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

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