Читать книгу The Lady Traveller's Guide To Deception With An Unlikely Earl - Victoria Alexander - Страница 13

CHAPTER THREE

Three weeks later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.