St James' Palace was always a spectacle at this time of year. Coaches lined up outside as the parade of aristocratic daughters arrived to be presented to the King and Queen. Millicent Darcy, the only daughter of the Duke of Derbyshire, found that she was primped and preened and laced into the tightest corset she had ever worn. She could already feel the welts developing on her hips, and she seriously wondered how she would manage to last for the full programme of events planned for the evening. Firstly there would be general introductions, lots of them, so many faces, so many names that she was required to remember; and then dancing and entertainments, being whirled about the dancefloor by some idiotic earl's son with a large fortune and little intelligence, and then, finally, actually being presented to the Queen, who seemed disinterested by the whole thing, decorated head to foot in diamonds, silver thread and a permanently disappointed expression. Queen Mary was known to be icy-cold, even Millicent's papa had commented on Her Majesty's frosty reception, but she thought that the Royal lady was probably bored having to attend such events when she would rather be at home. She poked a finger into her hair to itch the scratch on her scalp. Teetering on top of the heavily brushed, twisted and curled design was the Lady Anne tiara –a heavy, sparkling mess of sapphires and diamonds - the balance of which was precarious upon her head. It was relatively new – her mother taking inherited heirlooms and making something modern as she often did, much to the chagrin of the older members of the family who viewed it as almost sacrilegious. Millicent could see how her mother wanted the Darcys to move with the times, even if her feet were still firmly planted in the virtues of matrimony and motherhood. Cecily had chosen the dress too, a heavily beaded shift dress in a new design, which required the tiny waist and three weeks of minuscule portions of food. There had been no cake at Pemberley for the last month either, much to Millicent's chagrin.

Across from her in the carriage sat Aunt Agatha, the dowager Countess of Alleyne, whose husband had been thirty years older and died within a year of the wedding, leaving her with only her title and the five hundred pounds a year he had left her. It had resulted in a move back to Darcy estates and Agatha lived in the Dower House in Kympton with her mother, Clementine, something neither woman took delight in. She batted Millicent's hand away with an ivory-handled fan, hitting her firmly on the knuckles.

"Really Aunt, is there a need for that?" It had hurt, even through her silk gloves.

"Yes," she said in a clipped tone. "An obvious need."

"An obvious need?"

"I am referring, of course, to your rebellious antics. You know you are making your mother ill," Agatha's voice took on the haughty quality that it so often did when she was reprimanding one or other of her relations. "It is very unbecoming for a Darcy to be involved in such things, Millicent."

"It is very unbecoming for the women of our society to ignore the fact that the world is changing around us, Aunt. Mama may be displeased right now, but the fight for the female vote is something that, as women, we should all be concerned with."

Agatha folded her arms against the noise, looking with disinterest out of the window, "you should be most concerned about finding yourself a husband. Are you even considering marriage?"

Millicent crossed her arms and looked out of the window, refusing to acknowledge her aunt's question, because the youngest Darcy lady was most definitely not considering marriage at all, and at near twenty-two, she should most definitely have been. It was not the custom for Darcy women to marry so late. When you discounted Georgiana who didn't marry until she was almost twenty-six, nearly every woman in recent history was married well in advance of their twentieth birthday, even Christina – Agatha's acidic younger sister – managed to ensnare Joshua Delancey, the oldest son of the Earl of Balcarres, within a year of her debutante ball at seventeen and now had a veritable cricket team of children running about the family seat, Lancingham Park. But here was Millicent, firmly of the belief that a Darcy woman did not need a husband to maintain her position or fortune – in fact, historically, she knew that women were much more powerful without them.

Agatha pursed her lips, waiting for a response, as the noise outside grew louder and the carriage nearly reached the front of the queue, where liveried footmen in powdered wigs waited to help the ladies alight. She had been the sponsor for a number for young women in previous years, taking them to the palace and presenting them, but it had been the 'coming out' of Millicent that had been the talk of Pemberley for the last few years. Usually there was a whole gaggle of Darcy girls with gowns like meringues and pretty posies in their hair – Agatha remembered very clearly being one herself, all pushing and shoving with her sisters and cousins to be the centre of attention – but this generation was sparse of women, although there was an abundance of Darcy descended men all vying for the attention of delicious debutantes across town. The Dowager Countess observed her niece closely; the willowy, blonde, blue-eyed girl was so unlike any of the Darcys at all that, on her birth, Christina tried to convince them all that the newborn baby was a foundling, so different was her appearance from the usual dark-haired, dark-eyed, sharp-chinned Darcy babies. But it was there if you studied her – the little frown that appeared when she was confused, or angry, or upset, that was all Darcy - and the eyes, despite their colouring, were still very much the same as Agatha's own.

"I admire your spirit," she said, reaching over to straighten the tiara, "Darcy women are always headstrong, young girls – it's in our blood, I think, but please, Millicent, do not overlook some lovely chap who could make you very happy because you are too obstinate to see it. It is a risk that you are taking, and you do not want to end up with dregs of the pot because you were too busy playing croquet."

Millicent glanced over at her Aunt, she was still relatively young – her hair was still luscious and dark, and she was wearing the Alleyne tiara, full of emeralds and diamonds. It would be returned to the family's house in Eton Square the following day, back to Malcolm Hillary, her late husband's eldest son and the current Earl of Alleyne. His oldest son, Philip, had been at the last shooting party at Pemberley - touted as a possible suitor, along with a whole cascade of soft-nosed, Eton educated boys who knew what to say and what to wear to impress the young and alluring Lady Darcy of Pemberley.

"The Fitzwilliam boy will be here tonight."

"Which one, Aunt? There are so many of them… Rupert, David, Henry… I lose track of the Fitzwilliams."

"Rupert. The oldest," Agatha said, "he is a good fit for you – a marriage with Rupert would mean that you would be the Countess of Matlock one day, if you desired it, of course."

"Rupert Fitzwilliam can hardly hold a gun, let alone shoot one. Besides which, it would mean I would match you in rank, how would you possibly stand it."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, "you may irk yourself at the thought of position, Millicent, but you forget the freedoms that your birth allows you. I doubt the magistrate would have been so lenient last year if your father hadn't spoken on your behalf."

"I am aware of it, Aunt. The very reason I protest so much is due to my complete abhorrence of the social inequality of which you speak. Why should normal women…working women… be sent to Holloway, lose their children, their livelihoods… whilst I… I get returned to Pemberley with nothing more than a slap on the wrists for committing the same crime."

"You would do more for those women if you gave them jobs to do and paid them for their work. That is the way it should be. It is perfectly understandable why the Doctor's daughter from Manchester has decided to take up arms in this unconsidered fight, but even she has fled to France due to the threat of imprisonment. But you, Millicent… you are Lady Darcy, the daughter of one of the richest men in the county - "

"- simply by the luck of my birth, Aunt, and the misfortune of your older brother."

"There is no need to speak of Charles."

"I think there is," she continued. "If Charles had not died in the accident, then I would be the daughter of the second son. I wouldn't be Lady Darcy at all. Maybe I would be the daughter of a lawyer or a clergyman. There would certainly not be this pressure to marry someone for their name or their title."

"There also would not be the jewels and dresses and perfumes of which you are so fond, either, and I very much doubt that a lawyer father would be able to continually pay for you to be bailed."

"I wish he wouldn't pay for me to be bailed. I would rather go to Newgate and take the punishment than being packed off to Pemberley like a piece of furniture."

Millicent jutted out her chin in defiance, Agatha recognised it because she did the same thing.

"I understand the fashion for suffrage and enfranchisement, but there is much to be said for peaceful protest, it does not always do us well to scream and shout for what we desire. Men are simple creatures and it is often easier to persuade them with honey rather than vinegar. Sometimes our interests are best served by remaining quiet."

"Remaining quiet, and being a dutiful, loyal wife? The two are not mutually exclusive, Aunt Agatha."

The coach jostled them forward, Agatha leaned forward to look out of the window. She was furious, but she wasn't going to let her niece see it. The girl was fair and tall, looking very much like one of their Wyndham cousins, the difference being that Francesca, Lucinda and Henrietta were all either engaged or married, whilst Millicent – who knew them all from St Margaret's School in Bushey – was neither, and with no serious prospects. All she wanted was for the girl to make an advantageous match – all of the dramatics and politics could follow afterwards – Millicent was already getting quite a reputation as a troublemaker, and Agatha was eager to see her married, or at least engaged, before this knowledge spread, but Millicent's exploits were becoming increasingly more violent, more unable to be hidden. One of the boys fit for her hand had been the eldest son of the MP, Viscount Ribble. Well-educated and decidedly clever, Thomas Dungarry was frightfully handsome, and Agatha had believed that he would have made a wonderful husband to her own brother's well-educated and decidedly clever daughter, but all chance of this had been scuppered the previous summer when there had been a fire at the Dungarry family lodge, destroying the property beyond repair and causing great damage to the estate. Millicent had never been arrested for the crime, but both the Darcys and the Dungarrys knew that she had been responsible for it and the possibility of Thomas Dungarry's hand in marriage was lost forever. So, Agatha had taken it upon herself to have Millicent married before the end of the season if only she could get her to behave.

"Once you find a loyal husband, Millicent, you can entertain yourself however you wish. But one cannot overlook the security that comes from having someone who is happy that you are home. "

The coach pulled up, Millicent fixed her tiara, checking her reflection in the small pocket mirror in her embroidered bag, she stood to alight.

"Aunt, you know I value your opinion," she said stepping out of the carriage, "and I appreciate your guidance, but if I were only looking for the security of having someone happy to see me home then I would simply buy myself a Labrador."