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

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