“One percent of gross sales,” he said. “But I’ll require you here for the good part of the day. And once we begin rehearsals, I’ll need you in the evenings as well—until closing night. You’ll act as my assistant and be at my beck and call for the duration.”
She frowned, and he wished he could read her thoughts.
“Four percent,” she countered. “And if I’m to act as assistant, I’ll require a separate salary for that.” She leaned forward. “Furthermore, I reserve the right to reject changes.”
“I have final say on everything.” Carter rubbed his chin, vaguely realizing he’d forgotten to shave that morning. It was a decent counteroffer. “One and a half percent, and two pounds a week—the same I’d pay any other assistant.”
Except for Fiona. She’d finagled all sorts of baubles and gifts in addition to her salary.
The point reminded him of Mrs. Grey’s warning, forcing him to reluctantly amend his objective.
Two birds. He’d only kill two birds in these negotiations. He’d deal with the third bird himself—a dismal prospect to be sure.
Miss Sparrow set her hands on the desk and leaned forward. If her gown didn’t button up to the neck, she’d have allowed him a glimpse of what he could only imagine would be delightful cleavage. Smooth, plump, and creamy skin…
“Two percent of gross sales plus three pounds a week.” Her businesslike tone stirred Carter unexpectedly. “And at the very least, you will hear me out when I have objections.”
God, but those lips were inviting.
“Very well,” he agreed. And then immediately questioned his sanity. Not because he doubted the play would be a success, and not because he didn’t think she would make for a capable assistant.
The problem was that he wanted her. And unfortunately, flirting with his assistant was not an option this time.
She was the playwright, and with so much at stake for this production, he not only needed her on hand for rewrites, but he needed her loyalty—her dedication.
Experience had taught him that despite being warned from the outset, most women entered affairs believing they could change his mind about settling down. Upon realizing the futility of their endeavor, that adoration inevitably turned to anger.
Sometimes… worse.
As far as Miss Sparrow was concerned, he’d keep his hands to himself.
Disappointing… Very disappointing.
“We’ll begin auditions once you and I have gone through the script together. Until then, you’ll need to list out each part, along with your idea of their character. Once you’ve completed that, come up with a filing system for this…” He pointed to his desk. “But first, write up our agreement and give a copy of it to Mrs. Grey—along with any other invoices you find.”
“Today?” Her eyes widened.
“Yes. Today. We’ll look at the script after you’ve settled in. I have some construction matters to address.” Ignoring those wide eyes of hers, he opened a drawer. Forgetting what he was looking for, he just as quickly slammed it closed. “The sooner we begin rehearsals, Miss Sparrow, the sooner we open. The sooner we open, the sooner you’ll have those revenues you’re so greedy for.”
If they were going to go ahead with a new production, he needed to sort matters out with his set-builder, but also the contractors renovating the boxes. He ran a hand through his hair. The Duke of Ducat’s donation would keep them afloat for now—until he gained full access to his trust. Less than ten days away...
He stared at the surface of his desk with contempt. “What a mess.” He didn’t mean to say the words out loud.
She lifted her gaze to meet his and then, as though coming to an important decision, nodded. “I’ll handle it. You go—deal with your scenery builders and whatnot while I get these papers sorted out.”
Relief had him shooting out of his chair and across the room to the door. There, he stopped dead in his tracks, not bothering to turn around.
His new playwright, his new assistant, by God, had just shooed him out of his own damn office.
Why wasn’t he annoyed?
Parental Expectations
“You were late returning this afternoon.” Elle’s mother, a gentlewoman who looked years younger than her actual age, stared over her glass before taking a delicate sip of wine. “Was the foundling hospital busier than usual?”
“It was.” Elle dropped her lashes, willing her mother to believe the lie. Clearing Mr. Dodd’s desk had taken hours to complete. Overwhelmed, and thinking of everything else she still had to do before the day was done, she’d been on the brink of telling him she couldn’t accept the position as his assistant.
And she would have, only she’d seen something in his expression—helplessness.
