The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(25)

She heard him sigh, but his free hand came down to the back of her head.

Adams mended her quickly and without fuss, bandaged her up, and gave her a couple of paracetamol.

“I’ll still be able to walk, won’t I?” she asked, once Griff had left to get them some takeaway sandwiches. He’d probably reached the short limit of his tolerance. After the suture needle had hit a piece of flesh that was still partly sensate, she’d just about ground his knuckles into dust.

“I don’t think I’ll need to bust out a saw. You can keep the leg this time,” Adams said lightly, throwing away his gloves, and she smiled more naturally.

“Walk on it. The rehearsal schedule for the next week is packed and if I have to tell the director I’m on bedrest, I’ll probably end up back here needing treatment for attempted strangulation.”

“Keep it elevated this afternoon if you can, but you should be fine to get back to your practice tomorrow morning, providing you take regular rests and the timetable doesn’t involve tap dancing or combat training.”

“A kiss scene and discovering a body in the library,” Freddy said with a grin. “You know, shock, gasp, good hearty scream.” She mimed her best silent film screech, hands clasped to her cheeks, and Adams looked amused.

“Ideal. Just think of my terrifying needlework and you’ll be instantly transported to the right frame of mind.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, plenty of people in these parts would be spooked by a comfort cuddle with the lord of the manor, so you obviously have infinite wells of courage.”

For the first time in recent memory, Freddy could feel a blush heating her face.



Chapter Six


Griff dumped her in her bedroom on their return to Highbrook, with a curt order to stay there, so she gave it a token ten minutes before she limped back to the theatre.

One of the prop team brought in a chaise longue they were going to use in the library scenes, and she finished out the read-through on that. Conveniently, it was where a significant encounter with the actor playing Wickham was going to take place, so they got in some preliminary scene blocking. And the conditions were a lot better with the roof shade pulled across and the ventilation system blasting cool air.

She was still exhausted when she tumbled into bed that night, and went to sleep with a curious, fizzy feeling uncurling deep inside.

She had no guilt about skipping her run the next morning, the bright side of having a screwdriver and a darning needle shoved into her thigh. She was fastening the straps of her favourite midi dress when her phone rang. Shoving aside a pile of discarded clothes, she unearthed it under her script, which was now tattered and marked-up and still not committed to memory.

“Hello,” she said in a rush, so hasty to answer before it went to voicemail that she hadn’t even noticed who was calling. With her other hand, she separated and scrunched her wet curls, shaking them out.

“If it isn’t the long-lost sister.” It was Sabrina. “I tried calling you three times last night. Am I in your bad books or were you busy doing high-flying, glamorous things?”

“Sorry to destroy the image,” Freddy said, “but I was snoring and drooling into my pillow by nine o’clock. Long day. What’s up?”

“Dad couldn’t get hold of you last night, either, so he broke the habit of a lifetime and called me instead. He’s winding up his wheelings and dealings in the States earlier than expected, and will be back on home turf by the end of next week. And he’s been in touch with your agent.”

“Fuck,” Freddy said.

“Why is he so vitriolic about this show? It’s not a long-term commitment. After the rehearsal period, it’s one-and-done in a night, isn’t it?”

Freddy sat back down on the bed to rest her leg. It was going to be another long day and she didn’t want to strain the stitches. “Apparently Dad’s been rumbling with Griff over a film he’s making about Henrietta. Competing interests. Did you know Dad wants to do a screen adaptation of All Her World, because it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

After a short silence, Sabrina said, “I think I need a dictionary translation for that entire answer. Griff?”

Freddy winced. “J. Ford-Griffin.”

A longer silence. “How does the Westminster Ice King come into the picture? And since when do you call him Griff?”

She chose to ignore the horrified undertone. “When he isn’t writing reviews and analysing Shakespeare on the telly, he moonlights as landed nobility and a budding film executive. He’s Sir George Ford’s grandson, he owns Highbrook, and he’s here right now researching Henrietta’s relationship with his grandfather. The tale of the famous playwright and her magnum opus is coming to a cinema near you.”

“Was Henrietta really that interesting?” Sabrina had never bothered to read even the first chapter of Rupert’s biography. “Outside of The Velvet Room phenomenon, I know she had a lot of affairs, but haven’t we all.”

Freddy rolled a damp curl around her fingertip. “I see you still haven’t read the biography. She was pretty remarkable.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure anyone can justify the fuss Dad’s made over her, and the rest of the literary crowd, and now films as well. And don’t get me started on having her dangled over us like some sort of golden monument—”