The Lady Traveller's Guide To Deception With An Unlikely Earl
Victoria Alexander
Set sail for love in this sparkling new adventure in #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander’s Lady Travelers Society series.Harry Armstrong has spent years in Egypt, recovering relics and disregarding rules. Now he’s back in England with a new title and a new purpose: penning his exploits. But his efforts are overshadowed by London’s favorite writer about Egypt—a woman they call The Queen of the Desert, of all things. Worse, her stories—serialized in newspapers and reprinted in books—are complete rubbish.Miss Sidney Honeywell didn’t set out to deceive anyone. It’s not her fault readers assumed her Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt were real! Admitting her inadvertent deception now would destroy her reputation and her livelihood. But when the Earl of Brenton challenges her to travel to Egypt to prove her expertise, accompanied by his dashing, arrogant nephew, what choice does she have but to pack her bags?With the matchmaking founders of the Lady Travelers Society in tow, Harry is determined to expose Sidney’s secret. But the truth might not be as great a revelation as discovering that love can strike even the most stubborn of hearts.
Set sail for love in this sparkling new adventure in #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander’s Lady Travelers Society series.
Harry Armstrong has spent years in Egypt, recovering relics and disregarding rules. Now he’s back in England with a new title and a new purpose: penning his exploits. But his efforts are overshadowed by London’s favorite writer about Egypt—a woman they call The Queen of the Desert, of all things. Worse, her stories—serialized in newspapers and reprinted in books—are complete rubbish.
Miss Sidney Honeywell didn’t set out to deceive anyone. It’s not her fault readers assumed her Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt were real! Admitting her inadvertent deception now would destroy her reputation and her livelihood. But when the Earl of Brenton challenges her to travel to Egypt to prove her expertise, accompanied by his dashing, arrogant nephew, what choice does she have but to pack her bags?
With the matchmaking founders of the Lady Travelers Society in tow, Harry is determined to expose Sidney’s secret. But the truth might not be as great a revelation as discovering that love can strike even the most stubborn of hearts.
Also By Victoria Alexander (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
The Lady Travelers Society
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny with a Dashing Stranger
The Rise and Fall of Reginald Everheart (novella)
The Lady Travelers Guide to Scoundrels and Other Gentlemen
The Proper Way to Stop a Wedding (in Seven Days or Less) (novella)
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The lady Travelers Guide to Deception with an Unlikely Earl
Victoria Alexander
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09543-3
THE LADY TRAVELERS GUIDE TO DECEPTION WITH AN UNLIKELY EARL
© 2018 Cheryl Griffin
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Praise for Victoria Alexander’s Lady Travelers Society series
The Lady Travelers Guide to Scoundrels and Other Gentlemen
“Alexander celebrates the spirit of adventure, elevates dubious scheming with good intentions, and advocates for the yielding of judgment and practicality to hedonism and happiness. Readers will savor every page.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Readers will immediately find themselves thoroughly disarmed by Alexander’s deliciously droll wit and flair for clever characterization, both of which are on full display in this exceptional start to the author’s sparkling new Lady Travelers Society series.”
—Booklist
“A delightfully humorous romantic adventure...the fun read of the season!”
—RT Book Reviews
“The Lady Travelers Guide to Scoundrels and Other Gentlemen is a mouthful to recite, but a delight to read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“[It’s] exactly the sort of thing when you’re in the mood for a non-angsty, funny and well-written historical.”
—All About Romance
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny with a Dashing Stranger
“A wonderful continuation of a highly enjoyable series.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“For love, laughter, and lots of fun, read Victoria Alexander.”
—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author
“Victoria Alexander’s second Lady Travelers Society novel is a sparkling gem filled with witty dialogue, intriguing characters, and a delightful romance. I didn’t want to put it down.”
—The Romance Dish
You always need friends to help you through the desert—in Egypt and everywhere else. This book is for Lizzie, April, Mary, Jenn and Laura with gratitude and thanks for their generous and continuous help navigating the wilderness.
Contents
Cover (#u1c137e57-5815-5ebd-9513-f8efee1dd20e)
Back Cover Text (#u5521fde8-052b-5301-88b9-65229923be81)
Booklist (#uf6198743-b1ff-5ba0-aaf0-496d4f82be6b)
Title Page (#u61ff8d12-93be-5e2b-868b-f3545145b583)
Copyright (#u8ff52064-ac09-5b1b-ac03-4c1ace85cd4e)
Praise (#uef0b87bb-07ac-507f-81e4-ef11f9455a8e)
Dedication (#u591f7a91-6391-535a-bd7c-a14d523f769c)
CHAPTER ONE (#u80075317-b48b-5138-9778-99237f3e95eb)
CHAPTER TWO (#ueaf46a5a-4645-5382-8f87-2f90a363ecd7)
EPIGRAPH (#u3c40c5d4-b85a-586b-b2ac-e94d4977d7e8)
CHAPTER THREE (#ufe219b3b-f4d6-5510-9f85-d4743c8b84a3)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ua18023fd-ec13-586d-a4fe-ca924f2f9a60)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ua3c5cf01-999a-5045-9872-bd9ef8ed0853)
EPIGRAPH (#u5ffb3ecc-e955-5a63-8398-e39a79bf5fb1)
CHAPTER SIX (#u937ec0fc-6f3c-55a4-b535-a1c1559c9089)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPIGRAPH (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPIGRAPH (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
NEWSPAPER ARTICLES (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
London, January 1892
“WOULD ANYONE CARE to explain this to me?” Sidney Althea Gordon Honeywell looked up from the newspaper clippings spread before her on the table in her small dining room. “Well?”
Across the table, three of the dearest ladies Sidney had ever known stared back at her, the very picture of elderly innocence.
“Anyone,” Sidney prompted. “Anyone at all?”
“I think it speaks for itself, dear,” Lady Guinevere Blodgett said in a vaguely chastising manner.
Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore nodded. She and Lady Blodgett had long insisted Sidney call them by their given names—Poppy and Gwen—in spite of the nearly fifty-year difference in their ages as it made them feel terribly old otherwise and they weren’t at all fond of that. “I don’t really see what needs to be explained.”
The third member of the trio, Mrs. Ophelia Higginbotham—Aunt Effie—wisely held her tongue.
Sidney narrowed her eyes. “You have nothing to say?”
“Not quite yet.” Effie—her grandmother’s dearest friend and an aunt by affection rather than blood—smiled pleasantly. “I would rather hear your thoughts first.”
“No doubt.” Sidney studied the clippings on the table although there was no need. The words had burned themselves into her mind the moment she read them. “It appears we have a series of letters to The Times from—” she picked up a clipping “—the Earl of Brenton in which he alleges that I don’t know what I write about. That my stories are total fiction. That I’ve never been to Egypt. That I am in fact a fraud. And, as we all know—” she blew a resigned breath “—I am.”
“Rubbish,” Aunt Effie said staunchly. “You never claimed your stories were anything other than fiction.”
“It’s not your fault that the public decided your adventures were real,” Poppy added.
“Regardless, I should have corrected the mistaken impression the moment I became aware of it.” It still bothered Sidney that she had allowed herself to be talked out of doing exactly that.
When Sidney had begun writing her Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt in an attempt to supplement her modest income shortly after her mother’s death four years ago, she had no idea her work would ever be published, let alone become popular. Sidney’s father died some thirteen years ago, leaving Sidney and her mother a cozy house near Portman Square and an adequate income from a small trust. Father no doubt assumed Mother would eventually remarry or at least that his daughter would find a husband, but Sidney had not had the opportunity. Mother never recovered from losing the love of her life and her grief took a toll on her health. It was left to Sidney to run their small household as well as care for her mother, a responsibility Sidney neither questioned nor resented.
“Your popularity did take us all unawares. But when your book was published with all of your previously published stories from the Daily Messenger it did seem everyone was reading it and clamoring for more of your work. By then it really was too late.” Gwen shrugged. “It’s hard to undo something like that. No one ever believes it was inadvertent. We know you, of course, and we are well aware that you simply didn’t notice the attention your stories were receiving. You do tend to live in your own little world when you’re writing, Sidney dear.”
In hindsight Sidney felt like something of a ninny but writing did sweep her away to another world altogether. A world of adventure and romance that at times seemed more real than the London she lived in.
“Besides, we thought it was quite thrilling,” Poppy said, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Why, you’ve become famous. The Queen of the Desert and all.”
Sidney winced at the title her readers had bestowed upon her.
“And wasn’t your Mr. Cadwallender rather pleased that your readers thought your adventures were true?” Poppy pointed out.
“The man was ecstatic. He said it would make the stories more popular and I allowed myself to be convinced.” Sidney struggled to keep calm even as her future, her dreams, were crumbling around her. “I should have known it would come to this.”
Sidney still wasn’t sure how the public misunderstanding had happened. After all, the main character in Sidney’s stories was Millicent Forester, a charming young widow and intrepid adventurer who had lost her husband shortly after they arrived in Egypt. A woman confident and courageous and all the things Sidney was not. But while Millicent was nothing more than a figment of Sidney’s imagination, her writing was based on the journals of her grandmother Althea Gordon. Admittedly Sidney did take a fair amount of poetic license, and with each new work, her stories bore less and less resemblance to her grandmother’s experiences. Sidney wouldn’t have known anything about her grandmother at all had it not been for Aunt Effie.
It was shortly after her father’s death that Sidney first made Ophelia Higginbotham’s acquaintance. She was the wife of a military man who had then become an explorer and adventurer when his days of service to the Crown ended. Effie had met Sidney’s grandmother through mutual acquaintances. Years later, Effie would tell Sidney it was as if they’d each discovered a sister they never knew they had. They forged a friendship that would last the rest of Althea’s life. Much of that life was spent in Egypt with Sidney’s grandfather Alfred, locating and excavating ancient ruins and recovering lost artifacts. Althea regularly wrote her dear friend of their adventures and kept scrupulous records in the form of her journals that she would leave with Effie for safekeeping when she and her husband headed back to the desert.
It was through her grandmother’s letters to Effie that Sidney learned of her mother’s estrangement from her parents. It had always been something of a mystery and while Sidney was named in part for her grandmother, her mother had avoided further discussion. The Gordons were lost at sea when Sidney was very young and she never knew them. But with each of her grandmother’s letters the story of her life unfolded. Sidney’s mother had accompanied her parents on their Egyptian expeditions when she was a girl but grew to detest travel in general as well as the climate, the desert and all things Egyptian. When she was old enough, her parents allowed her to stay in England and attend school although, to read Grandmother’s letters, leaving her only child behind was a heart-wrenching decision. In spite of visits home to England, Althea and her daughter grew apart. Mother blamed Egypt and she never returned to the land of the pharaohs.
Effie became Sidney’s friend and, in many ways, her mentor. Neither woman thought it wise to let Sidney’s mother know of their relationship which did seem wrong but also necessary. There was no doubt Mother would not take it well and, given her fragile health, Sidney did want to avoid any upset. What would have been even worse in her mother’s eyes was that Sidney fell in love. Passionately, irrevocably in love with the idea of travel, of seeing foreign lands and, most especially, with Egypt.
From then on, Sidney read everything she could about the country, its past and its present. She took night classes at Queen’s College on Egyptian history and civilization, hieroglyphics and excavations, and all sorts of other fascinating subjects. She attended lectures and exhibits, often accompanied by Effie and her friends.
When Mother died, Sidney realized her trust would continue to keep a roof over her head but little else. Her dreams of traveling the world and at last seeing Egypt for herself would remain nothing more than that unless she came up with a way to generate additional income. Aunt Effie had not only encouraged her writing, but had brought her initial offerings to the attention of Mr. James Cadwallender at Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger, the paper that now published her work.
“There’s really no getting around it.” Sidney shook her head. “His lordship is right. I am a charlatan, a fake, a fraud.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Effie huffed. “The fact that these adventures are not technically yours—”
“Although you do own the writing you based them on,” Poppy said, “so in the strictest definition of the term, one could easily argue that they do belong to you. Therefore they are yours.”
“—does not make them any less true, at the heart of it at least,” Effie continued. “Really, there are two points to consider here.” She held her hands up as if balancing a scale. “On one hand—” she raised her left hand “—you have never claimed you personally had these adventures. On the other—” she lowered her left hand and raised her right “—they are, more or less, true stories.”
“Although as Althea was married to Alfred, I suspect there were not quite as many dashing gentlemen in her experiences as Sidney has in her stories,” Poppy murmured.
“Millicent Forester is a young widow, Poppy,” Gwen reminded her. “It wouldn’t be any fun at all if there wasn’t the occasional dashing gentleman in her way.”
“They’re simply not your experiences,” Effie finished.
“And therein lies the problem.” Sidney sighed and shuffled through the clippings on the table. “Or one of the problems.” In her dismay over the earl’s scathing comments, she had completely ignored the rest of this disaster. “His lordship’s letters are not the worst of it though, are they?”
“They are dreadful letters.” Poppy huffed. “Simply dreadful.
Gwen sniffed. “Very nearly rude, I would say.”
“And yet—” Sidney’s tone hardened “—not the worst of it.” She moved several of the clippings to one side. “These are the letters from the earl.” She waved at the remaining clippings. “While these responses are allegedly from me.”
The ladies wisely said nothing.
“I did not write these.” Sidney narrowed her eyes. “Which begs the question of who did.”
Gwen, Poppy and Effie traded glances. Effie drew a deep breath. “It’s my fault I’m afraid. I started this. When that vile man wrote the first letter I should have ignored it.”
“But it really was rather boorish,” Gwen added.
“And it did seem he was laying down a kind of gauntlet.” Aunt Effie grimaced. “So I picked it up.”
“And wrote him back?” Sidney’s voice rose. “In my name?”
“It seemed appropriate at the time,” Effie said weakly. “But, upon reflection, it might have been a mistake.”
Poppy nodded. “As it did seem to incite him. The man obviously has no sense of moderation. As you can see, the second letter was even worse.”
“He compares my stories to penny dreadfuls.” Sidney drew her brows together. “That’s not at all fair. My stories are adventurous but not nearly as far-fetched and melodramatic.”
“You’re right, he wasn’t the least bit fair.” Gwen nodded. “You can certainly see why we all felt it necessary to respond to that particular letter.”
“We did help Effie write that one. More than help I suppose. You might call it a collaboration.” Poppy winced. “As well as the one after that. We really couldn’t help ourselves. Someone needed to defend you. Why, the man even criticizes your style of writing.”
Effie shook her head. “We could not let that go unchallenged.”
“And you never thought to mention this to me?”
“We wanted to protect you, dear.” Gwen smiled.
“We did think his lordship would give up.” Effie paused. “Eventually.”
“But he hasn’t given up, has he?” Sidney glared at the older ladies. “No, in fact the man has challenged me to travel to Egypt and prove that I know what I’m writing about. If I fail, he intends to petition the Egyptian Antiquities Society to rescind my membership.” Sidney had paid little notice to the praise and attention her stories had received but being granted membership in the Antiquities Society a few months ago was an honor she cherished. Her grandparents were among the founding members of the society and, while she had not yet attended a society event, being a part of that illustrious organization was the very best part of her newfound success.
“Fortunately, we’ve given this a great deal of thought,” Poppy said. “Indeed, we’ve thought of nothing else since the moment we saw the earl’s latest letter this morning.”
“And promptly came here to tell you about—” Gwen gestured at the clippings “—all of it.”
“Not promptly enough, it’s after noon.” Sidney blew a long breath. This might well explain why she’d received a note within the past hour from Mr. Cadwallender requesting she come to the Messenger offices at her earliest possible convenience. “Mr. Cadwallender wishes to see me and I suspect this is what it’s about.” She shook her head. “What a dreadful mess this is. What am I supposed to do?”
“You should definitely pay a call on Mr. Cadwallender,” Poppy said firmly.
Gwen nodded. “At once, I should think.”
“And then?” The most awful helpless note sounded in Sidney’s voice. She did so hate sounding helpless.
“And then.” Aunt Effie rose to her feet. “Then you shall go to Egypt.”
* * *
“I THINK IT’S a brilliant idea.” Mr. James Cadwallender sat behind his desk in his office in the center of what had always struck Sidney as the sheer bedlam of the world that was Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger. The office itself was enclosed with walls of paneled wood beneath glass windows that rose to the ceiling, allowing the publisher to observe his domain while saving him from the endless cacophony of noise that was apparently the natural environment of reporters in search of news.
“Brilliant?” Sidney stared at the man. Didn’t he realize how impossible this was. “It’s not the least bit brilliant. It’s dreadful, that’s what it is. Positively dreadful.”
“Come now, Miss Honeywell.” Mr. Cadwallender chuckled. He really was a fine figure of a man with dark brown hair and eyes that were an interesting shade of amber. Sidney had always found him quite dashing although perhaps not today. “How is sending my very favorite writer off to prove she knows what she writes about anything less than brilliant. By Jove, I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“Mr. Cadwallender,” Sidney said slowly, “surely you have not forgotten that my work is fiction.”
“Of course I have not forgotten but the public believes it’s all real. They believe Millicent Forester is a thinly veiled version of you or rather of Mrs. Gordon.” He grinned. “And who am I to tell our loyal readership that they’re wrong.”
Aunt Effie nodded in agreement. She had insisted on accompanying Sidney for the sake of propriety although they both knew propriety was the last thing on the older woman’s mind. She simply didn’t want to miss what happened next and no doubt had orders from Poppy and Gwen to report back every detail. “And we would hate to shatter their illusions.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Cadwallender said.
“Their illusions will be more than shattered when the earl is proved right,” Sidney said sharply.
“But he won’t be proved right because you won’t let him.” Mr. Cadwallender leaned forward across his desk and met her gaze directly. “Miss Honeywell, Sidney, you and I both know you have never been to Egypt. We know your stories are loosely based on the life of your grandmother. But all those people out there who read your stories, who clamor for more, who adore every word you write, who’ve taken Millicent Forester to heart, they don’t know you aren’t her and have never stepped foot out of England. To them, you have led the life they have always dreamed of living. They count on you, Sidney, to lift them out of their tired, ordinary, everyday lives and bring them to the sands of Egypt. To allow them to take part in the discovery of ancient tombs. To illuminate the sights of that exciting land. Surely, you don’t want to deprive them of all that?”
“Well, no, I suppose not. But—”
“People don’t care if your stories are true or not.”
“Then why can’t we simply tell them the truth?” Indeed, that was exactly what Sidney wanted to do when she first realized her stories were being taken as fact.
“Because they will care if they think you lied to them.” He shrugged. “It’s the nature of things.”
“So the lie continues to grow?” Sidney couldn’t hide the stubborn note in her voice. This deception did seem, well, wrong.
“Not at all. This earl, in his superior, condescending manner, has challenged your knowledge of Egypt and all things Egyptian. You are one of the most knowledgeable people I’ve ever met on the topic. Why, you know things most people would never even think to ask. Doesn’t she, Mrs. Higginbotham?”
“Oh, she does indeed, Mr. Cadwallender.” Effie nodded. “She’s spent years taking classes with highly notable personages at Queen’s College. I wouldn’t dare to count the number of lectures on Egyptology she’s attended. Sidney is familiar with every Egyptian artifact on display at the British Museum as well as elsewhere in London. And she reads everything that’s printed on the subject.” Pride rang in Effie’s voice. “I daresay there is no one better versed in anything pertaining to Egypt—past and present—than Sidney.”
“Thank you, Aunt Effie.” Sidney cast her a grateful smile. “Regardless of my studies and all that I’ve learned, the fact remains that I’ve never actually been to Egypt.”
“A minor point.” Mr. Cadwallender waved off her comment. “If anyone can pull this off you can. I have every confidence in you, Sidney. By the time you return—”
“I don’t recall agreeing to go.”
“Really, dear.” Effie leaned close and patted her hand. “I don’t see that you have any particular choice.”
“That’s not entirely true.” Mr. Cadwallender studied her for a long moment. “You have several choices. You can choose to admit publicly that his lordship is right—that you don’t know what you’re writing about—”
“And allow the beast to win?” Effie straightened in her chair. “Never!”
“In which case there would be a nasty scandal. You would lose your readers who would feel betrayed by you. Cadwallender Publishing and the Daily Messenger could not continue to publish your work. We do have a reputation to maintain.”
As the Daily Messenger did seem to base most of its articles on little more than scandal and gossip, apparently reputation was in the eye of the beholder.
“You’re the one who convinced me not to tell the truth when this misunderstanding began,” Sidney pointed out.
“Water under the bridge, Miss Honeywell.” He waved off her comment. “No sense fretting about what’s over and done with. We simply must move forward from here. As I said you have choices. Confess the truth and face the consequences—”
Effie shuddered.
“—or you can kill off Millicent and end the stories altogether—”
Effie gasped in horror.
“—or you can go to Egypt and make the Earl of Brenton eat his words. He started this—beat him at his own game. Prove to him and the world that he’s wrong. It would serve him right. Certainly, you’ve never been to Egypt in person but you can’t tell me your mind, your heart, your very soul hasn’t been there.”
“Her spirit.” Effie nodded.
“Exactly. Sidney.” Mr. Cadwallender’s gaze locked with hers. “Carpe diem. Seize the day. Isn’t this the opportunity you’ve been waiting for?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Effie jumped to her feet. “She’ll do it!”
Sidney could only stare at her.
“Of course she will.” Mr. Cadwallender grinned. “I didn’t doubt it for a moment.”
Sidney’s gaze shifted between Effie and Mr. Cadwallender. He was right—she did have a choice. And an opportunity. This was her chance to set things right. To have the adventures, to be the heroine her readers believed her to be.
For the first time since reading his lordship’s challenge, the idea of travel to Egypt seemed not only possible but probable. And why not? She was a thirty-two-year-old spinster with no particular prospects for marriage. No family to speak of except for Aunt Effie and her friends. And absolutely no good reason not to at long last follow her heart. She had nothing to lose and at the very least, the adventure of a lifetime to gain.
“Very well, then.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.” He grinned. “The Messenger will pay for all your expenses and we will, of course, send a reporter along.”
“A reporter?” Effie sank down into her chair.
Sidney widened her eyes. “Is that necessary?”
“Absolutely. This, my dear girl, will be the story of the year.” He paused. “Have you heard of Nellie Bly?”
Sidney shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You do need to get out more, dear,” Effie said under her breath.
“Nellie Bly is an American female reporter who attempted to travel around the world in less than eighty days a few years ago. She managed it in only seventy-two.” Mr. Cadwallender’s eyes sparkled. “It was quite a story. One that captured the imagination of the reading public in America and very nearly everywhere else. I anticipate the story of the Queen of the Desert’s return to Egypt to be every bit as profitable.”
Sidney’s brow rose. “Profitable, Mr. Cadwallender?”
“Profitable, Miss Honeywell,” he said firmly. “This story will increase readership and therefore generate greater revenue. Stories like this sell newspapers and books. While our mission is to enlighten and inform our readers, we cannot do so with inadequate funding. Nor can we afford to send our correspondents on trips to Egypt.”
“Regardless, don’t you think yet another observer watching my every move is dangerous?”
“I have every confidence in you, Miss Honeywell. If I didn’t, I would neither finance nor encourage this trip. In point of fact, being accompanied by one of my reporters is in your best interest.” He grimaced. “Frankly, if I don’t send someone along to document this venture, make no mistake, TheTimes surely will. I suspect you would prefer a reporter who works for me rather than a competitor who would like nothing better than to discredit all of us.”
“That makes sense I suppose.” Sidney sighed. This was becoming more and more complicated. “Will this reporter know the truth? About my experience with Egypt that is.”
“Absolutely not, Miss Honeywell.” Disbelief shone in Mr. Cadwallender’s eyes. “I would never allow one of my reporters to actively mislead the public.”
“Which means it’s up to me to actively mislead him as well as the earl.”
“Oh, the earl isn’t going. While he is willing to publicly denigrate your work, he is not willing to see this through personally. He’s sending a representative, a nephew I believe, a Mr. Harry Armstrong. Apparently, Mr. Armstrong visited Egypt in his youth and now considers himself something of an expert.”
“Wonderful,” Sidney said under her breath.
“I strongly suspect the earl’s criticism was a direct result of his nephew’s prodding.” He paused. “You need to prove your legitimacy to Armstrong’s satisfaction. If, in his opinion, you do so, he will issue a public apology. If you fail, I’ve agreed to publish his book.”
Sidney widened her eyes. “He’s written a book?”
“Of allegedly true stories about his experiences in Egypt.” The publisher sighed. “God help us all.”
“One moment, Mr. Cadwallender.” Effie’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying that the very man who decides whether or not Sidney is who the public believes her to be, has a great deal to gain if he decides she’s a fraud.” Effie shook her head. “That’s extremely subjective and doesn’t sound the least bit fair to me.”
“Fair or not, that’s the challenge. Refusing it would be the same as admitting he’s right.” He met Sidney’s gaze directly. “You can do this, Sidney. Show the man around Egypt. Take him to the pyramids and maybe a tomb or two. Just enough to establish your expertise. It’s not as if you have to discover a pharaoh’s treasure.”
“But that would be perfect,” Effie murmured.
“You have the knowledge and, I have no doubt, the courage to pull off an endeavor of this nature. To be the heroine of your own story. You are Millicent Forester. You need to remember that.” His tone softened. “We both have a great deal to lose if you aren’t successful. My family started Cadwallender Publishing nearly a century ago. I would hate to be the Cadwallender to preside over its demise.”
Sidney studied him for a long moment. Did she have the courage to carry off an escapade of this magnitude? Did she have the knowledge to step foot in Egypt for the first time and convince at least two people she did indeed know what she was doing? Still, aside from the deceptive aspect of it all, wasn’t this exactly what she had spent years preparing for? Isn’t this what she had always wanted? Didn’t she owe her readers at least a valiant attempt to be who they thought she was? And apparently, more than just her own future was at stake. She squared her shoulders. “I shall not let you down, Mr. Cadwallender.”
“Excellent.” Effie beamed. “The Lady Travelers Society will make the arrangements at once. Oh, we will be a jolly little band of travelers.”
“We?” Mr. Cadwallender shook his head. “I’m afraid you misunderstand, Mrs. Higginbotham. I will not be going along to Egypt.” He scoffed. “I have a newspaper to run.”
“Of course you do, Mr. Cadwallender. And no one would expect a man of your responsibilities to abandon his duties even for something as important as this. But I’m afraid you are the one who has misunderstood.” The glint in Effie’s eyes belied the pleasant tone of her voice. “My friends and I cannot allow our dear Sidney to wander off to the land of the pharaohs without the proper accompaniment. Chaperones if you will.”
Mr. Cadwallender’s brow furrowed. “Chaperones?”
“Of course. Lady Blodgett, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and myself will be joining Sidney’s party.”
“Not necessary, Mrs. Higginbotham,” Mr. Cadwallender said blithely. “Why, Nellie Bly went around the entire world completely on her own.”
Effie sniffed. “Miss Bly is American. Such things are to be expected from an American. Subjects of Her Majesty do not adhere to such slip-shod standards of propriety and deportment.”
“Might I point out that Miss Honeywell writes as Mrs. Gordon, a widow.” His lips quirked upward in a subtle show of triumph. “Therefore chaperones are not expected.”
“And might I point out that your less than reputable rivals might portray this venture—an unattached female, regardless of whether she is a widow, heading off on a journey of unknown length with a gentleman and a male reporter—as something rife with the possibility of inappropriate activity. Why, the entire venture would be fraught with the suggestion of scandal.” Effie shook her head in a regretful manner. “As much as your paper seems to delight in laying out all the juicy details of whatever scandal comes along, I wouldn’t think you would want the Daily Messenger itself exposed to that sort of thing.”
“No.” He glared. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“Chaperones will eliminate any hint of impropriety. Furthermore...” She ticked the points off on her fingers. “The other ladies and myself are all the widows of men who each spent a good deal of time in Egypt. They were, as well, honored members of the Explorers Club. Which means that we have a certain amount of credibility as observers. In addition, Sidney will need assistance, support if you will, to carry off this ruse successfully. I daresay we don’t want anyone else discovering the truth.”
“No, we do not.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I assume you expect me to finance your trip as well.”
“It does seem to me we are doing you a very great favor by accompanying Miss Honeywell.” Effie smiled, a triumphant gleam in her eye.
“It seems to me the word blackmail is more appropriate than favor.”
“Semantics, Mr. Cadwallender.” Effie waved off the comment. “One word is often just as good as another as long as the end result is the same.”
“As long as it’s the result you want?”
Effie smiled pleasantly.
Mr. Cadwallender heaved a sigh of resignation. “Very well, then.” He turned to Sidney. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”
Sidney thought for a moment. She had nothing to attend to. Nothing keeping her in London. Indeed, she could have her bags packed and be ready to go within a day or so. “As soon as the arrangements can be made, I would think.”
“Excellent.” He rose to his feet behind his desk, Aunt Effie and Sidney following suit. “I have no doubt this will be an extremely successful venture for you—for all of us, Miss Honeywell.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cadwallender.”
He opened the door and Aunt Effie swept out of his office, Sidney a step behind. They made their way through the sea of desks, frenzied gentlemen with ink-stained fingers and organized confusion, to the front lobby. Sidney barely noticed any of it.
“That went nicely, I think,” Aunt Effie said with a satisfied nod after they’d requested a cab.
“I daresay Mr. Cadwallender has never faced the widow of a colonel before.” Sidney grinned.
“Fighting for what you want has as much to do with knowing who you are and, of course, knowing what you want.” Effie’s lips curved in a satisfied smile. “Being the wife of a colonel is simply the icing on the cake.”
Sidney hesitated. “Are you certain you and the others are up to this?”
“Because we are no longer in the prime of youth?”
“Well, yes.”
“I assure you, Sidney, we are quite spry.” She paused. “There are two kinds of women in this world, my dear. Those who wave goodbye to others starting on grand adventures and those waving back from the window of a train or the deck of a ship.” Effie raised her chin. “It’s past time that Gwen, Poppy and I became the latter. We too need to seize the day. Besides, this may well be our last chance.”
“And perhaps my only chance.”
“Then we shall have to make the most of it.” Effie grinned. “As Mr. Cadwallender is paying for it, we should make certain he gets his money’s worth.”
Sidney laughed. Good Lord! Thanks to a stuffy, arrogant, rude beast of a lord and his nephew she was finally going to Egypt. Certainly, given the amount of deception involved, it was not going to be easy. But it was past time to stop dreaming about what she wanted. Her very future was now at stake. In many ways, it seemed her life—her story—was just beginning.
And she could hardly wait to turn the page.
CHAPTER TWO (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
“THIS MRS. GORDON is a fraud, I tell you.” Harold Armstrong, the new Earl of Brenton, paced the impressive width of the private parlor his predecessors had used as an office in the grand Mayfair house that was now his. Harry was not prone to pacing, or at least he never had been, but everything about his life had changed in recent months and he had a great deal on his mind. In addition, the events of today failed to provide the satisfaction he had expected which cast an unfamiliar sense of doubt over his actions. Harold Armstrong was not used to doubt. “And I intend to expose her for the complete and utter fake she is.”
“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 the 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 TheTimes.”
“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 had 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 TheTimes. 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.”
“I am well aware of that.”
While the wisdom of his first letter to TheTimes 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 TheTimes 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 doesn’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 (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
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—
“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.
“Not yet.” The corners of her lips quirked upward and she held out her hand. “I am sorry if you’re disappointed.”
“Not at all,” he murmured and took her hand, gazing down into the loveliest eyes he had ever seen. Blue and fair and clear, the color of the sky on a perfect desert day. She was considerably shorter than he but then most people were. Wisps of pale blond hair escaped from a fashionable hat to dance around a heart-shaped face. Her cheeks were pinked by the chill of the day, her lips reddened by the wind and most inviting. How had he thought she was nondescript? “I am delighted to at last meet you in person.”
“Delighted? Are you indeed, Mr. Armstrong?” She pulled her hand from his. “I must say I am surprised as I would think you would not be the least bit delighted to make the acquaintance of someone who, oh, let me think. How did your uncle phrase it?”
“He said your inaccuracy was stunning and you had as little regard for truth and facts as a fish does for a carriage,” the dragon said with a distinctly murderous look in her eye.
“And he called your prose flowery, debilitating and enough to make any rational human being choke with the sweetness of it.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore shook her head in a chastising manner. “Your uncle should be ashamed of himself, Mr. Armstrong.”
Harry swallowed hard. It was one thing to write a letter to TheTimes criticizing a work and quite something else to be confronted by the author of that work and her band of elderly termagants. “Yes, well, he might have used words to that effect.”
“He used those words exactly,” Lady Blodgett said. “They were overly harsh and rather rude. I do think an apology is called for.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “And I do...” What was he doing? Blast it all. Three minutes with these women and they had him entirely turned around. He drew a steadying breath. “You’re right, Lady Blodgett, and I do apologize for my uncle if his wording was less than tactful.” He turned to Mrs. Gordon and met her gaze directly. “Which in no way means he was not correct in his assessment of your work.”
“You agree with him, then?
He nodded. “I do.”
“Have you read my work?”
“I have.”
Her lovely eyes narrowed. “He said I was too inept to ever be allowed a pen in my hand. Do you agree with that?”
“You called him an arrogant ass, Mrs. Gordon,” he said sharply.
“Mr. Armstrong,” Lady Blodgett murmured. “Your language.”
“In TheTimes?” The dragon gasped. “She would never call anyone an ass—”
“Effie!” Lady Blodgett snapped.
“—in TheTimes. Unlike the Daily Messenger, TheTimes would never allow that kind of language. No matter how appropriate the term might be.” She glanced at Lady Blodgett. “There are moments, Gwen, when nothing else will do.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Armstrong, I believed she called your uncle an arrogant, ill-tempered buffoon,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said pleasantly. “If you choose to substitute another term, well, you would certainly know better than we.”
“Lady Blodgett was right. An apology is in order and I shall gladly offer that apology.” Mrs. Gordon smiled but her eyes blazed. “I am dreadfully sorry for having ignored the sensibilities of buffoons everywhere and unjustly insulting them by adding your uncle, and you as well, to their company.”
“Now, see here,” Harry began.
“Good day, Mr. Cadwallender.” A man nearly as tall as Harry, and several years younger, strode up to their group. “I hope I’m not late, sir.”
“Not at all, Corbin.” Cadwallender was clearly trying not to grin. “Mr. Armstrong and the ladies were just becoming acquainted. Ladies, this is one of my finest reporters, Mr. Daniel Corbin. He will be on hand to record Mrs. Gordon’s triumph.”
“Or defeat,” Harry said under his breath.
“And will be sending dispatches along the way as to Mrs. Gordon’s new adventures in Egypt.” The publisher paused. “That is a catchy title. I shall have to remember that.” He turned to the ladies. “Corbin, allow me to introduce Lady Blodgett.”
“Lady Blodgett.” Corbin took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It’s an honor and a privilege to meet you, my lady. I was a great admirer of your husband.”
“Lady Blodgett’s late husband, Sir Charles Blodgett, was quite a well-known explorer,” Cadwallender said in an aside to Harry.
“Of course,” Harry murmured.
Lady Blodgett tilted her head slightly and considered the reporter. “How very kind of you to say, Mr. Corbin.”
“And this is Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore,” Cadwallender said.
Corbin turned to Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and took her hand. “Mr. Cadwallender did not tell me I would be in such august company. I am delighted to meet you, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore. Your husband’s reputation among his fellow explorers was legendary.”
It was all Harry could do to keep from snorting in derision. He would wager significant money that Corbin did indeed know exactly who made up Mrs. Gordon’s party and had made inquiries into their backgrounds in advance of this meeting.
“Thank you, Mr. Corbin.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore dimpled. “Malcolm would be most pleased to know he has not been forgotten.”
“I daresay he never will be,” Corbin said firmly.
“And Mrs. Higginbotham.” Cadwallender indicated the dragon.
“No doubt you have something nice to say about my husband as well.” The dragon eyed the reporter suspiciously but offered her hand.
“Mrs. Higginbotham.” Corbin took her hand and gazed into her eyes. “My favorite uncle served with your husband in the Crimea. He often said there was no finer officer to serve under than Colonel Higginbotham and credits your husband with his survival of that conflict. Allow me to offer my thanks from my entire family.”
“Oh.” The dragon looked a bit taken aback. Harry wouldn’t have thought it possible. Then she smiled and for a moment, he could see she must have been quite lovely in her youth. “I was right. That was very nice, Mr. Corbin.”
Corbin laughed and turned to Mrs. Gordon. “Which means you must be Mrs. Gordon.”
“Well, if I must.” Mrs. Gordon extended her hand.
“I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. I am an ardent follower of your Tales.” Corbin raised her gloved hand to his lips in an absurd and well-practiced display of inappropriate gallantry, his gaze never wavering from hers. “But I had no idea the writer of such exciting adventures would be quite so lovely.”
“What did you expect, Mr. Corbin?” Mrs. Gordon smiled, a distinctly flirtatious sort of smile in Harry’s opinion.
“I’m not sure exactly.” Corbin continued to gaze into her eyes. Did the man have no sense of restraint? “But I did not expect someone as lovely as she is brilliant. May I tell you how much I admire your work? I find your writing fascinating and completely absorbing. You, Mrs. Gordon, have the rare ability to take your readers on a journey of adventure and excitement.”
Harry snorted.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Corbin, not everyone agrees with you.” Mrs. Gordon nodded in Harry’s direction.
“Ah yes.” Corbin released Mrs. Gordon’s hand reluctantly and turned his attention to Harry. “Mr. Armstrong, I presume?”
“Mr. Corbin.” Harry nodded and accepted the man’s offered hand. Corbin’s handshake was even firmer than his employer’s. Too firm really, as if he was trying to prove a point. Harry tightened his grip in response. Two could play at whatever game this reporter was playing.
Corbin released his hand and Harry ignored the need to flex his fingers. “You’re rather well-known yourself among archeologists and Egyptologists, Mr. Armstrong.”
Apparently the ladies weren’t the only ones Corbin researched, although obviously not well as he made no reference to Harry’s newfound title. Good. “I have spent a number of years in Egypt.”
“Mr. Armstrong considers himself quite an expert on all things Egyptian,” Mrs. Gordon said coolly.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “As do you.”
Mrs. Gordon shrugged in an offhand manner as if her knowledge was not in question and turned to Cadwallender. “It was quite thoughtful of you to see us off, Mr. Cadwallender. And most appreciated.”
“Here’s to an excellent voyage and a successful journey.” Cadwallender took her hand and smiled. “I have every confidence in you, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cadwallender.” She slanted a quick glance at Harry then smiled up at the publisher. “I assure you, you will not be disappointed.” She stepped back and looked at the other women. “Ladies, shall we board?”
“Will we see you at dinner tonight?” Corbin asked, the most annoying note of eagerness in his voice.
“I doubt it. I prefer to spend the first night on a ship in my rooms. But tomorrow—” she cast the reporter a brilliant smile “—I will certainly see you tomorrow.” She nodded at the publisher. “Farewell, Mr. Cadwallender.”
Cadwallender tipped his hat. “Bon voyage, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Mr. Armstrong,” she said curtly, turned and moved toward the ship.
The other ladies bid Cadwallender farewell and then followed Mrs. Gordon in a flutter of feminine excitement. She started up the gangplank, her entourage trailing behind.
“Splendid job, Sidney.” Lady Blodgett’s voice drifted back to him. One thing he had already noticed about traveling with this particular group, whether it was intentional or simply the result of aging, but all three older ladies spoke a bit louder than perhaps necessary.
Mrs. Gordon’s chin raised just a notch. He would have thought she couldn’t hold herself any straighter but apparently he was wrong.
Cadwallender chuckled. “This should be an interesting trip. I’m almost sorry I’m not coming along.” He grinned at Harry. “Bon voyage, Mr. Armstrong. I have no doubt Mrs. Gordon will prove his lordship’s charges completely false. I would wish you good luck but I’m certain you understand why I don’t.” He glanced at the ladies, now stepping onto the ship. “Although I suspect you will need it. Corbin, a word please before you board.” He turned and stepped away.
“Yes, sir.” Corbin cast an admiring glance toward the ship. “A truly fine specimen of the very best England has to offer.”
Harry wasn’t sure he would completely agree. “She does appear to be a seaworthy enough vessel.”
“Actually, Armstrong.” Corbin tore his gaze from the ship. “I wasn’t referring to the ship.” He grinned in a self-assured manner and hurried after his employer.
The reporter was obviously an outrageous flirt. The kind of man who couldn’t believe that any woman wouldn’t swoon at the chance to be on his arm or in his bed. Arrogant, self-centered, charming, a man like Corbin took conquest and seduction as his due. Harry knew that kind of man. For much of his life, Harry had been that kind of man. Perhaps he still was. Opportunities for female companions that were not seeking marriage had simply been limited since his return to England.
His gaze strayed up to Mrs. Gordon, stepping onto the ship to be greeted by the captain. Not that he had any inclination toward seduction but his intentions had certainly changed in the last few minutes. Now that he knew she wasn’t a dear, sweet old lady his reasons for not exposing her fraudulent writings were no longer valid. She was not a fragile elderly flower but an outspoken, argumentative female who was apparently prepared to do battle. Or rather continue to do battle. The combat between them had begun when he’d sent his first letter to TheTimes and she’d responded. Now, it was a full-fledged war to be waged in the streets of Cairo and the sands of the Valley of the Kings. Even if she had a small army of elderly ladies by her side, he would not allow her to win.
It wasn’t merely the future of his writing or the acknowledgment of his accomplishments in Egypt or even Walter’s legacy at stake. Why, Truth itself was in the balance. He could not, he would not, permit a writer of frivolous fiction to stand in the way of truth.
No matter how lovely her eyes were.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
IT WAS ALL Sidney could do to keep her hand from shaking when welcomed on board the Ancona by the captain. She wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the excitement of boarding a ship for the very first time or finally taking the first step toward her dreams. More likely it was coming face-to-face with Mr. Harold Armstrong, the man who could destroy her future. She was heartened by the fact that she had held her ground even when he had glowered down at her although it had taken all the fortitude she could muster. But there was something about standing up to a man that was most invigorating and filled her with confidence. Aside from a few professors and merchants, she really had no experience dealing with men at all. Now, for good or ill, two dashing gentlemen would be part of the grand adventure that lay ahead. Perhaps Mr. Cadwallender was right. Perhaps she did have the courage to carry off this deception. Millicent certainly did. And she was Millicent.
The captain introduced the first-class steward, Mr. Gilmore, who escorted them on a tour of the ship. He showed them the ladies lounge, the saloon where evening entertainment would be provided, the library and dining room, and then ushered them to their accommodations, explaining there were ninety-one first-class staterooms and thirty-two second-class. Passenger rooms were along surprisingly narrow corridors. If one could not abide tight spaces, Sidney suspected it would be wise to avoid sea travel.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Poppy said, a step behind Sidney. “I’ve never been on a real ship before.”
“None of us has, dear,” Lady Blodgett murmured.
Indeed, no one in their group—with the exception of Poppy who had spent time in Paris as a girl—had ever stepped foot off England’s shores. Which was, for the most part, a little known fact although the ladies insisted it was not particularly a secret, simply that no one had ever asked. Regardless, its revelation would be at best embarrassing and at worst devastating to their positions as founding members of the Lady Travelers Society.
The three widows had started the society some three years ago as a service to other ladies who wished to plan future travel. Unfortunately, while they were really quite good at giving lectures, writing all manner of pamphlets and offering sage advice—based on the experiences of their husbands—they weren’t quite as skilled at planning actual travel for their members. In fact, the only member they sent off on a grand tour of Europe managed to disappear—through no fault of the ladies as it turned out. Still, it was awkward, possibility fraudulent and there were questions of legality, so when an American entrepreneur offered to buy the Lady Travelers Society and keep Gwen, Effie and Poppy on as figureheads, lecturers and consultants, it was the perfect solution. The ever efficient Miss Charlotte Granville, another American, who now managed the society, had planned this trip to Egypt and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it would go smoothly. At least when it came to the travel arrangements.
“I must say, I’m quite surprised at how very dashing he was,” Poppy said as much to herself as to the others.
“Which one?” Gwen asked. “Mr. Armstrong or Mr. Corbin.”
“Both, really, although I was speaking of Mr. Armstrong.” Poppy sighed. “I have always had a fondness for men with fair hair the tiniest bit past due for a trim and just a little unruly. Why, it makes you want to run your fingers through it and muss it up even more.”
“One surmises those shoulders are not due to the efforts of his tailor,” Gwen said under her breath. “The man really is quite attractive.”
“For an arrogant buffoon.” Effie paused. “But admittedly a handsome buffoon.”
Sidney stopped short and turned on her heel. “With all due respect, ladies, could you possibly wait until we are in a more private location to discuss Mr. Armstrong’s and Mr. Corbin’s appearance?”
“Yes, of course. We should have restrained ourselves but I’m afraid we’re all too excited.” Gwen’s eyes sparkled. “This is our first adventure too, you know. And we have waited a very long time.”
Poppy nodded. “And we never expected we would share it with not one but two handsome gentlemen. My goodness, it’s most exhilarating.”
“Even if one is an ass,” Effie added. “Although, one does have to admit he is an extremely attractive—”
Gwen coughed.
“Aunt Effie!” Sidney cast a pointed glance at the steward in front of them, standing a few discreet feet away and obviously trying very hard not to listen as well as not to laugh.
Effie winced. “Oh dear. I didn’t realize... Well.” She squared her shoulders. “I daresay it isn’t anything he hasn’t heard before.” She peered around Sidney. “Am I right, Mr. Gilmore?”
“You are, madam,” Mr. Gilmore said in a serious manner that belied the amusement in his eyes. “Indeed, I have heard far worse.”
“Far worse?” Effie studied him curiously. “Really?”
He nodded. “But rest assured there is nothing more discreet than a first-class steward. It is my duty to respect the privacy of my passengers. Nothing that I see or hear during a voyage goes any further.”
“Of course.” A distinct look of disappointment passed over Effie’s face. “As it should be.” She glanced at Sidney. “I do see your point, Sidney dear.”
“As I assume you all do.” Goodness, they were all acting like schoolgirls. Sidney’s firm gaze settled on one lady after another. Each had the good grace to look appropriately chagrined. Perhaps a little too chagrined. Sidney sighed, turned back to the steward and they continued down the corridor.
She really couldn’t fault the ladies. Even in his fashionable clothing, Mr. Armstrong looked like he could have stepped right out of one of her stories. He wasn’t at all as she’d pictured him. For some reason she thought he’d be an older man, brandishing a walking stick with a silver head in the shape of a cobra or something equally forbidding, with an air of superiority, whose only joy was reliving his past exploits. What she never expected was a dashing sort who towered above her with hair the color of the desert sand and stormy, gray eyes, intense and perceptive. Mr. Armstrong did indeed look like a hero come to life. Not her hero, of course. In her own story he was more of a villain.
The steward escorted them to their respective staterooms, conveniently all in a row along the same side of the corridor.
“Your luggage has been unpacked and your baggage stowed for the voyage,” Mr. Gilmore said when they reached Sidney’s quarters. He opened the door and she stepped into the room. “Should you need anything at all, Mrs. Gordon, I am at your service.” He nodded and closed the door behind him.
While not especially spacious, her first-class stateroom was larger than she had expected with an iron bed, small sofa, writing desk, clothes cupboard and washstand. One did wonder if Mr. Corbin’s accommodations were as nice. Mr. Armstrong’s journey, of course, was funded by his uncle. In spite of his concern for finances, Mr. Cadwallender had spared no expense but then Effie, Gwen and Poppy had met several times with him allegedly about the Lady Travelers Society’s plans for their trip. Or at least that’s what Sidney was told. She really had no idea exactly what had transpired in those meetings. The ladies were unusually quiet about them which was suspicious in and of itself. Perhaps the publisher hadn’t been at the dock to see them off out of courtesy but to make certain the elderly trio was indeed leaving the country and out of his hair.
Sidney pulled off her hat and gloves and tossed them on the bed. As eager as she was to further explore the ship as well as meet her fellow passengers, she was resigned to taking her first dinner in her room tonight on the recommendation of the Lady Travelers Society. The pamphlet on sea voyages advised that one should always spend one’s first night on board any vessel privately in one’s own room, especially if one had never been on a ship before. The pamphlet delicately endorsed the wisdom of such advice as one never knew how one might respond to sea travel. Of course they wouldn’t actually be at sea for the first sixty miles of the voyage and Sidney wondered if regardless of whether one was on the Thames or an ocean, one would feel substantially the same.
She glanced around her quarters and smiled. This would do nicely but then she would be quite happy with nearly anything. She was off to see the world. On a grand adventure and even if—thanks to Mr. Armstrong—it ended badly, it would still be an adventure. And there was no reason it couldn’t start this minute with a walk on the deck. She would very much like to see London and the countryside pass by on their way to the sea. She grabbed her hat and gloves and pulled open her door.
“Sidney dear,” Effie said brightly, her hand raised to knock. “May we come in?”
“Of course.” Sidney pushed aside a momentary stab of disappointment. But the voyage to Alexandria would take nearly two weeks and there was plenty of time to enjoy everything the ship had to offer.
“We still have a great deal to discuss, you know,” Effie said, stepping past her into the room, Gwen and Poppy right behind.
“My goodness.” Poppy looked around. “This is identical to my room.”
“I suspect they’re all very much the same.” Gwen settled on the sofa.
“Did you notice nearly everything is bolted to the floor?” Poppy sat down next to Gwen. “How very odd.”
Effie rolled her gaze at the ceiling and took the last spot on the sofa. “Unlike a hotel, this room will tend to roll about with the waves.”
“I knew that.” Indignation sounded in Poppy’s voice. “I simply thought it was curious.”
“It is curious,” Gwen said diplomatically, “as well as to be expected.”
“Was there something in particular you wished to discuss?” Sidney closed the door, took off her coat, and placed it along with her hat and gloves in the cupboard, then perched on the edge of the bed. “I thought we had been quite thorough about our plans.”
“One can never be too prepared for deception,” Effie said firmly.
It did seem they had had endless discussions about how to make Sidney appear as if she was completely familiar with Egypt although none of them was certain exactly how to dampen Sidney’s expected enthusiasm. If they had decided anything at all it was to take their venture one day—one step—at a time.
“I don’t know why, but this feels rather delicate.” Effie glanced at the others then drew a deep breath. “It’s about your husband.”
Sidney stared. “My what?”
“Your husband,” Poppy said. “Your dead husband.”
Sidney laughed. “I don’t have a dead husband.
“We know that, dear. We wouldn’t be having this discussion if you did.” Gwen sighed. “We realized this morning that we had not discussed your husband—dear, dear whatever his name is.”
“He should at least have a name beyond Mr. Gordon,” Effie said. “Someone—Mr. Corbin or the buffoon or someone else entirely—might ask about him.”
“You are supposed to be a widow,” Gwen pointed out. “And widows generally have dead husbands.”
“Not you, of course,” Poppy added, “but most widows. We all do.”
“I had forgotten about the dead husband,” Sidney murmured. This was becoming more and more complicated but, as she wrote as Mrs. Gordon, it probably couldn’t be helped. Not for the first time did she regret the decision to write under an assumed name. It had been at Mr. Cadwallender’s insistence although he had initially proposed she write not as Miss Sidney Honeywell but as Mr. Sidney Gordon, which had struck her as being a traitor to her gender. However, she did agree to become Mrs. Gordon and while she’d never said she was a widow, the world assumed she was.
“You must never forget about the dead husband,” Effie warned. “And he needs a name you can remember.”
Sidney frowned. “I’m certain I’ll be able to remember his name.”
“You’re not very good at remembering names, dear. You do tend to be a bit scattered,” Poppy said gently. “What was your father’s name? You should be able to remember that.”
“My father’s name was Charles.”
Effie glanced at Gwen. “Unless you have any objections.”
“Because my husband’s name was Charles?” Gwen asked. “Don’t be absurd. The world is simply littered with Charleses, a fair number of them dead. Why, if I was bothered by every dead Charles I encountered, I would spend most of my time being out of sorts.” She cast Sidney an affectionate smile. “I daresay my husband would be honored to lend his name to your imaginary husband.” She grinned. “As long as he was handsome and dashing, of course.”
“Of course.” Effie turned to Sidney. “He was, wasn’t he?”
“Goodness, she wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t. Not that a man’s appearance is as important as his character,” Poppy added quickly, “but, as we are inventing him, we might as well make him as attractive as we want. Or rather as Sidney wants.”
“I don’t see why not.” Effie nodded. “What did he look like, Sidney?”
“I don’t know.” Sidney crossed her arms over her chest. “And I don’t see why this is necessary.”
“Because someone might ask and you need to be prepared. It’s the details in a project like this that make all the difference between acceptance and being found out,” Gwen said firmly. “Now, tell us. What did he look like?”
“Very well.” Sidney sighed. This did seem absurd but the ladies probably had a point. “I suppose he was tall.” She had always thought tall men to be particularly attractive. “With nicely broad shoulders.”
“The result of a passion for out of door activities, no doubt.” Effie nodded. “Go on. What color hair and eyes did he have?”
Sidney thought for a moment. “Blue eyes, I think. No, better yet—gray. Which might seem nondescript but are really quite warm. Yes, that’s good. And they lit up when he smiled. He had a wonderful smile. And his hair...” One wouldn’t think making up a fraudulent husband would be quite this difficult. “Brown perhaps? A light brown.” No, not brown. What goes well with gray eyes? “Or... I know, a dark blond. The color of sand. Oh yes, that’s better. I like that. What do you think?”
All three ladies stared at her with the oddest expression on their faces.
“What is it?” Sidney drew her brows together. “Is he not handsome enough?”
“No, he’s fine,” Poppy said with a weak smile. What on earth was the matter with her?
Gwen cleared her throat. “Now tell us about your life together.”
“I thought we had discussed this as well. My story should be much like the one I created for Millicent.” Sidney sighed. “There really wasn’t much of a life together. I married Mr. Gordon—Charles—when I was eighteen—”
Poppy nodded. “He swept you off your feet.”
“And we immediately set off for Egypt as he was a promising, young archeologist—”
“An excellent place for a honeymoon.” Approval sounded in Effie’s voice.
“And I was determined to be by his side.”
“Most courageous of you,” Gwen said. “Go on.”
“We barely had a few months together before he died tragically.” Sidney paused. “Should I know how he died?”
“Well, you would wouldn’t you? As his wife.” Poppy glanced at the other ladies. “How shall we do away with him?”
“Perhaps a camel sat on him?” Gwen suggested.
“Or he could have drowned in the Nile.” Poppy brightened. “Yes, that’s good.” She fluttered her fingers. “Drowned and washed away never to be seen again.”
“Better yet.” Effie cast a triumphant smile at the others. “Egypt is full of vile creatures.” She glanced at Sidney. “Isn’t it?”
“Oh my, yes.” Sidney nodded. “There are several varieties of venomous snakes as well as scorpions and crocodiles—”
“That’s it!” Excitement rang in Effie’s voice. “Poor, dear, dashing Mr. Gordon was eaten by a crocodile!”
Poppy frowned. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”
“It doesn’t have to be pleasant.” Effie huffed. “It simply has to be fatal.”
“I know that,” Poppy said. “I just think it would be extremely difficult to move past the death of a husband if he were eaten by a crocodile.” She shook her head. “It’s not at all the kind of thing a woman could put behind her.” She shuddered.
“Which is precisely why,” Effie said slowly, “Sidney prefers not to discuss it. She has never truly recovered from his loss, you see.”
Gwen’s brow rose. “After almost fifteen years? They were hardly married any time at all.”
“Which makes it even more tragic,” Poppy said firmly. “He was, after all, her true love and in spite of the passage of time, she is still mourning—like Her Majesty.”
Sidney frowned. “Then shouldn’t I be wearing black?”
“Very well.” Effie cast Poppy an exasperated look. “Not exactly like the queen.”
“Still mourning the loss of Mr. Gordon,” Sidney said under her breath and nodded. “That sounds perfectly reasonable to me. However, in spite of my dreadful loss, I decided to stay on in Egypt because I couldn’t bear to return to London without poor Mr. Gordon and I felt it important to carry on with his work. Besides, I fell madly, deeply in love with the country and its history and its people.” That much was at least partially true. “Thus was the beginning of my adventures.”
“Excellent.” Poppy beamed.
“Well, fine, anyway.” Gwen cast her an encouraging smile.
“It will do,” Effie added then paused. “I think it might be best, all things considered, if we tried never to leave you alone with either the buffoon or Mr. Corbin.”
Sidney stared. “You don’t think I can do this?”
“Of course we do, dear,” Poppy said quickly. “It’s just that it’s been our observation that while you’re very good at writing, you’re not overly skilled at deception or—”
“Prevarication.” Gwen winced. “Or dishonesty or—”
“Lying,” Effie said bluntly. “You do not lie well, Sidney. Which is an admirable quality really, under most circumstances. However—” Effie grimaced “—these are not most circumstances.”
“I am well aware of that,” Sidney said. “I have given all of this a great deal of thought. Indeed, I’ve thought of little else since I agreed to be part of this farce. And yes, I have always prided myself on my sense of honesty.” She thought for a moment. “I am most grateful for your help and I daresay, I couldn’t manage this on my own but do not for a moment think I do not understand the importance of this venture. My reputation and my future are at stake. And in many ways, this is no one’s fault but my own.”
“Well, we were the ones who responded to Lord Brenton’s letters,” Poppy said faintly.
“Regardless, that’s not where this began.” Sidney drew a deep breath. “If I had paid more attention, I would have realized the world was taking my stories as fact and I could have taken steps to correct that impression. I should have taken a stand then, regardless of the consequences.”
Effie frowned. “But Mr. Cadwallender—”
“It’s my life and they’re my stories, Aunt Effie, and I should have stood up for both.” Sidney shook her head. “I allowed myself to be convinced by Mr. Cadwallender that my revealing the truth would be disastrous. As he was my publisher and a man, I assumed he knew best. In that, I believe now that I was wrong.”
Effie grinned.
“What I should have done scarcely matters now. Now I have a reputation to protect and a wrong to set right.” Sidney raised her chin. “In the eyes of my readers, I am Millicent Forester. I am the Queen of the Desert. I shall not let them down.”
“Excellent.” Gwen beamed.
“I absolutely will not allow an arrogant ass—”
“Or buffoon.” Poppy shrugged. “Both do seem accurate.”
“—to ruin my life, my future and my livelihood.” Determination washed through her. “This is a game I intend to win. I have a role to play, ladies. Mr. Armstrong is determined to prove I’m not what the world has been led to believe I am. All I have to do—” she squared her shoulders “—is prove him wrong.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
“I SEE I’M not the only one who enjoys watching the sun rise over the ocean,” Harry said in his most cordial manner. It wasn’t easy. This was the first dawn of their voyage and cordial was the last thing he felt this morning toward this interloper.
“Good day, Mr. Armstrong.” Mrs. Gordon’s gaze remained on the horizon.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for such an early riser.” Perhaps she would scurry back to her cabin once she had fully absorbed the sunrise.
“What a remarkable coincidence, Mr. Armstrong,” she said coolly. “I would not have thought to encounter you at this time of day either.” She glanced at him. “Especially not with a bottle of champagne in your hand.”
“If I had known you were going to be here, I would have brought two glasses.”
“I never indulge in spirits before breakfast, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Perhaps you should, Mrs. Gordon.” He paused. He’d been trying for nearly a year now to be the kind of man he was expected to be—the kind of man an earl was supposed to be—and, even though she didn’t know of his title, he had decided not to reveal too much of his questionable past. Still, this was a fairly innocuous revelation. “When my friends and I first set off for Egypt, nearly twenty years ago, we marked the first sunrise of the first day with a bottle of the best champagne our collective resources could afford. Every voyage to Egypt after that, regardless of whether one or all three of us were traveling, we always greeted the first dawn with champagne. This bottle was delivered to my quarters before we left port from one of those friends.”
“That’s really quite charming.” She considered him thoughtfully. “I would not have thought you so sentimental.”
Rubbish. “I don’t think sentimental is the right word—”
“Habit, then.”
“I tend to think of it more in the manner of tradition.”
“Regardless, I do not wish to interfere.” She smiled. “I shall leave you to your tradition.” She turned to go.
“Join me,” he said without thinking.
She turned back to him, her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Why?” He grinned. “Are you always so suspicious?”
“No. In fact, I am quite trusting of most people. Trusting you, however—”
He winced. Not that he didn’t deserve her distrust.
“—does not strike me as especially wise. I would be remiss if I did not question your motives. We are here after all because you are determined to prove me a fraud and I am determined to prove you wrong.” She shrugged. “Under these circumstances, suspicion does seem the wiser course.”
“I’ll grant you that. However, just for the span of the sunrise, let us forget we are at odds. Do me the honor of joining me in the tradition of myself and my friends in a salute to what lies ahead. There is nothing as inspiring as watching the sun rise up out of the sea.”
“Very well.” Her eyes twinkled. “But you have only one glass.”
“Which I shall gladly sacrifice for the pleasure of your company.”
“How very gallant of you.”
“I can be very gallant. You should make note of that.” He opened the bottle, filled the glass and handed it to her, then raised the bottle toward the sun. “To the new day and the adventures it will bring.” And to those who are no longer with us, he added silently. He took a long drink from the bottle and sent a prayer of thanks to Ben. It was an excellent vintage, even straight from the bottle.
“To the adventures that lie ahead.” She raised her glass and took a sip, then wrinkled her nose.
“Is it not to your liking?”
“Oh no, it’s quite lovely really but the bubbles tickle my nose.” She fluttered her fingers in front of her nose. “Which is perhaps part of the enjoyment. I will confess I rarely have champagne and never in the morning. But it is delightful.”
“There is no better way to start a trip than with a glass of France’s finest.”
“And there is something both optimistic and invigorating about watching the sun make its first appearance of the day over the ocean. I agree with you, Mr. Armstrong.” She sipped her wine and turned her attention back to the sunrise. “The champagne makes it even better. I shall have to remember that. This is indeed an excellent way to start a grand adventure.”
“I must say I’m impressed. From reading your stories one would assume that the first dawn of a new journey toward Egypt would be rather commonplace for you. And yet you seem quite enthusiastic.”
“Would you prefer I be jaded and cynical as you appear to be?”
“I believe older and wiser a more accurate description,” he said coolly. “And I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you—”
“I daresay, Mr. Armstrong, you know nothing about me except for those details I have put in my stories.” She glanced at him. “And I try not to focus on my personal habits.”
“Why?” Curiosity sounded in his voice. “You are writing about your own adventures after all.”
“It’s very simple.” She turned toward him. “Regardless of whose adventures they are, my purpose isn’t to make readers admire the author but rather to become the hero or the heroine. Precisely why I chose to give the heroine of my stories a name different from my own. People cannot lose themselves in the story if they are too busy contemplating the author. Whether she is an early riser or prefers lemon to milk in her tea, it’s of no importance. All that matters is that people who read my stories forget the tedium of everyday life and lose themselves for an hour or an afternoon in another world.”
He stared at her for a long, disbelieving moment. “Rubbish, Mrs. Gordon. You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I most certainly am.”
“People don’t want to be swept away.” He scoffed. “People want to be informed and educated and enlightened.”
“Good Lord.” She laughed. “What utter nonsense. While indeed many people read newspapers, as well as books, to be informed and educated and enlightened, the vast majority of readers want nothing more than enjoyment.” She turned back to the sunrise.
“People want facts, Mrs. Gordon,” he said firmly. “Indisputable facts.”
“Do you really think people want to know that the Great Pyramid at Giza stands four hundred and eighty feet, nine inches high with a base very nearly square of 764 feet per side?”
“I find that extremely interesting.”
She ignored him. “Or would they prefer to read how the Great Pyramid rises into the heavens, dwarfing its companions as if they were insignificant interlopers and casting an ever growing shadow in the late afternoon sun, the hands of long-ago pharaohs, even in death, refusing to release their grip on their land and people and the Nile itself?”
“I will admit your way is certainly more inventive. It is not however, especially accurate.”
“No?” She heaved a resigned sigh, cast a longing look at the sunrise then faced him again. “Tell me, Mr. Armstrong.” She held out her glass. “Do the pyramids not cast a shadow in the setting sun that grows as sunset approaches and stretches toward the Nile?”
“One could say that, I suppose,” he said and filled her glass.
She raised a brow.
“I admit, the Nile is to the east of the pyramids.” He took another pull from the bottle. “And the setting sun does cast a significant shadow.”
“And does the Great Pyramid not tower over the others?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So what exactly was inaccurate?”
“Admittedly, inaccurate might have been the wrong word.” His jaw tightened. This was exactly the kind of problem he had with her writing. “Fanciful is perhaps a better word. The pyramids are tombs, not the fingers of the hands of the pharaohs reaching out from death.”
“My, you are stuffy.”
He stared at her. She was right—he did sound stuffy. He laughed.
“You find that amusing?”
He grinned. “No one has ever called me stuffy before.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps no one had the courage.”
“Entirely possible.” He chuckled. He never used to be stuffy. But then he’d never been an earl with property and wealth and responsibility before either.
“In spite of the imposing rhetoric in your uncle’s letters to The Times, and the threatening manner he used, you do not scare me, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Does my uncle?”
She met his gaze firmly. “No.”
“I don’t believe he intended to scare you, nor do I.” Although he certainly had expected her to retreat or even ignore his letters rather than respond to what he could now see might well have been construed as intimidating.
Mrs. Gordon cast him a knowing smile—although he wasn’t at all sure what she thought she knew and it was rather annoying—then returned to her perusal of the sunrise. As much as he had expected and wanted to be alone, he had to admit he was enjoying this bit of sparring with the lovely widow. He took another sip from the bottle. All things considered, this was probably a better way to begin this journey than drinking alone on deck accompanied only by the memories of friends who were gone or had moved on with their lives. The past was the past and both good times and bad were best left behind where they belonged.
“You must be pleased to be returning to Egypt,” he said in an offhand manner.
“Must I?”
“As much as I disagree with your manner of writing as well as dispute your depiction of, well, very nearly everything, I will not deny you do appear to have a certain passion for Egypt. So, I simply assume you are happy to be returning.”
“Indeed I am. It has been some time since I was last there.”
“How long?”
“Quite some time. Years, in fact.”
“How many?”
“A number of years.”
“Specifically?”
“Specifically? Come now, Mr. Armstrong.” She shook her head in annoyance. “It’s obvious that you are trying to solicit information from me although I must say you are not especially good at it.”
His brow furrowed. “Was I that obvious?”
She cast him a disbelieving look. “Yes.”
“Not subtle, then?”
“Not even a bit. Subtlety, Mr. Armstrong, is an art.”
“One I apparently need to work on.” He paused. “Although soliciting information was really not my intention. I intended nothing more than idle conversation, the same as one would have with any fellow passenger. The kind of thing people do when they’re sharing a sunrise and becoming better acquainted.”
“I have no desire to become better acquainted and we are not sharing a sunrise.”
“Oh, but I believe we are.” He nodded toward the east.
“Regardless, as your declared purpose is to prove me disreputable, I am not inclined to share even the most innocuous detail with you. Furthermore, you did say that for the length of the sunrise, we would ignore the dispute between us.”
He grinned, he couldn’t seem to help himself. “I believe the sun is now fully up.”
“Then there is no need for me to remain and be plied with champagne,” she said in a lofty manner.
He nodded and reached over to top off her glass. “No need at all.”
“It is, however, excellent champagne.”
“I can afford excellent champagne.”
“Do you have a great deal of money?”
“Enough.”
“But you haven’t always had money.” She studied him curiously. “You said on your first trip you had the best champagne you could afford.”
“True.”
“But you are now a wealthy man. Did you make your fortune in Egypt?”
“Now you too are trying to solicit information.”
“What a shocking coincidence.” She smiled pleasantly. “But it does seem only fair.”
“Very well.” He thought for a moment. Her queries were fairly harmless. “The response to your first comment is yes and the answer to the second is no.”
“Oh.” She considered him thoughtfully. “Mr. Corbin said you were well-known among Egyptologists and yet I have never heard of you.”
He bristled. “Have you heard of every Egyptologist?”
“Yes.”
“Surely not.
She raised a shoulder in an offhand shrug.
He stared. “You’re extremely outspoken, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Am I?” Surprise widened her eyes.
“Indeed you are.”
“Oh.” Her brows drew together, then her expression cleared and she cast him a brilliant smile. “Thank you.”
He shook his head in confusion. “For what?”
“For your assessment of my nature. I’ve never considered myself to be outspoken. I’m really quite flattered. You did mean it as a compliment, did you not?”
Why not? “Of course.”
“You do not lie well, Mr. Armstrong. It’s good to know.” She nodded. “But you do have my thanks for the champagne.” She leaned closer in a confidential manner and the merest hint of a scent at once exotic and welcoming wafted around him. “Did I tell you that I am not at all used to champagne?”
“Not directly but I suspected as much.” He bit back a grin. “Although I do find it difficult to believe that the celebrated Mrs. Gordon is not used to champagne.”
“Nonsense, I’m not the least bit celebrated. A bit well-known perhaps.”
“You are the Queen of the Desert after all.”
“Well yes, there is that.” She sipped her wine. “I do try to be circumspect.”
“But you are a member of the Antiquities Society.”
“I have not yet had the opportunity to attend any of the society’s gatherings. And if your uncle has his way, I never will.”
“Why not? The society is most prestigious.” So prestigious, it had never offered him membership.
“And membership is a great honor but I am far too wrapped up in my work to frequent social gatherings.”
“What? No literary society fetes? No grand balls in your honor?” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “I daresay I expected more from the Queen of the Desert.”
“I am sorry to disappoint.” She frowned. “And you needn’t keep calling me that.”
“Why? Don’t you like it?”
“Not especially.”
And wasn’t that interesting? “If you’re not indulging in London society, how do you spend your time?”
“I write, Mr. Armstrong. I have no time for anything else.” She pinned him with a firm look. “And what do you do? Other than play errand boy for your uncle. Which does seem to me to be the mark of a man with nothing else to do.”
“I have a great deal to do,” he said staunchly.
“For example?”
“I have not been back in England for very long. I have any number of ideas as to how to spend my time. I am simply trying to decide my next course.”
“Come now, Mr. Armstrong,” she said skeptically. “You’re the wealthy nephew of an even wealthier earl. You have no need to do anything productive at all.”
“A life of boredom is no life at all.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She tilted her head and studied him. “How long since your last trip to Egypt?”
“It’s been some time.” He grinned. “Quite some time.”
“Why did you leave Egypt?”
“Why did you?”
“I believe you’re hiding something, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Yet another coincidence, Mrs. Gordon. I know you’re hiding a great deal.”
“Do you?” She considered him for a long moment. A slow, decidedly wicked smile curved her lips. Her exceptionally fetching lips. “This should be fun, Mr. Armstrong.”
“Fun?” His gaze slipped to her mouth. He suspected her definition of fun at the moment and his were decidedly different. He cleared his throat. “Do you really think so?”
“Oh my, yes.” A definite glint of challenge shone in her eyes. “There is nothing more fun than putting an arrogant man in his place.”
“Then the game is afoot, Mrs. Gordon. And you’re right.” He leaned in, trying to ignore her scent, the long length of her lashes, the distracting nearness of her. “It will be fun. Although I have no doubt as to the ultimate winner.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Armstrong.”
His gaze meshed with hers and for a moment something one could only call awareness sparked between them. Not what he expected. Or wanted. But then Harry Armstrong had always been willing to adapt to new circumstances.
“There you are,” a female voice sounded behind him. Before he could turn, someone short and determined nudged him out of the way as efficiently as a collie cutting a sheep from the herd, and Mrs. Gordon’s band of determined elderly watchdogs surrounded her.
“Good day, Sidney,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said brightly. “And Mr. Armstrong as well. What a lovely surprise.”
“And greeting the new day with champagne.” Lady Blodgett cast an assessing eye at the bottle in his hand. “I never would have thought of such a thing but it is a charming idea.”
“And how very thoughtful of you.” The dragon plucked the bottle from his grip and smiled innocently. “Only one glass?”
“I’m afraid so,” Sidney said with a shrug.
“Then there’s nothing to be done about it.” The dragon shook her head reluctantly. “We shall simply have to adjourn to Mrs. Gordon’s stateroom and request additional glasses from the charming Mr. Gilmore.”
Mrs. Gordon bit back a grin. Why shouldn’t she smile? She had invaded his solitude—he ignored the fact that she had already been on deck when he arrived—commandeered his tradition and was now absconding with his champagne.
“Thank you, again, Mr. Armstrong,” she said pleasantly. “Do enjoy the rest of your morning.” She took the dragon’s arm and they strolled down the deck.
“We would ask you to join us, Mr. Armstrong, but Sidney’s room simply isn’t big enough for everyone. Why, the four of us can scarcely squeeze in together. Although it is an exceptionally nice room.” Lady Blodgett smiled. “Besides, it did look to me as if there was barely enough champagne left for a handful of glasses at the most and I am certain you would wish for us to have it.”
What could he say? “With my sincerest compliments.”
“I thought you would agree. This really is quite delightful. I might have to put the idea of starting the first day of any new journey with champagne at sunrise in a Lady Travelers pamphlet.” Lady Blodgett turned to go then turned back. “Oh, and as it seems to me, to all of us really, as your purpose in this trip is the complete opposite of Sidney’s, it might be wiser for all concerned if you avoided those occasions when it was just you and Mrs. Gordon alone. Besides, people being what they are, appearances are important. I’m certain you understand.”
“Are you afraid I might attempt to ply Mrs. Gordon with spirits in an effort to wring a confession from her?” he said lightly. “Or do you think my intentions might be even more dishonorable? Seduction perhaps?” At once, the image of her delightfully inviting lips came to mind.
Lady Blodgett glanced at Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore, and then leaned closer to him. “Mr. Armstrong, my husband and his friends were explorers and adventurers. I have spent the better part of my life around such men as have Poppy and Effie. Men very much like you. I assure you, we are quite good at recognizing those who are honorable gentlemen and those who are not.”
“And where do I fall in your assessment?” he said slowly.
“I haven’t decided yet.” She smiled sweetly but there was no misunderstanding the look in her eye. Regardless of whether she decided he was indeed an honorable gentleman or a despicable cad, the opportunities to be alone with Mrs. Gordon again, particularly with champagne, would be nonexistent. Were the ladies trying to keep her secrets or simply protect her? He could certainly understand the former if indeed he was right about her but the latter made no sense. A widow had no need of constant supervision and from his brief conversation with her it was apparent Mrs. Gordon—Sidney—could certainly hold her own.
“Good day, Mr. Armstrong.” Lady Blodgett started after the others. Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore nodded, and then trailed after her friend.
“Do you always travel in packs, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore?” he said mildly.
She turned back to him. “Goodness no, Mr. Armstrong. Not always.” She smiled in a friendly manner. He wasn’t sure he believed it. “Only when necessary.” The older lady’s eyes twinkled and she headed toward the others.
The game was indeed afoot. Harry thought he’d be playing with Sidney alone. Now, it appeared he was facing an entire team.
The fame of Mrs. Gordon’s Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt has spread well beyond England. Even on board ship any number of passengers had read her work and confessed it was a great influence on their decisions to turn their hopes for holiday adventures toward the ancient shores of Egypt.
—“The Return of the Queen of the Desert,” Daniel Corbin, foreign correspondent
CHAPTER SIX (#ubb21d17f-027f-5e3a-9b46-223872b7af9a)
“WHY, MR. ARMSTRONG, what are you doing?” Sidney said behind the mask that had been passed out to all the passengers for masquerade night. A night that was every bit as bothersome as it sounded although it did seem to be the sort of thing first-class passengers required. It was their first dance of the evening, much to Harry’s annoyance.
“I believe we are dancing,” he said smoothly, steering her out of the saloon door and into the corridor. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder but no one seemed to note their exit. This was the first chance he’d had to be alone with her since their shared sunrise and it had taken a bit of creative manipulation on his part to manage it.
“I believe we were dancing and now you have somehow guided me out of the saloon and—”
He opened the door to the deck. “And onto the deck.”
“Dare I ask why?” She stepped out onto the deck, a note of amusement in her voice. Obviously, she was not annoyed by this clever maneuver of his.
He smiled down at her. “It’s a beautiful night, Mrs. Gordon.” He pulled off his mask with a sense of relief. He hated having the blasted thing pressed against his face. “I thought it a shame not to share it.”
“It is a lovely night, Mr. Armstrong.” She untied her mask and removed it. “But I assume we are not here simply to gaze at the stars.”
“Oh, but they are magnificent stars.”
“They are at that.” She glanced out at the darkness, the brilliant stars reflecting on an endless sea. “There are any number of ways I can think of to describe this but you would not appreciate them.”
He chuckled. “Probably not.”
“I’ve never seen the stars so brilliant or a sky so black.” She gazed at the sky for a long moment and it struck Harry that there were indeed any number of ways he could describe her face silhouetted against the stars. Most of them extremely sentimental and even, possibly, given the circumstances, romantic.
He ignored the absurd idea. “Except, of course, when you’ve been on a ship at sea.”
“Yes, of course.” She paused then heaved a slightly dramatic sigh. “It’s been so long I had nearly forgotten...”
He didn’t believe her but thought it best to ignore yet another example of her deception. “I simply thought you would look lovely under the stars. And I was right.”
She arched a skeptical brow and then snorted in a most unladylike manner. “Good Lord, Harry. Did you expect that to work?”
“Yes.” He grinned.
“There’s that arrogance of yours again.”
“I prefer to think of it as confidence.”
“You may think of it as you wish. You will anyway, I suspect.” She rested her hands on the railing and gazed out at the night. “Why are we really here?”
“Aside from the stars and the balmy night?”
She laughed and it caught at something deep inside him. It was not the first time. “Yes, Harry, aside from all the accoutrements of a blatantly romantic interlude, why are we here?”
“I simply wished to talk to you.” He paused. “Alone.”
“That explains it, then.”
He’d been right from the beginning. Try as he might, in the week and a half they’d been on board ship there had been no opportunity to be alone with Sidney. Her trio of guardians made certain of that. They weren’t the least bit subtle about it either. There was at least one of them by Sidney’s side or within sight every minute. It would have been most annoying except that it also served to prevent Corbin from being alone with her. Harry’s initial impression of Corbin’s untrustworthiness when it came to women was proving correct. Why, the reporter practically fawned over Sidney, showering her with compliments about her writing and her ability to tell a story at every opportunity. One did wonder what else the man was saying when he leaned in close to her and spoke low into her ear. Although the blush that washed up her face at such moments was certainly a clue as to the sorts of things Corbin whispered. Corbin was the one the ladies should keep their eyes on—not Harry. It was obvious that the man was interested in more than a mere newspaper story. Of course, the reporter was nearly as attentive to the chaperones as he was to Sidney, no doubt in an effort to earn their trust and thereby convince them to look kindly upon him.
Two could play at Corbin’s game. Certainly it had been some time but Harry used to play it quite well. When he inherited his title, he had made a concerted effort to behave more in the manner expected of a gentleman in his position. It hadn’t been especially difficult. Harry attributed that both to the demands of his new circumstances as well as age. There was nothing that emphasized a man’s passing years and the reality of mortality so much as the death of a friend. It now struck him that he had been somewhat melancholy in nature in the two years since Walter died as well. Certainly the most interesting thing he’d done since his return to England was dare Mrs. Gordon to prove her legitimacy.
She’d called him stuffy. Stuffy? Hardly. Admittedly, the Earl of Brenton might be stuffy and even perhaps—God help him—dull. But Harry Armstrong was daring and adventurous and far from dead. And hadn’t he felt a bit more like his old self since he’d started this endeavor? There was nothing Harry Armstrong couldn’t do if he set his mind to it. And earning the friendship—if not the affections—of Sidney and her band of vigilant widows was just the sort of challenge he had always relished. The ladies were pleasant enough and he had become rather fond of them with the exception of Mrs. Higginbotham, who continued to treat him with utter disdain which only made him try harder. After all, with friendship came confidences and, hopefully, the truth about the Queen of the Desert.
From that moment forward, Harry made it his business to be by Sidney’s side every possible minute. He never missed an opportunity to sit next to her at dinner. Certainly there were moments when he had to outmaneuver Corbin—as well as the captain who quite liked having the Queen of the Desert on board his ship. As it happened, the blasted man had read her silly book. But then apparently—who hadn’t?
Harry was doing all he could to follow his father’s and Ben’s advice. Really, could he be more charming? Every evening he joined Sidney and the other ladies in the saloon for whatever entertainment was scheduled and there was something scheduled every night. He had never been much for organized activities but it seemed they were an essential part of a passenger ship and could not be avoided. Amusements ranged from dancing to absurd games that struck him as little better than children’s pastimes, to musical evenings employing the questionable talents of the other passengers, to hours of enthusiastic and distinctly cutthroat card playing. Such evenings were admittedly rather fun.
Harry had always enjoyed cards and considered himself quite accomplished. On board ship, they played for pennies, and higher wagers were frowned upon even though he suspected the older ladies would have agreed to increased stakes. All three of them played with a wicked intensity that was as surprising as it was successful. The only interesting wager to be found was the daily sweepstakes wherein passengers placed a miniscule amount—because it was all in the spirit of fun, although he would dispute that—on their guess of the distance the ship had traveled the day before. They were halfway to Alexandria before Harry discovered most of the gentlemen on board had substantial, private wagers of their own as well as serious card games in the gentlemen’s lounge. One of the true satisfactions of the endless voyage was liberating Corbin from a tidy sum.
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