Mr. Dodd Needs Help
“That’s outstanding news!” Mr. Carter Dobbs, third son of a marquess, but more significantly, Drury Lane Theater’s executive director, slapped his palm on the desk, causing the glass in the windows behind him to shudder. Two stories below, pedestrians and conveyances shuffled along Drury Lane as if it was any other normal day.
But it wasn’t, by God.
“Well done, Mrs. Grey.”
He’d made the right decision to ask the serious-minded young woman before him to approach the Duke of Ducat regarding a large donation. The duke, of course, had capitulated almost immediately to the request.
“Thank you, Mr. Dodd,” Mrs. Grey replied distractedly, fussing with the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk and tsking in disapproval. She examined one of the official-looking envelopes. “This was due last month,” she pointed out.
Carter dismissed her admonishment with a wave of one hand.
He had ignored the paperwork piling up—an unpleasant reminder that a full week had passed since his latest assistant walked out—as trivial.
With Ducat’s infusion, plus the money Carter would soon be allowed to draw from his personal trust, he could finally implement the new budget. A glance at his calendar had him counting down the days—ten days until he turned thirty—until his trust belonged fully to him.
That is, so long as he could keep his father happy until then. That particular conversation was one he was not looking forward to, but if it could guarantee Drury Lane’s continued prosperity, then it would certainly be worth it.
He could pay their vendors, finalize renovations, and most importantly, finally direct a play that hadn’t been produced a hundred times.
Not that Shakespeare didn’t deserve to dominate London’s stages, but as a director who’d put on one too many versions of Hamlet—make that a dozen too many—Carter would rather stab himself in the eyeballs with sharp knives than endure another run of Macbeth, or Romeo and Juliet, or King Lear… night after night.
Carter had had enough, and by God, he believed London’s theater-goers had as well. It was time to push the boundaries, and with this recent donation, he could take a few risks and produce something new.
Most serendipitously, just last month, he’d discovered a brilliant new playwright: a Mr. G.E. Oldham. Once he finalized terms with Oldham, Carter would hire the best talent for a cast, order spectacular sets, and begin rehearsals.
He would be the director known for raising the bar for London entertainment.
“I’m meeting with this G.E. Oldham fellow later today. Give us a week or so to run through the lines together before you set up auditions.” He frowned, staring at the mess of documents covering every inch of his desk. “And speak with the set designers, will you? There’s been a kerfuffle over inspections that needs sorting out. Oh, and once you’ve handled that, throw together a suggested performance schedule if you don’t mind?”
“I do. Mind, that is.” Mrs. Grey, the petite blonde he’d relied upon so heavily recently, held up her pointer finger. “I am employed as your bookkeeper, Mr. Dodd, and unfortunately, those duties are reserved for the theater director’s assistant.” She flicked a disparaging glance to the empty desk in the corner. “Which you are currently lacking.”
Blasted woman.
“I’ll hire a new assistant,” he said. “But not today.”
“I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Dodd, because someone must be—for your own good.” Mrs. Grey frowned. “You really must put an end to these… flings—for lack of a better word—that you’ve been carrying on with your former assistants. I refuse to do extra work while you’re putting off hiring yet another replacement.”
“I’m busy with more important matters.”
“I have taken it upon myself to contact an employment agency on your behalf.” She ignored him and continued. “The first candidate will present herself to be interviewed today. May I suggest you consider her clerical skills rather than appearance?”
“It’s not as though filing requires a genius—”
“Oh really?” Mrs. Grey gathered her papers and moved toward the door. “Try making sense of the filing system your Miss Webberly left you with, and I’ll wager you take that back.”
Carter plunged his fingers through his hair—which needed to be cut. Yet another trivial task he’d put off.
His bookkeeper made a valid point.
Give him a scene to direct, a spoiled actress to appease, even a set to build, and he’d prove his merit anytime. Hell, he could bring the driest of scripts to life.
But schedules, invoices, and purchase orders made his teeth hurt. And as a man on the brink of his thirtieth year, it was too late to master the art of administrative organization.
His past three assistants hadn’t been much better. Even if they had all been gorgeous creatures. Brunettes—his preferred type.
“I need an assistant who thinks like you,” Carter groused.
