The Season of Lady Chastity (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 4)

by Christina McKnight

  They had quarreled the entire journey from London; Prudence moving from solemn, quiet disapproval to outright exasperated anger.

  Thankfully, their father hadn’t returned to escort them to the country and so, with only their maid in the carriage with them, Prudence had allowed her fury to fester and boil over.

  Yes, Chastity understood that the prudent thing to do would be to do away with the letter and forget they’d ever read its damning contents. Common sense, as her sister described it, had eluded Chastity since finding the note. She longed to know more about her mother’s secrets, if only to gain familiarity with the woman she’d never known. Something most refused to share with her.

  Only a few short months before, Chastity had been secure in her place as the daughter of a marquis and everything that came with it. She was Lady Chastity Neville, youngest daughter of Lord Downshire. But now, she hadn’t any notion of who she would be if she was the product of an unchaste noblewoman and her lover. She would be simply Miss Chastity—without even the benefit of the Neville name. Everything she’d believed about her position in life could be stripped from her. She was damaged due to something utterly beyond her control—a love affair that had happened before her existence was even conjured.

  It was now Chastity’s secret, as well.

  A riddle she needed to discover more about.

  It could bring shame to her family—to her sister, to Triston, to his wife and their children who were yet to be conceived.

  It would be best to burn the letter, forget everything, and pray things would return to rights with time.

  However, Chastity knew in her heart of hearts that nothing could ever be right again…until she discovered the depths of her mother’s sordid past.

  She slowed her pace as the trail emptied into the expansive lawns behind Oxburgh Hall, in no hurry to return to Edith and Prudence.

  Laughter sounded behind her, and Chastity glanced over her shoulder.

  Lord Mansfield remained close to the moat, staring after her, partially obscured by foliage that’d grown over the path. She quickly turned back around, begging her cheeks and neck to cool.

  Bastian.

  A strong name.

  A peculiar man.

  Not something she’d thought to find amongst Luci and Montrose’s country party guests.

  Handsome, seemingly without knowledge of it. Intelligent, yet not boastful. Reserved, with a healthy dose of mystery.

  While Chastity’s hair was of the lightest shade of brown, Bastian’s was the darkest, with hints of ebony.

  Though he was not the type of lord she’d hoped to meet, perhaps he was exactly what she needed. She could shed her wallflower ways with a gentleman certain to never overstep his bounds. Dashing and handsome, with the sense Prudence said Chastity lacked.

  Safe.

  Non-threatening.

  She clenched her hands inside her muff, crumpling the letter addressed to her mother’s lover.

  Chastity had sought out the moat with the express purpose of doing away with the damning evidence of her mother’s true heart. She’d been prepared to throw the missive into the murky water and watch the ink bleed, the paper dissolving and disappearing forever. When she returned to the manor, Chastity planned to tell Prudence of her actions and assumed it would all be behind them, never to be spoken of again.

  But Chastity had been unable—or unwilling—to follow through with her plan and be rid of the new, and startling, connection to her mother.

  Finding the letter had not only brought up questions about her mother but also who Chastity truly was. She’d idolized her mother—or at least what she’d been told about her—for all these years. To discover that she, and many close to Clara, had never truly known the woman was disheartening—and terrifying.

  Not only had she come face-to-face with the fact of not knowing her mother, but the distance her father had put between himself and his children meant both her parents were little more than strangers to her.

  Was she anything like her mother?

  Did they both seek a future denied to them? Did they both long to be someone different…something different? It had been with startling clarity that Chastity realized that she and her mother had more in common than Chastity shared with anyone else in her family.

  Even now it was clear Chastity might not know her real family.

  Due to that fact, and because she’d quickly discovered that the moat was more of a stagnant mudhole than a body of water she could trust to do away with the letter, Chastity had held tight to the missive. Worse than holding onto it was for another to find the note floating on the surface of the moat then retrieve it and discern who’d written it.

  Or, worse yet, know who the object of her mother’s affection was.

  Cam. Was he a noble lord? A man of the lower class? Perhaps a family friend?

  Images of the dearest Cam who’d captured Lady Clara Downshire’s affection sprang to mind, but it wasn’t an unfamiliar face. No, it was Lord Mansfield who popped into Chastity’s mind’s eye.

  Why had she been so honest with Bastian about the letter?

  He’d jokingly asked if it was a love note, and she’d responded honestly.

  In her own coy, innocent way, Chastity had been flirtatious with the earl. Had she wanted him to think the letter had been written to her? For all Chastity knew, he thought she’d been waiting to meet a lover for an evening tryst by the water. She’d witnessed many coquettish debutantes during her Season, each mastering the reserved upturn of the lips, the lowered eyelids masking their stare, and the way they held their fans high to hide both—unsuccessfully, as was likely their intention.

  Chastity had limited knowledge of such coquettish behavior.

  Yet…

  “Where have you been?” Prudence’s critical tone halted Chastity at the bottom of the terrace steps. “You missed our meal, and now you appear peckish.”

  Chastity hadn’t realized that she’d already progressed all the way to the steps below where her sister and Edith stood. “I was enjoying a spot of quiet near the moat”—she lifted the blanket for the women to see, making certain to keep her mother’s note hidden in her muff—“and I lost track of time. Oxburgh is very serene.”

  Edith gave Prudence a knowing look. It was the same one her brother’s wife shared with her friends, Luci and Ophelia, when they all knew something but refused to speak of it. Chastity had never shared a conspiratorial glance with anyone.

  Not her sister or a friend.

  Prudence shifted from foot to foot, and her hands landed on her hips. “It is highly discourteous to our hostess.”

  Chastity bit her lip, refusing to rise to Pru’s bait and issue the sharp-tongued retort she wanted to reply with. It would only set her sister’s temper blazing.

  Edith’s eyes widened with concern at the obvious tension in the air. “I do hope the pair of you are getting along.”

  Before they’d found the letter in the Downshire attic, they’d never so much as argued. Now, however, the tension had risen between them, and Edith had clearly noticed. It would only be a matter of time before she told Triston of Chastity’s and Prudence’s contrary demeanors and they would have their brother’s questions to contend with.

  Thankfully, Prudence realized the same thing. “I am out of sorts and weary from our travels, that is all. Neither of us is used to such draining coach rides.”

  Chastity wasn’t the least bit tired, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say just that and admonish Pru for always speaking for her. It was a bothersome trait, but Chastity had never dissuaded Prudence from doing it before. Allowing her older sister to dictate their activities, feelings, and demeanor hadn’t always been the issue it now was. The pair had, on most occasions, been of a similar mindset with shared sentiments.

  “Mayhap we should retire to our room. Some rest will help with our fatigue,” Prudence prodded.

  The only thing Chastity was tired of was Prudence ordering her about.

&n
bsp; “Do not rest overlong.” Edith smiled. “Luci, Ophelia, and I are gathering in the parlor later for games. I shan’t wish for either of you to miss the fun.”

  “We shall not be joining—”

  “I would love an evening of parlor games,” Chastity cut in. If there were anything Pru detested more than being stuck in a crowded ballroom, it was parlor games. There were few places to hide in a salon, and always someone seeking conversation.

  “It will be a small gathering.” Edith attempted to draw Prudence in. “It will be great fun.”

  Her sister took in Chastity’s cheerful demeanor, her own visibly souring as she frowned. “No, I think I will retire early and gain a good night’s rest before tomorrow.”

  “Very well.” The disappointment in Edith’s tone was evident. “I will see you in a few hours, Chastity.”

  With a small wave, Edith hurried across the lawn to join the other women—and a few men—who were playing shuttlecock.

  “You needn’t be so stern,” Chastity said with a hiss as she climbed the terrace stairs and walked past Prudence. “A spot of fun and games will not gravely injure you.”

  “Neither will it please me, or make the unbearable time in the country pass with an increased swiftness.” Prudence fell into step beside Chastity, and the pair nodded in unison at a matron as they entered through the terrace doors and continued through the luncheon room that was being cleared by Montrose’s servants.

  The butler gave them a warm smile as they exited the room and made their way to the stairs.

  Prudence slipped her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the servant.

  The man waited for Chastity to do the same, his smile faltering when she did not.

  “I find I am chilled. I think I will keep my cloak on for now.”

  “Very well, my lady,” he said, inclining his head. “I will send a maid up to stoke the hearth.”

  She and Pru started up the stairs with Chastity falling in behind her sister, refusing to acknowledge the frown Prudence cast in her direction.

  “I know what you have in your muff, Chastity.” Pru scoffed. “You need not tote it about the duke’s house.”

  “Tote it about?” Chastity asked. Prudence’s back stiffened. “The letter, or mother’s secret?”

  “Both. It is of no consequence. Perhaps, years ago, but not now. She is gone, we are grown, and dredging up a past that might not benefit you is in no way advantageous.”

  And there it was, exactly as Chastity had assumed.

  Her sister believed the tryst…the love affair…had come after her birth, and only affected Chastity’s parentage. It was Chastity who should not seek out the truth of her illegitimate lineage. This detail had remained unspoken until now. They’d both surmised the letter only affected Chastity but neither had admitted it to the other.

  Yet, it was undeniable that the Neville children—Triston, Prudence, and Chastity—all held an uncanny resemblance to one another. Pru and Chastity, with their light brown hair and unremarkable eyes and pale skin—prime examples of plainness. Whereas the same features and coloring had Triston being compared to Adonis, or so Edith was fond of saying.

  How could Prudence be so obtuse as to think that the past would never affect their future?

  Their fate had everything to do with the past—or at least it did for Chastity.

  They’d lost something integral to their development as women before either of them had a chance to know their mother. They hadn’t been instructed in the ways of womanhood by the one female that mattered most to young girls. They’d learned of important matters from their governess and other caring Downshire servants.

  Chastity feared she’d never discover who she truly longed to be because she hadn’t had anyone to model herself after. Except for Prudence—until Edith, Luci, and Ophelia had come into their lives.

  Strangely, from what Chastity had learned of their mother, Clara had been much more like those three women than her daughters. Perhaps it was the reason Chastity had gravitated to the trio—because if her mother had lived, Chastity was certain she’d be similar to Edith and her friends. She thought highly of them for the simple fact that she had no other woman to hold in such regard.

  What would her friends think of her if she was proven to be a bastard?

  “You are wrong, Prudence.” They reached the upper landing and began moving down the corridor that led to their assigned room on the family’s floor. “I agreed to an evening of games because I seek something to distract me. I do not plan to spend our entire holiday thinking only of my past and the note.”

  “Our past.” Prudence’s shoulders stiffened.

  Chastity pushed past her sister and entered their room.

  If they’d been at home, she might have been tempted to slam the door in Prudence’s dour face. But, instead, she stomped into the dressing closet to select a clean, pressed gown for her evening.

  When next she met Lord Mansfield, Chastity was determined she not be distracted by thoughts of her mother and her mom’s long-ago tryst with the mysterious Cam. Or Chastity’s fear that proof of her bastard birth would soon be found.

  Chapter 3

  Bastian set his napkin on his empty plate and nodded for the servant to clear the table. His mother had finished some time before him and then folded her hands in her lap, her stare raising the hairs on the back of his neck. She’d requested that they take a small meal in her suite, just the two of them before she retired for the night. The room she’d been assigned at Oxburgh Hall had been strung with garland and large red-ribboned bows tied securely to the back of each of their chairs.

  There was no other evidence needed to prove to Bastian that his life was not what he’d planned but, perhaps, what he deserved. Here they were, his mother and himself, at a country holiday party secluded in his mother’s room—strangers to most in attendance and startlingly alone.

  Bastian picked at the holly branch that decorated their table, pulling free one bright red berry and rolling it between his fingers as he pondered their time thus far at Oxburgh Hall.

  The coach ride had been jarring for his mother, and he’d noted her slight limp as he escorted her to her room after he’d returned from the moat. He hadn’t thrown himself into the placid water, and he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would have missed his absence had he done so.

  Certainly, his mother would have grown concerned if he hadn’t returned.

  But, try as he might, he could not think of another person who would notice—or care about—his absence. No one would mourn his disappearance. His name would not live on in anyone’s memories.

  He would be remembered for nothing.

  Bastian forced a pleasant smile for his mother’s sake. However, when he met her empty stare, he knew she felt the same as he did.

  Neither of them was living, at least not in the truest sense of the word.

  His mother had aged several decades beyond her forty years when his father passed away. And Bastian, in his need to care for her, had shut himself away in their London home, not that he’d ever journeyed out much once his father had taken ill. He’d never even returned to Eton to finish his proper education.

  The clock on the hearth mantel chimed, and Bastian couldn’t help but watch the hands slowly tick onward as the minutes passed. The quiet of the chamber was deafening and disheartening, only reminding him of how alone he was—how alone he was likely destined to stay.

  He and his mother only had each other, yet they could remain silent for an entire meal, their conversations having dried up long ago after so many years. When his father was alive, his mother had rarely been quiet. The two had met at a very young age, and their love had blossomed quickly. They’d wed before his mother’s sixteenth summer, surrounded by their close family.

  Over the last year, their home had been shrouded in painful silence.

  It was the reason Bastian had insisted that his mother journey to Oxburgh for Montrose’s wedding. Not only would she be present to h
onor her late friend’s son’s marriage, but she would be out of their abandoned home and around others. She would be forced to leave her chambers and, with any luck, gain back some confidence and a semblance of the cheerful, boisterous woman she’d once been.

  “Is there somewhere you need to be, Bastian?” she asked.

  He hadn’t noticed that he was tapping the toe of his boot under the table. An annoying habit he employed when he was anxious. “Montrose is hosting cards downstairs. I thought I might join them. If you are feeling well enough for me to leave, of course,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

  “Nonsense.” She waved off his concern and nodded to the footman, who stepped forward and pulled out her chair. “I will be going to bed soon, and I will not have you sitting in the shadows of my room watching me sleep. It is unnerving when you insist on such things.”

  “That was months ago, Mama.” Bastian cleared his throat. “And it was only because I feared for your health.”

  She only gave him a pointed, knowing look.

  He’d taken to being at his mother’s bedside when she had trouble sleeping and had found himself slipping into her chambers in the dead of night to make certain her rest was peaceful. Bastian hadn’t thought she knew of his midnight comings and goings, though her mindfulness shouldn’t surprise him.

  “Do hurry on, Bas.” She walked across the room, her earlier limp almost undetectable after her hour of rest. “I am going to change into my nightshift and read a book Lady Ophelia—such a dear girl—sent up from the duke’s library for me.”

  “Are you certain?” They were in an unfamiliar house after a long day of travel. “I think it best I remain close in case you need me.”

  “Do not be silly. Go on. Have a spot of merriment.”

  Bastian stood from his chair. “I will check on you on my way to my chambers later.”

  “If you insist.” She turned away from him and stepped from the sitting room into her private bedchamber beyond.