Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Good morning,” Joan said, projecting far more confidence than she felt. “I am Miss Joan Sinclair of Fairfax Manor. I wish to speak with the Duke of Ashcroft on a matter of some importance.”
The butler’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Do you have an appointment, Miss?”
“No, but I assure you—”
“Then I’m afraid His Grace cannot see you. He does not receive visitors without prior arrangement.” The butler began to close the door.
Joan stuck her foot in the gap, an undignified gesture, but an effective one. “I beg your pardon, but as a citizen and temporary resident, I have every right to petition the Duke on matters concerning the welfare of his tenants and their children.”
The butler stared at her foot, then at her face, as though he couldn’t quite believe her audacity.
“Miss, I insist—”
“And I must insist that you convey my request to His Grace,” Joan said firmly. “I am not leaving until I have spoken with him. If he chooses to refuse me after hearing my purpose, I will naturally respect his decision. But I will not be turned away without even the courtesy of an audience.”
A long silence stretched between them. Joan kept her foot firmly in place and met the butler’s gaze without flinching.
Finally, with a sigh that suggested he was far too old for this sort of nonsense, the butler stepped back and opened the door wider.
“Very well, Miss Sinclair. Please wait here while I inquire whether His Grace will see you.”
Joan stepped into the entrance hall, trying not to gape at the opulence surrounding her. A grand staircase swept upward to the upper floors, its balustrade carved with intricate detail. Paintings in gilded frames lined the walls family portraits, she assumed, of previous Dukes and their families.
But for all its magnificence, there was coldness about the space. Something lifeless. The rooms felt more like a museum than a home beautiful but untouched, as though no one actually lived here.
The butler returned after what felt like an eternity. His expression was carefully neutral, but Joan detected a glimmer of something in his eyes. Amusement? Curiosity? Perhaps both.
“His Grace will see you,” he said. “If you would follow me.”
Joan released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and followed the butler down a long corridor.
Their footsteps echoed on the polished floors, and Joan became increasingly aware of the oppressive silence of the house.
No sounds of servants bustling about their duties.
No distant voices or laughter. Just silence, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere nearby.
The butler glanced back at her, and his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth whatsoever.
“Are you not concerned about your reputation, Miss?” he asked. “Coming alone to call upon an unmarried gentleman? Without even a maid to accompany you?”
Joan stiffened at the insinuation in his tone. He thinks I’m one of those women, she realized with a flash of anger. One of those desperate creatures who throw themselves at titled men in hopes of securing a proposal.
“I have no reputation left to protect,” Joan said coolly. “Therefore, I have no worries on that score.”
The butler’s chuckle was as cold. “Well then, Miss. I do hope you get what you desire from His Grace.”
The way he said it made Joan’s skin prickle with unease, but she kept her head high and her expression composed as they stopped before a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor.
The butler opened it and gestured for her to enter. “Miss Joan Sinclair, Your Grace.”
Joan stepped into the room and immediately felt her confidence waver.
The chamber was large and luxuriously appointed. Persian rugs covered the floor. Heavy velvet drapes hung at the windows. A massive fireplace dominated one wall, though no fire burned in it despite the morning chill.
But what struck Joan most forcefully was the darkness.
Heavy curtains had been drawn across all but one window, leaving only a narrow shaft of sunlight to illuminate the space. The rest of the room lay in deep shadow, making it nearly impossible to see clearly.
Joan’s heartbeat quickened. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Every instinct screamed at her to turn and flee.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself firmly. You’ve come this far. You will not run away like a frightened child.
The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Your Grace?” Joan called out, peering into the gloom. “I am Joan Sinclair. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
Joan took a hesitant step forward, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness. She could make out the shapes of furniture now—a desk, several chairs, a settee—but no sign of the Duke himself.
A soft sound made her freeze.
Meow.
Joan nearly jumped out of her skin. Her hand flew to her chest as a large orange cat materialized from the shadows, winding itself around her ankles and purring loudly.
A slightly hysterical laugh escaped her. “Oh! Oh my goodness. You frightened me half to death, you silly creature.”
She knelt down, grateful for the distraction from her nervousness, and stroked the cat’s soft fur. It arched into her touch, purring even louder.
“You scared me,” Joan murmured to the cat, scratching behind its ears. “But I forgive you. You’re far too charming to stay angry with.”
“What do you want?”
The voice came from the darkness utterly without warmth.
Joan shot to her feet so quickly she nearly lost her balance. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she squinted into the shadows, trying to locate the speaker.
There in the far corner of the room, barely visible against the dark wood paneling she could just make out the figure of a man. He was sitting in a high-backed chair, perfectly still, watching her.
“Your Grace,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I apologize for disturbing you. I have come with a request that I hope—“
How long has he been there? she thought wildly. How long was he watching me talk to his cat like a fool?
A whistle cut through her words.
The orange cat immediately abandoned Joan and bounded across the room, leaping gracefully onto the Duke’s lap. He stroked it absently, and Joan heard the rumble of its purr even from across the room.
I can do this, Joan told herself.
She lifted her chin and launched into her carefully prepared speech.
“Your Grace, I have come to petition you on behalf of the children of this parish. I wish to establish a school—a place where the sons and daughters of your tenants and the local tradespeople can receive a proper education. I come from a scholarly background myself. I am well-versed in reading, writing, arithmetic, history, and the sciences. I am prepared to teach these subjects at no cost to the families or to you.”
She paused, waiting for some response. The Duke remained silent, continuing to stroke his cat.
Joan pressed on. “I understand you own a hall in the village that is currently unused. I am requesting permission to use that hall for my lessons. The children would be well-supervised at all times. We would establish proper rules and schedules. In addition to academic instruction, I would ensure the children have opportunities for sport and craft activities—exercise for their bodies as well as their minds.”
Still no response.
Joan felt her nervousness transforming into frustration. Was he even listening? Or was he simply sitting there in the darkness, waiting for her to finish so he could dismiss her?
“Your Grace?” she prompted. “I assure you, this would benefit everyone. Educated citizens are more productive, more capable of managing their own affairs—”
“No.”
The single word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.
Joan blinked. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“I said no.” The Duke’s voice was flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “I will not grant you use of the hall.”
Shock rendered Joan momentarily speechless. She had expected questions, perhaps some skepticism about her qualifications or concerns about the practicalities of her plan. But simple, outright rejection without any discussion?
“Your Grace,” she said carefully, “I’m afraid you may not have fully understood my request. I am offering to provide education to the children of your estate. I am not asking you for money or resources beyond the use of an empty building—”
“I understood perfectly,” the Duke interrupted. “And my answer is no.”
“But why?” Joan couldn’t keep the bewilderment from her voice. “This would help so many children. It would cost you nothing. Surely you can see the benefit—”
“I can see the benefit perfectly well.” There was something almost amused in his tone now. “And I still decline to grant your request.”
Joan’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I don’t understand. If you recognize that this would be helpful, why would you refuse?”
“Because I don’t feel like it.”
The casual dismissiveness of those words sent a flash of pure fury through Joan’s chest. Children’s futures hung in the balance, and this man was refusing to help simply because he “didn’t feel like it”?
“Your Grace, I am not asking you for money,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level. “I am simply requesting permission to use a building that is currently sitting empty—”
“I heard you the first time.” The Duke shifted in his chair. “And the second time. My answer remains the same. Jenkins!”
The door opened and the butler appeared, along with two footmen.
“Please escort Miss Sinclair from the premises,” the Duke said.
“No, wait!” Joan protested. “Your Grace, please, if you would just—”
But the Duke was already standing, the cat cradled in one arm. He reached out with his free hand, feeling along the edge of the chair, then took a step toward what Joan assumed was a door on the far side of the room.