“But that is precisely the point, is it not? To produce something new and exciting? Something that won’t put theater-goers to sleep?” Twin spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, and gold sparks lit her eyes.
Something passed between them as he stared back at her. Because he recognized those sparks. In fact, nearly every morning, they stared back at him from the looking glass…
Passion.
She denied being an actress but was not the typical playwright.
What was it about her that he was missing? As a man who cultivated motivation and deliberate emotion for a living, his inability to read this woman perturbed him.
The desire to read her perturbed him even more.
“Have you sent the manuscript to any other theaters?” He addressed another possible sticking point.
If she had, Carter would not spend Drury Lane’s resources on a play that was already being produced by smaller theaters in town. He could not.
Of course, after opening night, there was nothing to prevent another director from pilfering it. Not even playwrights had recourse.
But this was the legendary Drury Lane Theater. If he was going to risk his reputation on an unknown, he’d do it exclusively. His production would be the original.
“I’ve only sent it to you, Mr. Dobbs. Drury Lane Theater is my first choice.” She arrested him with an unwavering emerald gaze. He dropped his feet to the floor and turned his thoughts to the play.
Lady of the Scullery wasn’t just funny and clever, it mocked the upper crust of society—in a friendly sort of way.
He doubted most would even realize it.
Bloody brilliant. The opening scene played out in his head. He could envision the scenery, the cast, the music. His director’s brain itched to weave the written words into a three-dimensional tapestry—into something London theater-goers would never forget.
But he required exclusivity.
“I’ll pay you thirty pounds for exclusive ownership. If I discover you’ve peddled this manuscript elsewhere, you’ll find your career over before it begins.”
She stared at him in a calculating manner. “It will be yours exclusively, in exchange for a five percent share of gross ticket sales.”
“Impossible.” Carter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Anyone else—any other play—and Carter would have sent this woman on her merry way. Playwrights, as a rule, never shared in profits from ticket sales. They were paid a tidy advance while also being lucky enough to see their play come to life on London’s most popular stage.
Put on by London’s top director, no less.
The chit had moxie, that was for sure.
“Thirty pounds? You insult me, Mr. Dodd. I want a percentage of sales, or I’ll take it to your competitors.”
She was not cowed in the least. Who was this woman?
“You really think you’ll get more elsewhere?” Carter laughed.
“If necessary, yes.” But she inadvertently showed her nerves by straightening his papers on the desk directly in front of her.
And that gave Carter pause.
He had told Mrs. Grey he was hiring Miss Sparrow to act as his assistant. He’d also need his playwright on hand to address necessary rewrites.
Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone.
She glanced up from beneath thick lashes and licked her lips, causing him to amend that thought.
Perhaps he could kill three birds with one stone.
