The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(38)

“We have an appointment to see Ms. Wanamaker,” Griff said, with admirable composure.

“I shall see if madam can receive you.” The butler had a way of overpronouncing every syllable that made his hollow, ponderous voice sound like someone rhythmically beating on a bongo.

At least it was shaking Freddy out of her embarrassing fit of the glooms. Sniffing and snuffling her problems all over Griff—God. He was probably writing her off a typical melodramatic West Ender, and wondering what the hell he’d got himself into.

It had just...temporarily got on top of her.

He really was surprisingly good at the comforting thing, though.

“Please follow me to the drawing room.” The butler pulled the door wider. It creaked again, exactly like a sound effect tape for a C-grade horror film.

As they followed him down a dark hallway, resplendent in Gothic architecture and nineteenth-century décor, Freddy pinched hard on the end of her nose and kept her head lowered. She was not going to disgrace herself or Griff, or offend that poor old man’s dignity.

Griff felt the jerk of her shoulder, and with the butler’s back turned, he briefly covered her mouth with his cool palm as a single strangled giggle bubbled out. “I’ll make you wait in the car,” he threatened under his breath.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of his cologne from his shirt sleeve, and composed herself.

“Or hand you over to the ghoul in the dungeon,” he added in that same low, even tone, and she had to turn and smother her face into his chest before she lost all control.

By the time the oblivious butler ushered them into a drawing room that reminded her of a set for The Addams Family, she’d managed to remember that she was an actor. She smiled politely at him. And Griff, whose habitual stone face obviously had practical uses, accepted the offer of tea and refreshments with perfect self-possession.

While they waited to see if Wanda Wanamaker would receive them, they sat on a firm brocade couch that smelled of mothballs. Freddy now had enormous expectations for the arrival of Mallowren’s owner.

“What do you think?” she murmured, keeping an eye on the door. “Miss Havisham, Lady Bracknell, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh? I need to know how to play my part. Do I go snooty and plummy to keep the end up, or am I your plucky Girl Friday? I do a decent Cockney.”

“We’ve been here for five minutes and I’m exhausted.” Griff stood up as they heard the tip tap of approaching heels. “One word of Cockney and you’re ghoul fodder.”

Ms. Wanamaker didn’t disappoint, but Freddy had been wildly off the mark. The elderly lady swept into the room on teetering stilettos, a silk caftan billowing about her like a parachute. Grande dames in films wished they could make an entrance like that.

She had violently red hair, probably thinner in texture than it looked. It had been permed and hairsprayed and backcombed into a halo about her small head. Her eyes were as black as Griff’s, set deep in her angular bone structure and darting about avidly, bright with anticipation.

“The young Master Ford,” she said grandly, as if she were announcing Griff’s entrance at a deb ball. Freddy had to hastily press her lips together again. “Welcome, dear boy. You don’t look anything like your grandfather. Why did I think you were the spitting image?”

“You’re probably thinking of my younger brother,” Griff said drily, as he shook her hand. There were more diamonds on her knuckles than in the jewel vaults at Buckingham Palace. Freddy wondered why she didn’t sell one to fix the windows. Maybe they were costume. With a hand at Freddy’s elbow, he drew her forward. “This is Freddy Carlton.”

Thinly plucked crimson eyebrows shot up, and Ms. Wanamaker turned all her attention on Freddy, peering at her narrowly. “Carlton,” she said sharply. “It’s been a long time since I heard those surnames in the same room. You’re not a relation of Henrietta? Yes,” she answered herself before Freddy could. “You are. You have her eyes. Very remarkable eyes, Henrietta had. Big and brown, like a sacrificial lamb. Entirely inapt in her case.” Her grip was deceptively tight for her frail appearance, her rings digging into Freddy’s hand as she continued to study her. Freddy had the feeling of being slowly dissected with a scalpel. “And I suspect in yours as well. I always could recognise trouble.”

“Thanks for the disclaimer on that, Master Ford,” Freddy said on a low breath as they took their seats again.

“Well, she’s not wrong, is she?”

“Now.” Wanda, as she’d insisted they call her, folded her wrinkled hands in her lap once the butler had poured their tea. Freddy’s attempt to do it for him had resulted in a sharp comment from their hostess about young people who thought their elders and betters lost all control of their faculties the moment they passed fifty. “You’re making a film about Henrietta and that maudlin piece of work she foisted onto the British public.”

Griff’s mouth twitched. “Some people consider it upbeat compared to Henrietta’s earlier work.”

“Henrietta’s earlier drivel,” Wanda corrected. “Imagine, perfectly good trees perishing for the sake of that tripe.”

“You’re not distantly related to the Fords, are you, Ms. Wanamaker?” Freddy asked, and the other woman gazed at her blankly.

“No, dear. Why?”