The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(72)

“Did you talk to anyone at the time?”

“I told Sabrina. She’s seven years older and she’s always had a tendency to coddle me. She was furious on my behalf, but I could tell she thought, oh, Freddy’s been led into a situation she doesn’t want, yet again. I felt na?ve enough already without having it from someone else.” Her grip on Griff loosened. “I was ashamed. An experience that I thought was spontaneous and equal suddenly seemed dirty. And I wish I hadn’t taken that job. For a number of reasons.”

“You went home with Townseville because you liked him, and you wanted to. And you were eighteen years old, for God’s sake, and under an enormous amount of pressure. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.” In a deceptively mild voice that didn’t match the bunched muscles in his arms and shoulders, he added, “Unlike that predatory fucker, who ought to have his dick cut off with a rusty saw.”

Akiko’s words came back to Freddy, then, about a partner-in-crime, a buddy who always had her back, and she felt her mouth tilt. “Or a pair of safety scissors.” Putting a hand behind his head, she pulled him down to her and kissed him hard. “You know, if this goes on much longer, you’re in serious danger of becoming my best mate.”

Griff tipped her under him with a suddenness that made her squeak. When she was breathless and could do nothing but hold on to his shoulders and enjoy, he lifted his head. “Who you fancy the pants off.”

“Well, that goes without saying.” Freddy planted a butterfly kiss on him. “Although I thought we did spectacularly well with the pants on, as well.”

He grinned then, that full-fledged grin that lit up his eyes and was still too rare, and their mouths met again. They lay for a long time, kissing and touching and half listening to the rain, Freddy’s leg tucked companionably over Griff’s hip.

She pressed her palm to his cheek. “You make me feel equal,” she murmured slowly, and he rested his forehead on hers.

His hand was stroking her thigh, soothing her into a dreamy state, and their kisses were turning gentle and drowsy, when his phone rang.

No, not his phone. Hers. Her eyes opening from half-mast, Freddy let go of Griff and summoned enough motivation to feel behind her. It was wedged partly under her hip, and was lucky it hadn’t gone flying across the room with their earlier activities. She tilted the screen, and her stomach dropped.

That same reaction, that same dread of facing his disappointment, no matter how old she got. “It’s Dad.”

Griff pushed up on an elbow, his hair mussed, and looked from the phone back to her face. “Don’t answer it.”

“I have to.” But, miserably, she let it ring again, putting off the inevitable.

“Freddy. It’s late, you’re exhausted, and your rehearsals are going to hit manic mode tomorrow. There’s time to have it out with your father.” He held her gaze steadily, and Freddy breathed out.

“Yeah. Okay.” With her thumb, she rejected the call and switched the phone to silent, and laid it on the bedside table.

When they’d turned the lights off, she lay on her side, Griff’s arm a heavy weight across her waist.

She listened to his steady, deep breaths, and the tick of the beautiful little 1920s clock on his desk.

“Griff.” She reached up to hold on to his wrist. “Before I found those letters, I told myself that if I cut ties with Dad professionally, it would blow over. Eventually. He has connections in the industry. He’d be able to take on more clients. And as my agent keeps pointing out, he has his writing career. But his writing career was built on the success of All Her World.” Which now turned out to be not a factual account of how The Velvet Room came to be, but the accidental corroboration of an elaborate lie. “Dad’s reputation could take a hit by association, especially if people think he knew. Which a lot of them will.” She frowned, and Griff’s arm tightened around her, his hand moving to flex compulsively on hers. “So could mine, I suppose.”

Goodbye to the legacy of four centuries of successful actors; hello to the family name being synonymous with plagiarism. The fallout could go either way in her case. On the adage of all publicity being good publicity, a bit of notoriety might not harm her chances of booking jobs. It might even give her a boost, the industry being what it was. The more familiar the public were with your name, the more tickets you sold for the management.

But as a respected theatrical biographer, Rupert was going to look either na?ve or calculating. He’d profited hugely from everything that surrounded Henrietta Carlton, award-winning, history-making playwright.

And another adage tended to be true, about shooting the messenger.

“I’m going to be responsible for throwing my dad’s career, his whole life, into upheaval.” Again. Twenty years ago, she had been the catalyst for everything in Rupert’s world changing. Now it was happening again. “I’m not sure how to tell him.”

There was no question now that she’d have to. Despite that momentary falter, that surge of guilt and uncertainty, her conscience would never have stood keeping it quiet, and—

And she was realising that her loyalty to the man beside her was starting to outweigh all others.

The sheets rustled as Griff pushed up to a half-sitting position, still holding her hand. His touch was comforting—but in the thin beam of moonlight that shone through the crack in the curtains, that odd expression returned to his eyes.