The Lady Traveller's Guide To Deception With An Unlikely Earl

Jeffries had been his father’s butler for as long as Harry could remember and he was as much his father’s best friend and a second father to Harry as he was servant. Theirs had always been a bachelor household. Harry had installed him, as well as the rest of their modest staff, in the new residence. The Mayfair house itself was apparently little used as the previous earl was somewhat reclusive and had preferred to reside at the country estate. It had then sat vacant for over a year due to the complexities of inheritance as well as identification and location of the new earl and the previous staff had moved on to other positions. Jeffries had been hard-pressed to hide his glee in overseeing setting the grand house to rights as well as hiring the additional staff the new abode required.

The frantic pace of the first few months did not prepare Harry for the tedium that followed. He had always been a man of action. His predecessor had retained competent employees—solicitors, estate managers and various other agents—who had been in their respective positions for years and from Harry’s assessment no changes were necessary. His new secretary managed his correspondence, business and social obligations—invitations had virtually flooded the house since his arrival—and he had no particular interest in politics. All of which led him to wonder if perhaps he and Ben had made a mistake in deciding to return home permanently. Life now was rather dull and he feared he’d become somewhat dull as well. But upon further reflection—and God knew he had plenty of time for reflection—he realized his heart was simply no longer in the life of adventure he’d once savored. The past was the past and it was time to forge ahead.

Still, why waste a lifetime of experience? He was intelligent and capable. Why not take his almost twenty years of exploits and share them with the world? Why not write of his adventures? And not his alone but his and Ben’s and Walter’s. If H. Rider Haggard—who hadn’t nearly the background Harry and his friends had—could become successful at it, so could Harry. He no longer needed the money but the fame—or rather—the acknowledgment of their deeds, validation of their life’s work and recognition of their efforts in furthering the field of Egyptology as well as a modicum of respect would be rather nice. And didn’t Walter deserve at least that?

“I think Mrs. Gordon’s stories are remarkably well done,” Ben said, bringing the topic back to the object of Harry’s ire. “I find the Tales of a Lady Adventurer in Egypt most entertaining.”

“You have no taste.”

“And you have no tolerance.” Ben picked up the latest copy of the Daily Messenger with Mrs. Gordon’s newest offering from the table between the chairs. “The lady’s stories are great fun, Harry. They have adventure, a touch of romance, even a bit of mystery. I quite enjoy them.”

“They’re inaccurate.”

“Certainly she has left off some of the more unpleasant aspects of life in Egypt—”

“Some?” Harry scoffed. “You won’t find so much as a mention of sand fleas or vermin in any of her stories.”

“Perhaps because people don’t really want to read about sand fleas and vermin. I know I don’t.”

“Details,” Harry said firmly, “are important. You cannot go about leaving out particulars simply because they’re disagreeable.”

Still, upon the kind of deliberation one can only have in hindsight, too much accuracy might well have been Harry’s problem. He had written several stories, and indeed had nearly an entire book completed, before submitting anything for publication. Each and every submission was met with polite but firm rejection and nicely phrased, yet still unflattering, comments about his ability to relate a story in an interesting manner. It made no sense to him whatsoever. Even worse, he was tactfully told that as long as Mrs. Gordon was writing stories about Egypt that were adored by the public, there was no place for his less-than-entertaining work. But he wasn’t merely writing stories—his were true. Harry could only surmise that those who never stepped foot outside of London could not possibly be expected to appreciate the gritty realism of his work, ignoring the fact that his readership was likely to be made up of those very same people. He then asked his father—a man as well-read as ever there was—and Ben—who had lived Harry’s adventures by his side—to read his work.

Their reactions were less enthusiastic than Harry had hoped. Father was evasive over the quality of Harry’s writing while swearing he wouldn’t have had a peaceful night’s rest if he had known all that Harry was engaged in during his years in Egypt, while Ben had simply muttered how it was all rather duller than he remembered.

Apparently, Harry Armstrong, who had never lacked in confidence about anything and had mastered very nearly everything he had ever attempted could write a grammatically accurate sentence that was of no interest whatsoever. He intended to work on that.

“Regardless of what people want, or think they want, if one purports to be detailing factual experiences one cannot leave off the less than pleasant aspects. Details are what brings a story to life and facts are indisputable,” Harry said in a lofty manner.

Ben laughed.

“This isn’t funny.” Harry scowled. “This is how I intend to spend the rest of my days. I am of an age where squandering my time and money in a futile pursuit of pleasure seems absurd and, oddly enough, has no particular appeal—”

“Who would have thought?” Ben shook his head in a mournful manner.

“And I’m far too young to do nothing at all. But no one is interested in my writing, which is based on unvarnished truth and unsentimental reality, because this woman—” he grabbed the paper from Ben’s hand and shook it at him “—has fed them frothy tales of gallant desert chieftains, bandits more dashing than deadly, virtuous treasure hunters interested only in uncovering the grandeur of the ancients—”

“I’d say that’s a fairly accurate description of us.” Ben grinned. “Although I would add handsome and daring as well.”

“The stories she spins are of a land of illusion and fantasy with no more substance to them than fairy tales. They’re full of feelings rather than facts.”

“There’s nothing wrong with feelings and she does say she has taken occasional liberty with facts in pursuit of a good story,” Ben noted mildly.

“Occasional? Ha!” Harry glared. “Camels, as you well know, are not noble beasts gliding over the sands like ships at full sail but unpleasant, rude, disgusting creatures whose only redeeming quality is their suitability for the desert climate. It’s utter rubbish for God’s sake. And people have accepted it all as fact.”

“People, all in all, aren’t very bright.”

“Did you know they call her the Queen of the Desert?”

“Yes, I believe you have mentioned that.” Ben pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “More than once.”

“More like the queen of deception, ill-conceived fables and outright fraud.” Harry dropped the paper on to the table and then tossed back his brandy. It did not help.

“And you did not hesitate to say exactly that in your letters to The Times.”

“Of course I did. I could do nothing less. People deserve to know when they’re being hoodwinked,” Harry said staunchly, ignoring what might have been the tiniest stab of regret.

He 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 The Times. Not that he was wrong in calling attention to Mrs. Gordon’s misrepresentations of fact in her Tales. Nor was he wrong in threatening her membership in the Antiquities Society, but he had opened the proverbial Pandora’s box.

“And Egypt deserves better. She is grand and glorious, timeless and dangerous. And worthy of respect. The place is already overrun with tourists. Stories like Mrs. Gordon’s, that depict the country as little more than a fanciful winter resort in the shadow of the pyramids, only encourage more visitors who refuse to relish in the very land they’ve come to experience but rather insist on bringing their own ways with them. This woman, with her inaccuracies and rose-colored portrayal, is assisting in the ruination of an ancient land.”

“I can’t say I entirely disagree with you there.”

“Even worse, those who believe her nonsense, who think seeking the treasure of the ancients can be accomplished as easily as writing a few paragraphs, and with as little risk, flock to Egypt only to be rudely awakened.”

“Isn’t that what we did?”

“We were young and stupid and it was a different time. And, ultimately, we paid a price for being seduced by Egypt.”

Ben was silent for a long moment. “Regardless, you could have been a bit more diplomatic in your censure.”

“Yes, I suppose I could have.” Harry blew a frustrated breath. “And I probably should have. I realize now that it might have been wiser, and certainly more courteous, to have been less strident in my condemnation.”

“You did stir up something of a hornet’s nest.”

“I am well aware of that.”

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

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

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

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

“Close enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I noticed that.”

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

“I noticed that too.”

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

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

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

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

Harry frowned. “No, but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know that.”

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

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

Ben’s brow rose. “Unfortunately?”

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

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

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

“Can you get out of it?”

“Not without looking like an even greater idiot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nephew?” Ben snorted back a laugh.

“It has to be someone the earl trusts.”

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

“You rarely used your title in Egypt.”

“Mine is honorary.”

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

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

“It doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel, well, right. It feels as if I’m wearing a suit of clothes that 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

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?”