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

“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 The Times 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 The Times?” The dragon gasped. “She would never call anyone an ass—”

“Effie!” Lady Blodgett snapped.

“—in The Times. Unlike the Daily Messenger, The Times 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 The Times 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

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?”