The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(49)

Given Griff’s general lack of sentimentality, in some ways it was surprising that the family hadn’t just sold up. The fact that they were fighting so hard spoke volumes.

“You don’t really feel that way, do you?” Freddy asked, and he shook his head once.

“No. No matter where I go, or what I do, it’s home, you know? I want to think it’ll still be here to come back to if I need it.” His smile was a shadow of his usual cockiness. “Even when I’m a dashing old bachelor of eighty with my vintage cars and my adoring elderly girlfriends.” The teasing faded. “Not that I’m doing much to keep the place in the family. One ultimately shite idea after another. I read commerce at uni because I thought, hey, look what Griff did with just a few stocks and shares. Imagine what I could do.” His laugh was brief and intense with self-derision. “Bugger all, it turns out. I don’t have a business brain. I’m pretty sure Griff thinks I don’t have a brain at all. No wonder he thinks I’m useless.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Charlie lifted a gently mocking brow. “And I’m sure you’re not biased at all.”

“Oh, I am,” she admitted readily. “I seem to have gone in head-first over your big brother.”

“Surprising.” Charlie flashed a genuine half-grin. “But I ship it.”

“You give a good impression of being—” What had Griff called it? Unsquashable? “—very resilient.”

“I’m an optimist and I like to have fun. I’m not a wind-up toy that just bounces around spouting happy phrases. Despite what Griff thinks, I do worry.”

If he weren’t several years older and delightfully ginger, she’d think she’d found a long-lost twin brother.

“I still say you’re wrong about what Griff thinks, and you’re bloody well not useless. I think you’re just in the wrong job. Why didn’t you apprentice with a mechanic or a car manufacturer? Hell, why don’t you sell cars? Griff might have the knack of getting people to do what he wants while being incredibly rude to them, but let’s face it, mate. You’re the one with the sales patter.”

“I’d have liked to be a mechanic.” Charlie looked over his family again. “Not quite as lucrative as finance.”

Since he didn’t seem to be doing any great shakes in finance anyway, he might as well just do what he was good at and what made him happy, instead of sacrificing himself trying to follow in someone else’s footsteps.

Hypocrisy, thy name is Freddy.

That feeling in her stomach again, like something turning over. She swallowed.

As Charlie headed over to join Griff in the stand-off with his parents, she looked at her watch, torn. She wanted to follow and offer silent support, whether it was welcome or not, but she was due at The Henry in four minutes, and none of her colleagues looked to be in a good mood.

With the amount of noise the crane was making as it set the roof on a scaled-down stone barracks, which appeared to have real gold detailing on the gates, she wasn’t surprised. Rehearsals weren’t going well enough for tolerance over yet more construction noise.

With a last glance back, she jogged in the opposite direction, to the path that wound through the trees to the theatre. The TV crew were doing recce outside the front entrance of The Henry, muttering about the chaos at the main house.

Inside, Maya, Sadie, and several of the other principals were already onstage, running through scene variations for the second act. Freddy did her best to smooth her crumpled dress and hoped nobody remembered she’d been wearing it yesterday. There wouldn’t be time to change until the morning tea break.

Sadie was delivering one of Emma Woodhouse’s monologues with her usual ease of performance, but she looked over at where Freddy stood, and her gaze immediately dropped to her clothing. Naturally, the human spyglass over there would notice every avenue of possible gossip.

It was a futile hope, given that Sadie ran a personal intelligence service that outshone MI5, but Freddy would prefer she didn’t realise there was anything happening with Griff. He would give absolutely zero shits what Sadie Foster said about him—and he’d probably done her one better for snide remarks in reviews over the years—but Freddy felt irrationally protective of him. Of them.

“Fancy seeing you here, darling.” A male voice spoke into her ear, and for a second an echo of memory awoke in Freddy’s mind, of her sleepy rousing this morning and Griff’s deeper voice murmuring that same endearment, a warm shiver on her skin.

Immediate reality intruded on dreamy recollection. She’d know that Mancunian accent anywhere. She turned. “Ferren.”

She didn’t bother with a polite tone. She was tired and hungry, and as much as she was enjoying playing Lydia, she’d rather still be asleep in Griff’s arms right now, oblivious to everything unfolding in the waking world. And Ferren had caused enough heartache in their family for a lifetime.

Despite the drawled familiarity of his greeting, there was nothing actually lecherous in it. Ferren had many faults, but he wasn’t another Dylan. He exploited his sex appeal for his career, like most people in this industry, but he didn’t try to crack on with every woman he met. It was almost unfortunate—if he’d been just another fuckboy, Sabrina would have kicked him to the curb ages ago.

“If it isn’t little Frederica.” Typically unbothered by her attitude, he stretched in a casual, sensual motion. “How are you, pet?”