She had not been hired to stand on tall ladders. She was his playwright, by God.
“Mr. Dodd!” Miss Sparrow gasped, still laughing. “So sorry for the fright. No harm done—ah, as you can see. I merely...lost my footing, and Miss Billings attempted to rescue me.” Her eyes met those of Samantha, sparkling with mischief, and her lip twitched.
Carter glanced between them while his heart to returned to its original pace.
Women. Baffling creatures.
“I wasn’t,” he said. Then, at Miss Sparrow’s raised eyebrow, “Frightened, that is. I wasn’t frightened. I simply wondered why my playwright is risking life and limb doing a job I’ve hired others to complete.”
Her eyebrow only climbed higher. “My apologies, Mr. Dodd. I only meant to keep myself busy.” She then glanced down, and using her fingertips, plucked at the skirt of that horrid green gown she’d worn more than once. “This gown is never going to be the same.” She frowned.
Miss Billings, who worked with paint every day, handed Miss Sparrow one of the old cloths she kept nearby. “Take this. Now you see why I never wear skirts.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.” Miss Sparrow eyed the other woman’s ensemble, a very worn shirt and pants made of a sturdy fabric, held up with suspenders that looped over her shoulders, but then glanced over at Carter. “Or not,” she amended with a wince.
Looking flustered, but not as flustered as she ought to look, Miss Sparrow attempted to clean up.
“You’re making it worse,” Carter observed while she spread the thick blue goo over herself. Worried he might do something stupid, like burst into laughter at her plight, he swiped the cloth with one hand and extended the other. “Miss Billings will clean this up,” he said. “You come with me.”
“I just need to clean up—” But she’d taken his hand, allowing him to assist her to her feet. How was it possible one woman could cause so much trouble?
“Do you have another gown?” he challenged.
She winced. “No, but—"
“You can change into one of the costumes left over from the last production. Might as well use them for something.” Because he wouldn’t be producing anything Shakespearean anytime soon.
Unless Lady of the Scullery failed. And he’d make sure it did not.
Maneuvering them both through the maze of set pieces and props, Carter dragged a repentant Miss Sparrow, who was, of course, waving over her shoulder, reminding him of a starlet rewarding her audience with one last smile.
“I only fell because you startled me,” she said once they were behind the curtain and halfway to the stairwell that led to the basement.
“You would blame this on me? How did I startle you?”
“You… smiled at me.”
Carter nearly stumbled at the accusation. But then he frowned. “I smile all the time.”
“Yes, but hardly ever at me.”
“Smiles are for fools.”
“I disagree, Mr. Dodd.”
Carter tucked her complaint away, shaking his head. He’d been brisk with her, yes, but it was for her own good.
He smiled all the bloody time.
“Have you been down here before?” He changed the subject. The deeper he went into the bowels of a theater, the more he felt at home and the costume room took them as deep as a person could go.
“A few times.” She sounded breathless. “When one of the seamstresses took ill.”
He couldn’t help but approve. By God, he’d nearly had an apoplexy watching her tumble to the floor. “Stay off the ladders,” he grumbled.
“But—”
“Stay. Off. The. Ladders.” He wouldn’t argue the point.
