Darcy. A strange name for a woman, but it suited her. And she was a woman wrapped in mystery. She wasn't like the other women of her day-she wasn't a lady of high society or a woman in service to the higher class-she wasn't a beggar and she wasn't in trade. And yet, for all her not fitting in, she could blend wonderfully into any crowd. No one knew her and yet all had seen her. She was just another face, and yet her face could be so remarkably strange you wondered how she could ever be taken as a commoner. She was secretive and dark, and could be just as impressive as she could be revolting. Darcy was the child of a strange fate and heir to a curious destiny. This could be no better displayed than by the fact that she was greeted by two shrill screams as she was carried unconscious across a bright and crowded ballroom in the arms of the most eligible bachelor in the city.