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

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.”