The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(93)
Cheers, Sir George. I may have misjudged you.
“Ouch,” Freddy said aloud, with sarcastic sympathy. Fighting down her spiralling panic, and with Griff’s voice in her head telling her not to let Sadie see her rattled, she added solemnly, “I’d get along to makeup post-haste if I were you, Polyphemus. We’re live in fifty minutes. Good thing Leo Magasiva is a whiz with the concealer.”
Sadie’s breasts almost popped out of her bodice with her indrawn breath, but Maf appeared in the hallway then, grey hair escaping her topknot, eyes sparking, phone to her ear. With a last vicious, muttered curse, Sadie stomped away down the corridor, which, Freddy realised with another sharp bite of apprehension, had gone very quiet. Ferren’s dressing room was around the corner, and she hoped she wasn’t going to find Sabrina standing over a bloodstained body. It would be better for all concerned if the murders were confined to the stage. Even if there was more than one person around here she’d personally like to skewer with Wickham’s bayonet.
Her mind was whirring, Sadie’s smug words tumbling around and hitting all her alarm bells. The chronic meddler had got hold of the truth about Henrietta—at least part of it—but what had she done about it?
Maf ended her call with a sharp word, stepped over Odysseus and his broken appendage without a second glance, and hit Freddy with a laser stare. “I suppose that histrionic sister of yours knows where we can find Ferren?”
“He’s in his dressing room. Getting ready,” Freddy added with wild, frazzled optimism. The silence was not a good sign. Either Sabrina actually had knocked him out, or—and please, no—the wily shit had managed to talk her around in about five minutes flat, and the Sabs and Ferren car crash continued. As if enough wasn’t going wrong.
He had now progressed to physical infidelity. Freddy refused to believe that Sabrina would turn a blind eye to that sort of fuckery. If you were single and wanted to play the field, yay. If you chose to be in a relationship, you didn’t break someone’s trust. End of.
“No,” Maf said with fury she wasn’t even trying to suppress. “That is where he’s supposed to be, with less than an hour until this circus beams live into living rooms across the United Kingdom. However, he’s just stormed outside and vanished. I knew he wasn’t worth the extra audience pull. He’s been a selfish, unreliable little shite his entire career. And he’s got fifteen minutes to get his arse back here, or he’s out, and we’re going on with an understudy.”
“Maf!” The panicked cry came from the direction of the wings, and she turned on her heel and stalked off to put out yet another fire.
With no heed for the shape of her bonnet, Freddy took hold of each straw edge and pulled down to punctuate her despair. Disaster. At every turn, they were heading for the rocks.
Maya’s dresser hurried past her, a shawl in hand, and threw Freddy a quick smile. “Audience is starting to arrive. And I see the bigwigs are already in the house. Fiona Gallagher is front and centre. Wearing the most amazing blazer. Love.”
Oh God.
For the first time in her life, Freddy wondered if she was actually going to have a preshow panic attack. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, high in her chest, and her eyes felt unfocused.
And then she turned in a blind spin of anxiety and saw Griff. His shirt and tie were crisp despite the rain earlier, his chin was closely shaved, and he was tall and calm-looking and emanated such an air of reassurance that she felt it like a physical sensation.
He came to her, sweeping her with one comprehensive look.
The costume and makeup were a barrier to hugs, but he reached for her hands. “It’s going to be fine.” Deep, even, sure. “You’re prepared, you’re in your element with the material, and you’re going out in front of an audience of people who’ll love you, in this building and right across the country. You’ll be fantastic.”
“Griff.” Just the one word, just his name, but so much of what she was feeling was layered into that single syllable, and his eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, his dark irises were warm with that sheen of caramel. “Freddy. This morning—I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry.”
“I know.” Fleetingly, she ducked her head and lightly touched her cheek to one of his hands. “It’s okay. We’ll talk properly after the show. Yeah?” Her eyes searched his, and he cupped her neck with his warm palm.
“Yes.”
“Griff—I’m pretty sure Sadie knows. About The Velvet Room.”
He stiffened against her, his head lifting. “What? How?”
“She listened through an open window in the library.” A few more of Freddy’s stressed, stunned brain cells chugged back into gear. “She must have stood on the balcony in the next room.”
“The railings out there are unstable as well.” Griff’s hand was still moving on her with gentling reassurance, but his expression was darkening. “Pity it didn’t drop her into the courtyard. Is this one of the secrets she likes to keep close and taunt her victims with, or is she—”
“She’s done something.” Freddy tightened her hold on him. “I just don’t know what.”
As the hectic backstage noises continued around them, they stood in a little bubble of their own, Freddy acutely aware of the physical connection where their skin touched—and the invisible link that wound around them, wrapping them together in an emotion that felt irrevocable.