The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(64)

“And what if there was renewed public interest in Henrietta and The Velvet Room?” Freddy asked. “What if there was an entirely new angle to that story? What then?” She was barely breathing, so close was her observation of his reaction.

The quiet that followed was so heavy with meaning that her skin started prickling.

“Freddy,” Griff said. “What exactly did you find in that letter?”

Her lips parted—and then, with the perfect, or imperfect, timing of everything else today, his phone rang. He ignored it, his full attention on her, but it stopped trilling for only about three seconds before another call came in.

“I think you’d better answer it,” Freddy said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, seriously on edge now. “It might be good news from your team.”

With a muttered curse and a swift, piercing look at her, Griff pulled the phone out and checked the screen. “It’s Charlie. Christ, what have they done now?” He swept his thumb across the screen. “Please tell me they haven’t ordered something else... What?” His voice went sharp and incredulous, then his eyes closed for a moment in an obvious prayer for patience. “We’re on our way back now... Freddy. She’s with me... Mind your own business.”

He hung up and returned the phone to his pocket, and Freddy winced. “Well?”

“The forklift that was supposed to be removing the crates stacked against the side of the theatre.” Griff swore again. “It had a mechanical failure.”

“What, so the crates are still there?” It was obviously more than that. Freddy wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The signs for this performance turning out well were really not promising.

“That’s the least of the problem. When the mechanism failed, that fucking idiot Dylan Waitely was driving, larking about with one of his mates on the crew, and he ended up driving straight into the wall.”

“Oh my God.” Freddy stared at him. “Are they all right?”

“They’re fine. Waitely got a minor bump on the head, but I doubt if he has any viable brain cells to lose. However, we now have a forklift sticking out of a crumbled wall, and a hell of a mess.”

Freddy put her hands on her hips. “Jesus. What else could go wrong?” Then, with a hasty glance up at the sky and a rap on a wooden post, “Rhetorical question!”

Griff put an arm around her, in a way that was both cosy and bossy, shepherding her down the road. “Can you come back with me now or do you have something to do first?” He looked down at her. “Do you need to see your father?”

“Oh, I expect he’ll be in touch before too much time has passed,” Freddy said bleakly. “No, I’ll come with you now.” He rubbed his thumb against the top of her arm. “I’d better make sure enough of The Henry is still standing that we can go ahead with the show on Friday. And check that Dylan and his friend are still in one piece, I suppose,” she added, with what she considered a perfectly understandable lack of enthusiasm.

She’d been worried about Ferren going rogue and doing something to trash the production; she hadn’t actually considered Dylan as the potential, accidental saboteur. He rarely made it through a run without breaking someone’s heart, but he was usually professional enough—and had enough ego—to want the show itself to run smoothly.

This summer was turning everyone upside down.

In the car, Griff fielded constant calls through the wireless system, most of them from annoyed people back at Highbrook, while Freddy tried to study the scenes she was supposed to be rehearsing today, hoping that any disruption to the schedule would be minor.

Between two fraught phone conversations, she tapped her stylus pen against the screen of her iPad where she’d copied in her most troublesome dialogue. “By the way—what were you doing on Tower Bridge?”

Griff glanced at her as he drove. “I don’t know. I had some of the old Wythburn Group photographs on my desk, and I kept focusing on Violet.” He reached out a muscular arm and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Probably because you wouldn’t stay out of my mind, and you seem to be unusually preoccupied with my great-aunt. I had to cross the bridge for my last meeting, and I felt...drawn, somehow, to stop and see where she died. Which was ridiculous.”

“Or directed by the higher forces,” Freddy said, with resonant dramatic effect, playing with his fingers. She snuck a peek at him, and was rewarded with a derisive sound. Despite everything, it gave her a little bubbling spring of happiness in her tummy, being back with him, the grumpy, sexy cynic.

“Despite what my parents have done to the lawn,” Griff said, and, without looking away from the road, brought her hand to his mouth and gave her a playful nip, “we do not live in an Allegra Hawthorne novel. At least until you land yourself a role in the Anathorn musical. Don’t be fanciful.”

Freddy turned her head to look out the side window and hide her smile.

In a series of increasing disasters, it was nice to know that some things remained predictable.

Ignoring the raised eyebrows they got from some of the enormous population of people who seemed to be invading the place on a daily basis, Griff kept his fingers linked through Freddy’s as they cut through the woodland path to The Henry. He’d cast his eyes up at her spiralling imagination on the way back from London, but he was currently heeding a driving, internal voice that wanted her close. Just in case.