The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(73)
It was barely dawn when Griff woke the next morning, and Freddy was still asleep, one arm slipped beneath his pillow. His arm was tucked around her, his hand pushed up under the T-shirt she’d stolen from his chest of drawers.
Gently withdrawing his hold, he sat looking down at her. She was breathing quietly and looked peaceful and happy, her worries temporarily unable to reach her.
A thump outside the door brought his head around. Muffled footsteps paused, and then the shuffling noise continued. Something was so distinctly furtive about it that his eyes narrowed; he glanced at the time and frowned.
Swinging smoothly out of bed, he went to the door and, grimacing in case the hinges creaked and woke Freddy, pulled it open. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—a corpse to topple in on him, or a bloodstained victim dragging themselves down the hallway? The Austen Playbook had a lot to answer for; the whodunit atmosphere was pervading the whole bloody estate.
All he saw was a flash of movement at the end of the hallway, someone creeping back to the other bedroom wing. Freddy’s room was down that corridor, with the rest of the women. It was mostly the male cast who were being housed down this end. Griff’s gaze travelled five doors down, to where Dylan Waitely was sleeping; then back in the direction the mystery figure had crept. Or not sleeping, as the case appeared to be.
He wondered which poor woman had fallen victim to the line of bullshit this time. Thank God the walls in this place were about three-feet thick. If he had to hear one peep out of Waitely while he was in the throes, he’d reach the end of his tether.
He returned to bed. Freddy had turned over in her sleep and flung one arm out across his side of the mattress. A small frown tugged between her brows.
Her phone on the bedside table was still on silent, but no doubt Rupert would be trying to reach her again soon, ready to bully her back to London and renew his efforts to get her into The Velvet Room.
Very lightly, he laid his palm on her head, moving his thumb in a feathering stroke. For a woman with such a razor-sharp brain, she had one blind spot, and it centred directly on her father.
In the past few months, Griff had read All Her World three times, and he could recite certain passages in it down to the last very clever phrase. The inference of those words shone out like a beacon. And when Freddy had got over the shock and exhaustion, and the fog of her own misplaced guilt, she’d realise it as well.
That Rupert Carlton had to have known the true provenance of The Velvet Room all along.
Freddy murmured something in her sleep and her hand found his. She’d physically shook as she flagellated herself for being torn, for a passing moment, between loyalty and her own deep morality. As she ripped herself apart trying to keep everyone happy. Trying not to hurt anyone she loved.
Something in his chest shifted, and with his free hand he reached for his own phone on the other table. He scrolled through his contacts. Thanks to Rupert’s ongoing campaign to be as obstructive as possible this year, he had the man’s number saved in his phone, although he’d never had the cause or desire to text him in the past.
The message he sent was short and to the point.
I think we need to talk about The Velvet Room. And my great-aunt Violet.
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday—Two days until showtime
They were up to their ears in trouble-making scripts. Griff flicked over another page of the enormous tome on the grass beside him. Navigating the written version of The Austen Playbook was like trying to follow an instruction manual that had been blown about in the wind and then shoved back into a pile with no respect for page numbers. The scene variations meant that it cut abruptly in places and then skipped ahead nine or ten pages. He wasn’t surprised Freddy was having trouble keeping her lines straight. He was finding it difficult just to prompt her.
“Act two, scene four, second variation,” he said, feeling like the conductor of an extremely complicated symphony, and Freddy hesitated and then swung into her monologue. A snap of the fingers and he had Lydia Bennet sitting across from him—flighty, flirty, shallow, and, in Freddy’s hands, bringing moments of definite and unexpected pathos.
In some ways Lydia’s personality was the extreme edge of Freddy’s own blithe, flirtatious side, but the character lacked her fundamental strength and generosity. She was obviously in her element with this show, though, and enjoying the material—if they could work out where they were in it.
“I think you’re doing the third variation.” He flipped over another few pages, looking for the lines she was reciting. “This is the one where Wickham goes ahead with the affair with Mrs. Elton.”
“Shit.” Freddy sat up straighter and reached for the script. The breeze lifted the edges of the pages and fluttered the hem of her skirt. He’d met her for her lunch break on the grass at the edge of the south woodland. They were sitting facing each other at the base of a towering oak, their legs entwined at the ankles. “We’re two days out from the show and I’m still not completely off-book. So much for my decisive gesture, walking out of The Velvet Room audition. I wouldn’t rate my chances at being offered Marguerite even if I’d stayed. And I’m not exactly going to blow Fiona Gallagher away. At this rate, I’d be lucky if I got a role as third tree on the left.”
“You’re almost word-perfect with the lines. It’s just keeping track of the bloody jumping around.” He studied the page critically. “Although you can possibly play the odds on which of these variations the public is likely to vote for. I’d be surprised if they vote in any of the options that mess with the Elizabeth/Darcy love story.” Running his fingertips around her ankle bone, Griff added drily, “Unless Waitely pisses everyone off so much they decide it’s best that Darcy drowns in the lake.”