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

“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, The Times 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

“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.