Catherine Ennington had money, looks, family name, and the smallest waist among her sisters and friends (the latter were handpicked for the purpose). Many girls would envy her and think she had everything her heart desired, but Catherine's heart desired a husband with a title and she did not have it. She knew that she would have to be shrewd and quick about finding one, for not many bachelors with titles passed through this small town and a young girl would soon be past her first bloom and no longer desirable to a man important enough to choose a flower from any garden he liked. The pressure was high.

And so she spent the long lonely hours when she was too sick to leave her chamber pouring over and updating her little notebook, in which she kept lists of 'eligible bachelors' in the neighbourhood, the latest gossip about them, and any piece of information she could gather about their usual movements. 

One fine spring day, when she felt well enough to go out, she asked Sarah to lace her corset even tighter than usual (which her lady's maid did reluctantly, begging her mistress to consider the doctor's warnings) and help her into her best sky blue dress. The poor maid spent an hour on Cathy's hair, having to redo it three times, until it was wrapped in a perfect half bun on the back of her head, from which flowed a elegant golden ringlets. Cathy chose her favourite pearl ear studs and necklace, and then spent another half hour applying creams and powders to hide the unhealthy pale glow of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes. White kid gloves, a fashionable hat with flowers and ribbons, and a fine little blue and white parasol finished the look. The handbag wasn't part of the war dress, but rather the weapon, part of a carefully drawn up strategy.

She and Sarah lay in wait outside of a restaurant where Cathy knew Marquess North frequently dined. Of course, they pretended to watch the goods in the windows of a next door shop, though why they should do so for a full twenty minutes without ever entering, an observant flower-seller or newsboy would probably find hard to fathom.

"I'm sure he's not there today, Miss Cathy," Sarah said at last in a begging voice. "We've been here forever. Please let's go home and let me help you into something more comfortable, before you become unwell again. Your parents could probably find a reason to invite the Marquess North at home."

"And introduce him to all my sisters..." her young mistress commented. "There will be blood." She turned her head to glance wistfully at the door of the restaurant once again, willing the Marquess to step out.

The Marquess did step out a few moments later. Quentin, as he ever was when not on expedition, was dressed impeccably. A bespoke suit from a tailored on Saville Row it was a fine three-piece affair in light grey with white pinstripes, complimented by a pair of oxford cut shoes, and today he'd chosen to eschew an ascot or tie in favour of an open collar. Combine that with a smooth clean-shaven jaw and well-kempt hair the big man was looking quite spiffing.

Whitby had become a surprisingly regular port of call for him since he'd become betrothed to Claire. The young American Heiress had rather set up shop in the quiet little country town and he couldn't blame her for it. He actually preferred Whitby to the hustle and bustle of London. To the extent that he was thinking of buying property in the town and having it be his primary residence when they weren't out exploring the world. Finding a young woman who actually wanted to travel had been unexpected but a delight for Quentin.

Turning he starts down the street checking his watch as he does so. He had a meeting coming up in about an hour or so and then dinner with Claire later that evening. Tucking it away he debates between returning to his hotel to freshen up or to take an amble about town.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was so strong-willed that the universe bent to her wishes (she sure liked to believe it did), or perhaps it was mere chance after all, but the Marquess stepped out that very moment. She had seen him before from a distance when she was out riding with her brother and he had pointed him out. But up close the lord looked even more dashing and handsome. Cathy was relieved. It was a terrible pity when a bachelor with a rank was ugly. She'd still marry him, given the chance, rather than marry a handsome man with no money or title to his name. She was no fool. But it did seem like a terrible waste of a rank.

"Sarah," Catherine hissed. The maid turned and could not hide her dismay when she spotted the target, but luckily her mistress had her eyes fixed on him and didn't notice.

Cathy crossed the street hurriedly, made sure to pass in front of the lord, and let her purse slip from her hand just as she was in his path. Because she had 'forgotten' to seal it properly, its carefully selected contents spilt out on the ground: a smaller purse heavy with coin (for he should know her papa was rich), a pocket of rose-patterned calling cards which scattered around (for he should know she was an Ennington), a leaflet for some charity for orphans she was involved in (for charitable work was so very feminine), and a bottle of smelling salts (for a delicate health and tendency to faint was the pinnacle of femininity!).

"Oh!" she cried helplessly, as if a dropped purse was a most dreadful challenge which a delicate young lady could not overcome on her own.

Sarah stayed where her mistress had ordered her to stay and cringed.

Catherine's attempt at subterfuge was impressive in that it failed utterly while still succeeding.

When the young woman dropped her purse in front of him Quentin blinked in surprise. Of course, being a generally amiable and polite fellow he stops and turns to look at the mess and the young woman. The cry had struck him as a bit dramatic and it reminded him of more than a few young women who'd attempted to attract him over with feigned need. Still, he wasn't one to deny a person help when he could give it.

"Oh dear, here let me help you get that gathered up."

The big man says getting down without waiting for permission to gather up her things. None of which registered with him in the slightest. All of her carefully planned items and the meaning behind each flying right over his head. More due to him not giving any of it a second thought than a lack of knowledge on his part. Once he has all it gathered up he offers it to the young woman with a smile.

"You should be more careful, looks like your clasp might be damaged or wasn't sealed properly."

There was a slight curve of Catherine's lips when the lord stooped down to pick up her things. Yet she sounded surprised when she gasped: "Oh dear, how foolish! I'm so embarrassed!"

Well, she should be, thought Sarah, who was embarrassed merely to have an involuntary part in this. Yet she responded to her cue and came flying over after the Marquess started picking up her mistress things. "Oh, Miss Catherine. What happened? Who is this gentleman?" she asked with such devotion that one could hardly suspect how she was internally questioning whether she was paid enough to put up with this nonsense.

"Just a dropped purse, Sarah," said Catherine and she took the bag from the lord, giving him her sweetest smile with a lightly tilted head from what she knew was her best angle. "I believe this is the Marquess North. And he is as gentlemanly as they say. Thank you so much, my lord. I'll make sure to have that clasp checked." She made a most elegant curtsy. "Catherine Ennington is your damsel in distress."

Sarah made a less elegant curtsy, though she bent her head down the same way as her mistress, to hide a look of mortification.

Quentin was not particularly surprised when the young woman introduced him before he had a chance. He was a bit taken aback, but considering that his latest adventure had been featured prominently in the local papers he wasn't surprised. After all, it wasn't every day that a sizable treasure was recovered from a sleepy little coastal town and, while Quentin had given credit to Clair and Gareth for their help, well he'd still been feature most prominently. After all, he was a youngish, rich, handsome nobleman with a long history of such escapades. Much like his contemporaries, such as Sir Richard Francis Burton, the paper loved to talk about him.

"I would indeed be the Marquis North, though I prefer either Sir North or Quentin."

Sir North was for those who insisted on being formal. He'd been granted a knighthood by her majesty for his service to The Royal Anthropological Society and he preferred the title he earned to the one he'd inherited. But honestly, he just preferred Quentin since it was his actual name and he had little care if people used it.

"A pleasure to meet you Miss Ennington and I believe that she said your name was Sarah?"

Giving a pleasant smile to both ladies he was unaware that by treating them both roughly the same he might be causing some trouble for the servant. The curtsies were rather normal if unneeded, since he was of higher station he doesn't return them but he does incline his head to both young woman.

"Anyway, as it seems our damsel in distress has been successfully been saved I will let you get back to your business."

Giving them one last pleasant smile the big man moves to continue past them.

Trouble indeed. Sarah blushed and held her head down - mostly to hide a satisfied smirk. A slight move of the jaw suggested that her mistress was indeed irritated over not being the sole target of Sir North's attention, but luckily Sarah did not see it, and more luckily, her mistress did not see Sarah's smirk.

"Tis sir," the maid whispered.

"And a pleasure to meet you, Sir North," Cathy replied, but the Marquess was already on his way.

Cathy stared after him and sighed. "He's more handsome up close. Well, I'd say the first step was successful. I think I should get papa to invite him at home for a party."

"Didn't you say there'd be blood, Miss?"

"Oh Sarah, I needn't worry about my sisters now. After all, I know the Marquess now, and they don't."

Sarah opened her mouth, closed it, held her breath for a bit, and concluded: "Let's get you home, Miss."