The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(51)

Violet’s penetrating gaze suddenly seemed accusatory.

You’re Henrietta’s granddaughter. And you know. You know, you know—

A muffled voice cut through Freddy’s spiralling anxiety, coming from outside in the hallway. “I think I saw her go this way, sir.”

Footsteps resounded through the floorboards, and the door opened.

She looked up and stared at the man who stood there. His greying hair was a profusion of wild curls, and the deeply carved creases in his forehead and cheeks, folding around his mouth, were the result of a youth as a heavy smoker and years of chronic pain, not a life spent laughing. The aging rocker appearance hid a wily business brain. He was making no effort, however, to hide the strong disapproval.

The butterflies in her stomach went into a whirlwind.

“Hello, Dad,” she said. “You’re back early.”

“Dad.” Griff was barely holding on to his temper. He could actually feel a nerve twitching in his eyebrow. They were going to drive him up the fucking wall. Of the fucking not-that-miniature castle behind him. “There is no money left in the trust. There is no money. The estate is barely scraping by. If The Austen Playbook broadcast is successful, our fee will keep the place afloat for another year. If my film about Henrietta Carlton gets the go-ahead from the studio, we’re good for another five years, and I hope by that time I’ll have enough coals in the fire to keep things up indefinitely. But right now, there’s barely enough to pay the utilities bill, let alone the mortgage. Let alone build a fucking amusement park in the front yard.”

“It’s not quite as ambitious as that, old chap,” James said, totally unperturbed, his words barely audible over the noise of the bloody crane he’d hired. “But I think the local children will like it.”

“The local—” Griff had to bite back any further words. He had just watched the second construction crew on the property install a gold-plated brick walkway in front of a “toy” castle the size of a van. He hadn’t seen the bills yet, but to have a return on a project like this, they’d need half the kids in the county to traipse out to play with it, and would have to charge their parents twenty quid a pop at the gate.

Charlie appeared at his side then, looking uncharacteristically serious. “Uh. Griff. One of the Austen team wants a word.”

The manager in charge of the theatre restoration pushed past him. “Look, I don’t want to interrupt,” she said brusquely, “but are you aware that a delivery lorry is stacking materials for these...dolls outside the theatre? The production will be broadcasting live shots of The Henry exterior before the performance, and it’s not a good look having a load of crates propping up the walls.”

“For Christ’s sake.” Griff turned to his mother, who shook her head at him with a shade of exasperation that raised his hackles even higher.

Between his family’s never-ending series of bad decisions, and the advent of Freddy, this summer was seriously undermining his belief in his own temperament. He’d be stomping about throwing dramatics like the West End contingent soon.

“James, honestly. Since when have you been such a fusser? We just need temporary shelter in case the weather packs in again, and the south pillars of the theatre have a nice outward reach. We’ll have everything installed by the end of the week, out of the way well before these people have their performance.”

Griff’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he had a sudden sense of foreboding. He’d never put any credence in premonition; obviously the fantasyland around him, with all its little bubbling cauldrons and lurking dragons, was having a bad effect.

Regardless, and equally irrationally since she was just through the trees at rehearsal—and nobody was likely to call him about her in any case; he wasn’t her emergency contact—his first thought was Freddy, that she was hurt again. His hand flexing around the phone, he checked the screen, ignoring the continued hum of arguing voices around him.

Not Freddy. The agent who was acting for his company in negotiations with the film studio.

He slid his thumb over the screen. “Nissa.”

He’d hired her because she dispersed with tedious preliminaries and small talk, and got straight to the point. “Griff. Bad news, I’m afraid.”

Rupert didn’t beat about the bush. The end of his walking stick tapping against the floorboards, he made an absent-minded return of Freddy’s kiss on his cheek, then levelled her with his managerial look again. “Did we, or did we not, agree that this project was unsuitable for the current path we’re on? This part wouldn’t have stretched your ability when you were fourteen. As your manager, Freddy, I’d appreciate being kept informed of your professional decisions if I’m out of the country, not having them dropped into conversation by your sister.”

“For the path I’m on, Dad.” Freddy couldn’t help stressing his alternative, some might say more important title. “I wanted to do this play, and it came at the right time for me. I needed a break from London to get my head together going forward.”

Which seemed laughable, in light of everything that had happened in the sleepy old country in just a few days—including the possible upheaval of her entire future life.

“We scheduled a holiday for you in November, before the Christmas season.” Rupert studied her with a shade of apprehension, as if he expected her to suddenly drop to the floor and cancel all future bookings.