As the would-be flounder rose readily to her feet and shook his hand firmly, Arven was reminded briefly of a plethora of individuals — none of whom were prudent British ladies. He was reminded of a merchant in Persia, a falconer in Mongolia — even a bandit in Anatolia. This woman was very much of the outside.

”Arven Fisk”, he introduced himself in turn, making a conscious effort not to treat her lunging hand like a rose petal.

He smiled at Miss Dempsey’s quip, then looked down at the boat parked tilted in the long reeds. ”I’m not sure your steed feels the same.” He gave it a pat on the bow, now noticing the hole in the flooring. ”Looks like the old girl’s seen better days!”