The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(16)

“Charming girl,” Charlie remarked. “I considered trying for the stage for about five minutes when I was a kid. Glad I let Griff’s litany about the number of unemployed actors in London and my complete lack of follow-through push me in the direction of commerce instead. The brutality is more transparent in finance. People usually don’t bother to plaster a smile over the blatant self-interest.”

Freddy glanced at him, then away. “Fortunately, most people in the West End aren’t like Sadie. She’s in a class of her own.” In the interests of honesty, she added, “She’s, like, next-level talented, though. I was twelve when I worked with her for the first time, and I still remember being literally speechless with awe watching her.”

“I’ve seen you perform. I much prefer watching you.” There was no flirtation or calculated flattery in Charlie’s statement. “I’m looking forward to seeing this show. I’m not into period dramas, but I went to your production of Beauty and the Beast years ago and you made me give a shit about dancing teacups, so I reckon I can get on board with a bit of bodice-ripping and bodies in the library.” They crossed around the side of the house and he held a wooden door open for her. “Sorry, I don’t express myself as well as Griff.”

“But you’re a hell of a lot better for my ego.” Freddy stood in a cool, dimly lit hallway, breathing in the faint smell of baking bread. “Speaking of the library, I appreciate the save from Sadie’s baiting and I bow to your lightning-fast ad lib, but if you don’t mind, I actually would like to see your library.”

She was still feeling unusually unsettled, and she found few things as calming as floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

A back scratch and having her neck kissed by a sexy man, maybe, but the only person on this property who was likely to oblige was Dylan, and there were not enough nope gifs in the world.

“I live to keep the ladies happy.” Charlie gestured down the winding passageway to their left. The interior of the house was typical of stately homes of the period: ornate, impressive, chilly, and so low-ceilinged that she could just about reach up and touch the curlicues in the joinery. “This way. If you’re picturing rolling stepladders and ancient maps, I’d lower your expectations. It’s not quite the Bodleian. Although my great-aunt did have a fancy for illustrated manuscripts, if you’re into posh calligraphy.”

As they passed an open doorway, two people came out carrying a dollhouse between them. The biggest dollhouse Freddy had ever seen. She looked enquiringly at Charlie. “Do you have kids here?”

She was trying to imagine his older brother as the doting dad of screeds of tiny, shrieking tots, and failing miserably.

Charlie held another door open for the dollhouse procession to pass through, with a word of thanks. “No. That’s one of my parents’ designs. A comparatively simple one, for them. Must be an early prototype.”

“Your parents make dollhouses?”

“The term probably isn’t grand enough. Doll estates. Towers. Castles. Entire fortified medieval towns. Think cobblers, blacksmiths, and apothecaries. Or the Parisian series—little couturiers and patisseries.”

Freddy’s hands rose to her cheeks of their own accord.

Charlie gave her an amused look. “Oh dear. A kindred spirit.”

“Your parents design tiny working worlds? For a living?”

The glow of his smile dimmed. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a living, no.” He pulled open a large wooden door. “Here we go. Highbrook Wells Library. Most likely filled with books about your gran right now.”

“Why would—” Freddy cut herself off as she walked past him into the open, airy room. A massive picture window flooded the space with so much bright light that it hurt her eyes after the comparative gloom of the hallway, but she wasn’t so blinded that she could overlook the icy stare coming her way from the central desk.

“Don’t mind us.” Charlie strolled around the dangerous vibes surrounding his brother. It was like watching a visitor to the Underworld just swan airily past Hades. “I’m just showing Freddy the library.”

“I’m working.” With an emphatic movement, Griff closed the file he was holding, as if she was likely to peer over his shoulder and have a good nose into his personal affairs. “As, I believed, was everyone else. Isn’t that the reason a former soap opera sociopath is poking around the rose bushes?”

“Which soap opera sociopath?” Charlie peered out the window. Over his shoulder, he said, “The big cheese has put everyone on hold until tomorrow morning. And stop glowering at Freddy. She’s just emerged gracefully from a run-in with a Tasmanian devil.”

“A Tasmanian devil?”

“The red-lipsticked, stiletto-heeled variety.”

Griff put his file down, apparently giving up on any prospect of working in peace while his brother was in the room. “Sadie Foster?”

“It’s bleak if people can instantly name you based on that description.” Freddy bent to examine a shelf of Austen novels. She doubted they were first editions. There’d be no reason to live in a house that was beautiful but a bit...crumbly if you had a library full of books that could fund a whole restoration. Of course, if she owned even one first-edition Austen, it would have to be pried from her frozen, comatose hands before she’d let it go, but she didn’t see Griff as the type to go sentimental over material possessions. She sneaked a sideways peek at his forbidding profile. Or sentimental over anything. “I see you’ve got the source material on hand.” She curled her fingers to prevent herself stroking the weathered spine of Persuasion.