The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(101)

“Everything. Violet. Henrietta. And my own role in it.” Rupert looked squarely at Freddy and Sabrina. “And more importantly—your roles in it. Or lack thereof.”

His face and body were very still, but his hands were shaking on the handle of his stick.

Oh, Dad.

“I hate to throw cold water on the grand gesture.” Charlie suddenly spoke up from his armchair by the bookcase, where he was sitting with a pensive face, one long leg bent and propped on his opposite knee. “But you won’t be able to wipe off all the muck with one interview. People prefer to believe the worst.”

“True.” Lisa stroked her thumb along her chin, her eyes narrowed. “But both Freddy and Sabrina are popular with their audiences. And they’re very media-savvy. I think if we play this right, we can push a lot of sympathy back on their side.”

And paint her father as the villain of the piece.

“I don’t think—” Freddy began, and Rupert cut her off, gently but firmly.

“Freddy. You were right.” He reached out hesitantly, and she took his hand. “It was wrong, baby. All of it. And it’s time to put it right.”

She looked at him, troubled, and his grip tightened. “It’s time, Fred.”

Somehow, she thought he was referring to more than the situation with The Velvet Room.

After a few more breaths, they let each other go.

“It sucks about that audition,” Charlie said sympathetically, and Freddy felt Griff’s mouth dust against her temple again.

As she struggled with a complex mix of emotions, her gaze slipped around the perimeter of the library, taking her usual weird solace just from the sight of the books—and stopped on the object in the corner. One of James and Carolina’s smaller Anathorn structures had proved vulnerable to the rain, and had been moved in here this afternoon.

It was, very fittingly, a stage, where marketplace magicians showed off their spells to potential purchasers.

She stared at it for so long that Griff nudged her.

She glanced at him. Then she lifted a brow at Sabrina. “What did I say earlier?” she said, and a tiny smile started to lift the corners of her eyes. “Watch the Carltons bounce back.”

The Sunset Britain studio buzzed with noise and anticipation. The rivalry between this show and The Davenport Report was not limited to the presenters. Sabrina was popular with the crew, and everybody was furious about what TDR had done so covertly on Friday. It was a battle of the ratings, and Freddy strongly suspected that on this occasion, SB was going to crush the competition.

She watched proudly as Sabrina stood with the producer, conferring over a clipboard. Every red curl was perfectly in place, her sister’s makeup was immaculate, and her demeanour was that of a lioness ready to fight.

Nick Davenport probably thought Sadie had handed him the golden ticket where the new presenter role was concerned. He was about to hit a major setback.

Freddy’s smile faded slightly as her gaze moved to her father, who was waiting tensely off set, standing alone, not moving.

Instinctively, she looked around for Griff. He’d texted twenty minutes ago, stuck in traffic, but he should be here any moment. He and Sabrina were equally unenthused about doing another interview together, but they’d all agreed that it was wise if he joined them for the broadcast. A public display of unity between the Carlton and Ford families. It also wouldn’t hurt to push the relationship angle between Griff and Freddy, Sabrina had added, ignoring Griff’s scowl. “People are always more interested in sex than theft.”

“Freddy Carlton?” The voice behind Freddy was soft and almost delicate, definitely not Griff’s deep, sardonic tones, and when she turned, for a second she thought it was coming from a child.

The girl who’d just come into the studio was small, with thin arms and legs, a pointed, freckled face and enormous hazel eyes, and she looked about fifteen. However, Freddy had seen that face numerous times on the back covers of her favourite books.

Allegra Hawthorne was young, but she wasn’t a child. And from the determined light in her eyes and the firm set of her chin, she looked like a woman who knew her own mind.

“You’re Freddy Carlton,” she said again, a statement of fact, not a query, and Freddy blinked out of her preoccupation.

“Yes, I am. And you’re Allegra Hawthorne.” Whom she’d been planning to track down in a couple of days if she didn’t receive a reply to her email, but had not been expecting to see here tonight. “Were you...looking for me?”

Coming closer, Allegra pulled her handbag from her shoulder and opened it. “I’ve just been doing an interview upstairs with Greta French.” She made a face. “It was like trying to claw my way out of a spider’s web, avoiding her nosier questions. And the makeup guy mentioned you were here tonight.”

Digging around inside her bag, she pulled out a sheaf of papers and held them up.

It was a computer print-out of the images Freddy had sent her over the weekend, after Charlie had managed to track down Allegra’s email address in about half an hour. He was a very useful person to have around.

The pictures were a beautifully photographed—if she did say so herself—catalogue of James and Carolina’s miniature Anathorn, from the full spectacle to the tiniest details.

“It’s wonderful,” Allegra said simply, a pink flush warming her pale face as she looked at the pictures again. “I adore it. I can’t believe someone would take so much trouble over something I’ve written; it’s still very surreal. It’s like they’ve pulled my dreams right out of my head and turned them into reality. And I definitely want it for the show.”