Page 1 of The Season of Lady Chastity

Prologue

Downshire Place

London, England

October 1815

Lady Chastity Neville climbed the seemingly endless flight of stairs, set on her course: Downshire Place’s attic. Her legs burned at the exertion needed to ascend to the top of her family’s London townhouse. It had been many years since she’d last visited the attic. Though the musty, stale air had always driven them back to the more frequently used floors of the house, she and her older sister Prudence had still loved to hide among the aged, dusty trunks and cloth-covered antique furniture. When they made the journey before, they had sought comfort in things of the past: memories of their life before their elder brother had moved away and their father had taken yet another wife…a woman not far removed from Chastity’s own age.

Nothing about this voyage to the long-forgotten, cavernous room above the servants’ quarters was about hiding—or escaping life.

As soon as the decrepit door swung open on rusty hinges, Chastity observed that the attic hadn’t changed, and it appeared—at least from the thick layer of dust coating every surface, including the floors—no one had entered the room since their last visit.

It was comforting, yet at the same time, it irked her.

The overlooked room was much like her and Prudence’s mother.

Forgotten.

Something from a bygone era to be locked away and put out of one’s thoughts.

Normally, she’d stay out of her memories; however, Chastity had no recollection of her mother, Lady Downshire, Clara Neville, the second wife of the Marquis of Downshire.

“Do hurry up,” Prudence scoffed on the landing behind her. “We haven’t all day.”

Oddly enough, they did have all day. Without altering their schedule, they could remain in the attic for a fortnight before anyone would likely notice their absence. Their father was away from London visiting his third wife, Esmee, at her new home, and Triston, their brother, resided with his wife at a townhouse they’d procured in Berkeley Square.

Chastity knew better than to mention the abundance of free time they had to her sister and, instead, stepped into the musty room to survey the collection of wooden trunks gathered in the center of the space, the walls lined with various items from their childhood nursery.

Their crib, twin rocking chairs, and a tall, lavender wardrobe.

The only remnants of their infancy. Chastity longed to gaze upon the tiny chairs or push the crib until it rocked gently to and fro.

Triston had told them stories of when they were young, about how their father had doted on his two baby girls. How he held them, sang to them, rocked them to sleep—one in each arm. Despite the ten months that separated Prudence and Chastity, they’d always been nearly identical in height and looks.

Neither Chastity nor Pru remembered those tender moments with their father; they were just as elusive as recollections of their mother.

The softness of Chastity’s mother’s skin, the melody of her voice, the scent of her hair…they were all things Chastity would never know.

Holding a candelabra high, Prudence pushed past Chastity and stomped across the room, her shadow stalking the far wall, ominous and looming. “I do not see why we need to come up here.”

Chastity slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and felt the invitation that’d arrived with the morning post.

“Lady Luci is wedding Montrose, and we must find gowns to wear,” Chastity replied.

“We have two closets brimming with dresses of every color and style to choose from in our own chamber.”

“Suitable gowns.” Chastity sighed, not wishing to start another row with her sister. “It will be a Christmastide wedding, with four days of activities. We need something special to wear.”

“It is not as if anyone will pay us any mind with Edith, Luci, and Ophelia in attendance.” Prudence placed the candelabra on a low, dusty table. “And that is exactly as we want it.”

We…them…they.

Common phrases used by everyone in their acquaintance when they spoke of the Neville sisters.

A pair.

A matched set.