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.