This was what Uncle Toby had tried to relay in the carriage but had not the spirit to make plain. Or perhaps I simply had not the ears to hear. But the truth was that I was past hope of finding a husband. My place in life had suddenly been reduced to gossiping with the matrons and entertaining this foreign man, a social stray.

In society’s eyes, I was officially on the shelf. The battle was over.

Or was it?

Through the years, I had learned that one of the greatest mistakes in fencing occurs when one does not allow proper distance between himself and an opponent. You simply cannot be hit if you maintain a more than adequate separation. Maestro Antonio had repeatedly emphasized that I should always set the distance between myself and him as one small step beyond where I believed the tip of my weapon could strike him. Time and again, his advice had proved advantageous, and I trained to perfect my lunge across the gap.

Catherine Ransom had failed to leave herself just such adequate space to avoid my riposte to her parry. I would let her think that she had done me a favor by pairing me with Phineas Snowe, though the thought turned my stomach. She and every woman in the room would see that Isabella Goodrich was not done for, that they need not consign me to spinsterhood just yet. Though he had been rude beyond measure, Snowe was only a man, after all. I abhorred flirting, but that did not mean I was ignorant to its methods and results.

I turned my most beguiling smile to my dinner companion, taking care to lower my eyes a trifle and peer through the fringe of my hair. “You have already spoken to Uncle Toby, but I should love to hear about your travels if you do not mind the repetition. I am certain that you can moderate your speech so that even I can understand.”