Mrs. Grey, albeit a lovely woman, had not once sent him a smoldering glance. Nor had she doused herself in perfume or encouraged his favor by wearing plunging necklines and bending over his desk at every opportunity. Even so, although she went by missus, Carter doubted Mr. Grey existed. And recently, he suspected she was involved in an affair with the Duke of Ducat.
“Stop awarding the job to actresses, then. Hire a serious-minded person to do the job.” She placed a neat stack of papers atop the others he’d yet to read through.
Miss Webberly, Fiona, had not been a serious-minded individual.
“Hiring actresses is convenient. Not only can they file for me, but they understand the theater…”
“Ha!” Mrs. Grey rolled her eyes.
“I hire serious-minded people,” he said. “I do.”
The bookkeeper cocked one finely-arched brow. “Oh, really?”
Carter clutched his chest. “Have you no faith in me?”
She shrugged her slim shoulders. “Should I?”
“Indeed. No actresses or singers.” He would placate her. “I’ll turn over a new leaf. Mark my word: no more dallying with the help.” Carter then turned his attention back to real business. “Now, with that sorted out, allow an additional five minutes between auditions. I don’t want to feel rushed in casting this play…” He tried handing the stack of papers back to her but she refused to take them.
“Give those to your new assistant.” She crossed her arms.
“I don’t have time to interview candidates today. I’m meeting with—" Carter flipped through the pile of receipts, documents, and ah, here they were: torn remnants of his calendar. Fiona’s revenge.
“With my new playwright,” he finished. Wednesday, Friday? Ah, yes. Here it was: Thursday.
“Make time, Mr. Dodd.” Mrs. Grey exhaled, not bothering to hide her frustration with him.
“I will. I will. Just not today.”
Carter squinted at the paper and studied it from all angles. Was that an eleven, or one, or was that a seven?
Blast and damn, Mrs. Grey was right. He needed a real assistant, not some actress looking to get ahead by playing the part of his secretary by day and warming his bed at night.
Perhaps it was time he swore off such entanglements.
Make do with his fist.
His own hand introduced far fewer complications. It knew the proper pressure and pace and would never expect to be rewarded with a leading role. Nor was it accompanied by title-hungry mamas swarming him like a flock of crows hovering over the spoils of a battlefield. Not that Carter expected to inherit, but as the third son of a marquess, he could put the honorific of Lord before his name if he so desired.
Which he did not.
It was ironic really, how those same mamas fled when they learned of his occupation and that he might be disowned for having chosen it.
By turning to the theater rather than the church, Carter had driven his father to declare his third son a disgrace to the family name. Something, he supposed, he’d been destined to do.
But he wasn’t about to disgrace the theater.
“I’ll send your applicants up as they arrive.”
Carter grumbled but Mrs. Grey only chuckled as she strolled toward the door. Before closing it behind her, however, she peeked back inside and added, “Hire a grandmotherly type, Mr. Dodd. Even better, hire a man.”
“Go!” He’d had enough impertinence.
Actresses sufficed well enough in his bedchamber, but when it came to his office… He frowned at the mess on his desk. His assistants had done more distracting than assisting. If he was going to rise any higher, he needed to put away his distractions.
There would be no more Fionas. Or Scarletts, or Francescas.
But no “grandmotherly types” either. He’d hire an assistant who fit somewhere in between the two and put her straight to work.
