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
