirement but I am expected to take a seat in the House of Lords now.” Harry blew a long breath. “I know nothing about running a country.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Ben chuckled. “In that, at least, you’ll fit right in.”

  There is nothing as delightful and exhilarating as the day one steps foot on board a ship bound for the shores of Egypt. As one turns one’s face toward the rising sun and the land of the pharaohs, one’s heart is filled with the heady anticipation of what is to come and the thrill of the adventures that lie ahead.

  —Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt

  Steamship is now the most efficient way to travel between London and Alexandria. Before setting foot on any vessel it is always wise to investigate a ship’s history to avoid unwelcome surprises of incompetence among captain and crew.

  —My Adventures in Egypt, The True Writings of Harold Armstrong

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three weeks later

  THERE WAS MUCH to be said for having a lot of money.

  The moment Harry had arrived at the Royal Albert docks, his luggage had been whisked away to be unpacked in his first class stateroom for the nearly two-week voyage to Alexandria. First class on the Peninsular and Oriental ship the Ancona. Harry couldn’t resist a satisfied grin. He was not used to traveling in anything other than the most modest of circumstances. Having substantial resources would not be at all hard to adjust to.

  He glanced around the bustling docks and ignored a trickle of impatience. Harry had received a note from James Cadwallender a few days ago saying the publisher of Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger would be on hand today to make introductions and see their party off. According to Cadwallender, that party included not only Mrs. Gordon and the Messenger’s reporter but companions of Mrs. Gordon’s as well. And weren’t additional elderly ladies exactly what this venture needed? The very idea made Harry’s teeth clench. He had considered protesting to Cadwallender but, for once, held his immediate impulse in check. He had resolved to follow the advice of Ben and his father and be as charming and agreeable as possible. Put his best foot forward as it were.

  He had also decided, again on the advice of his father and his friend as well as the urgings of his own conscience, to let the matter of Mrs. Gordon’s accuracy rest when it came to public exposure and not subject her to ridicule and censure. Once he had undeniable proof of her incompetence in all matters relating to Egypt, he intended to have a firm talk with her, point out the error of her ways in misleading her readers and strongly suggest she change the title of her stories to the Fictitious Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt. As he intended to title his stories My Adventures in Egypt, The True Writings of Harold Armstrong when they were eventually published, it did seem this was a solution that would at least provide some separation of public appeal between his work and hers, thereby avoiding direct competition. It was not a perfect solution—and people might well prefer her stories to his anyway—but he’d been feeling badly ever since Ben had brought up the likelihood of Mrs. Gordon being an old lady. Harry had reread all of her stories and had come to the inescapable conclusion that Ben was right. Even though in many ways Egypt was as unchanging as the sands of the desert itself, no one who had stepped foot in the country in the last twenty years or so would write about it in the same manner she had. Although admittedly, if one could overlook the flowery language and massive inaccuracies, they were somewhat entertaining.

  It was the right thing to do. After all, she was an elderly widow, probably with a minimal income and no doubt needed the money from her writing to make ends meet. He may be trying to carve a new path for his life but he could certainly afford to be generous. With every passing year, Harry had become more and more cognizant of doing the right thing even when it was difficult. It provided a measure of moral satisfaction and made him a better man. He quite liked that.

  Still, impatience was beginning to win over resolve and Harry resisted the urge to tap his foot. He did wish the others would arrive. He wanted to get this business of introductions over with and retire to his stateroom. But what could one expect from a group of females? He may not have much experience with older women, but he certainly had a great deal with younger members of their gender. Regardless of nationality, they were universally chatty, prone to excessive giggling and nearly always late. Although admittedly, they were frequently enchanting and could be a great deal of fun as well. He blew a resigned breath. He did not expect anything about this venture to be fun.

  Harry had taken up a position near the Ancona’s gangplank, as Cadwallender had instructed, and now surveyed the docks, busy with provisions and goods being loaded onto ships as well as crowds of excited passengers headed for parts unknown.

  “Mr. Armstrong?” A man a few years older than Harry stepped up to him with a smile. Three elderly ladies and a somewhat nondescript younger woman—probably a granddaughter seeing them off—trailed behind.

  “Yes?” Harry adopted a pleasant smile of his own.

  “Excellent. I’m James Cadwallender.” Cadwallender thrust out his hand to shake Harry’s. “Good day to start a voyage, don’t you think?”

  “Better than expected,” Harry said. It was in fact quite cold but the inevitable January rain had held off today and the sun was making a weak effort to shine. Sun and warmth were two things he missed about Egypt. “I must say, I appreciate you taking the time to see us off.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it.” A wicked gleam of amusement shone in the man’s eyes. “Allow me to introduce your traveling companions.” Cadwallender turned toward the ladies.

  “No need, Mr. Cadwallender.” Harry braced himself, adopted his most charming smile and stepped toward the closest woman, the shortest of the three elderly ladies. She was exactly as he had pictured Mrs. Gordon right down to the fair, nearly white hair escaping from an absurd feathered hat and fur-trimmed wrap. He took her hand and bowed slightly. “I would know you anywhere, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “Would you?” Her blue eyes shone with amusement. “How very clever of you.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And how very wrong.”

  “My apologies.” He dropped her hand and stepped back. Damnation. She was the closest to Cadwallender and he’d thought surely—

&
nbsp; “We, however, would certainly know you anywhere.” The next elderly lady, with graying dark hair, a hat just as ridiculous as the first woman’s and the overbearing manner of a dragon about to belch flames, eyed him with obvious disgust. “Simply by the air of arrogance as well as impatience about you. No doubt exactly like your uncle.”

  “I am working on that,” he said and continued to maintain his smile. “Then you must be Mrs. Gordon.”

  She sniffed. “Wrong again, Mr. Armstrong. But then I suspect you and your uncle must be used to being wrong.”

  He drew his brows together. “Now, see here, I—”

  “Mr. Cadwallender,” the third older lady, who was surely Mrs. Gordon, said in a no-nonsense tone. “Are you going to set the poor man straight or are you enjoying this entirely too much?”

  Cadwallender chuckled. “I am enjoying it. However—” he turned to Harry “—I do apologize but it was rather fun to watch someone else be maneuvered by these three. Allow me to introduce Lady Blodgett.”

  “You are a scamp, Mr. Cadwallender. Fortunately, you are smarter than you look,” Lady Blodgett said and held out her hand to Harry. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Armstrong.”

  He took her hand and nodded a bow. “Lady Blodgett.”

  “This is Mrs. Higginbotham,” Cadwallender said.

  “Mr. Armstrong.” The dragon nodded and did not remove her hands from her fur muff to shake his.

  Cadwallender indicated the remaining older lady. “And Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore.”

  “Mr. Armstrong.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore beamed. “I can’t tell you how pleased we are to be accompanying you and our dear Miss—Mrs. Gordon on this exciting venture.”

  Harry stared in confusion.

  “And this,” Cadwallender said, gesturing at the younger woman, “is Mrs. Gordon.”

  Ben was wrong.

  The genuine Mrs. Gordon considered him with ill-concealed amusement. “Good day, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “You’re not old,” he said without thinking. She couldn’t possibly be much older than thirty.