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
