“You are not Miss Sparrow.”
“I am… Oldham is an alias—a penname, if you will.” Perhaps she ought to have introduced herself as such. It felt odd, however, going by a false name.
How many lies would she utter before this was over?
“Well, isn’t this a surprise.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and propped his feet on his desk.
“It shouldn’t be. You sent for me. And just as you’ve asked, I’m here right on time. And I’m here to discuss the play.”
Negotiations
Carter stared across the mountain of paperwork piled in front of him to study Miss Oldham/Sparrow. She’d fooled him, and he was equally annoyed as he was impressed.
“You are G.S. Oldham.” Just in case he was wrong, he stated the obvious one more time.
“Yes. And it is my opinion that Lady of the Scullery would make for an excellent addition to the Drury Lane Theater’s production schedule this year.” She dipped her chin as though agreeing with herself.
Unfortunately, the motion drew his attention to her utterly kissable mouth. But he would not allow his thoughts to go in that direction.
Because she was also correct in her assessment. Lady of the Scullery would make for an excellent addition to this year’s production schedule.
Carter folded his arms across his chest. “What inspired you to write this particular plot?” He was all business now.
She dropped her gaze to her fidgeting hands, ink stained, but otherwise delicate and manicured. “My… cousin is married to gentry, and they’ve been kind enough to take me in.”
“So you are on the bottom rung of society. An impoverished relation.”
Carter didn’t believe her. She carried herself too proudly, lacking the humility of such pitiful circumstances.
More likely, this woman had found inspiration for her play while acting as mistress to some baron or viscount.
Perhaps even an earl.
Carter might be a working man now, but having been born into the aristocracy, he understood the contrary nature of nobility all too well—most adhered to propriety in public but then ran roughshod over it in private.
He’d done the noble thing and run over it publicly.
“Your hero. This Earl of…” Carter dug around, frustrated when he didn’t locate the manuscript immediately.
Miss Sparrow lifted it from beneath several files and offered it to him wordlessly.
His fingertips inadvertently brushed her wrist when he reached for it, and he couldn’t help but notice that her skin felt as soft as rose petals.
Ignoring a shot of awareness, he grunted and began flipping through the pages, and oh, hell. The words popped out at him, reminding him of why he’d already envisioned bringing the damn thing to life.
It wasn’t often such a fresh and unique story came along. Directed properly, it could appeal to the pit, the galleries, and also the boxes.
G.S. Oldham, however, was an unknown. Many of the scenes required rewrites. He would need to work with her closely.
“This Earl of Pudding,” Carter read the hero’s name aloud. “He is fictional, is he not?”
“Of course, as is the heroine, Lady Drusilla.” Miss Sparrow nodded. “Or Miss Drusilla, as she is called throughout most of the play.”
“Yes. She is posing as a chamber maid—but is actually the daughter of a duke.” Clever plot, and some of the best dialogue he’d ever read.
“Yes. She’s run away—to avoid marrying a man four times her age.”
Carter tapped his pencil on the surface of his desk. “It’s not Shakespeare,” he said, more to himself than to her.
