The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(95)
Sabrina blinked a few times, and Griff started to smile.
“Our grandma might be the great plagiariser of the twentieth century, and our dad might have been a bloody useless parent for the past decade, but you and me, Sabs?” Propping her hands on her cinched-in waist, she lifted her brows at her sister. “Watch the new generation of Carltons bounce back. And if Sadie Foster sticks her nose in—fuck her, too.”
She straightened her bonnet with a decisive jerk. Griff was outright grinning now, and Sabrina seemed momentarily lost for words.
Then, infinitesimally, a smile loosened her tense features. “Jesus, Peanut. When did you grow up on me?”
A voice in the hallway called frantically for the cast to assemble in the wings.
“Come on,” Freddy said, and slipped her fingers around Griff’s outstretched hand. “Let’s do this.”
Time to wreak havoc at the assembly ball.
And hopefully avoid the poisoned cocktail in the drawing room.
Chapter Nineteen
The public killed off Emma Woodhouse at the first opportunity. Nobody had expected the first vote to swing to the second variation, Sadie least of all. Watching from the wings as Sadie was forced to sit down at her easel in the garden set, where an unknown figure unceremoniously shot her in the back with an arrow, thus ending her entire role in the production in less than twenty minutes, Freddy didn’t bother to hide her grin. Sadie usually kept up a sickly-sweet image in the media; evidently, her glee at throwing Maya under the bus on live TV hadn’t gone down too well.
As Sadie passed her in the wings, her floral muslin dress splattered with Leo Magasiva’s very convincing fake blood, her lips were set in a tight, thin line.
“Doesn’t really pay to be a total bitch during a live broadcast,” Freddy murmured, swinging her reticule. “It tends to backfire.”
Sadie stopped, her hands fisting. If looks could kill, Lydia would be joining the body count right now. As it was, the vote was so far on track for Lydia to eventually emerge as the mysterious archer. If the next vote pushed forward the Elizabeth and Darcy romance, as Griff had predicted, the odds shot up that Freddy would get to go homicidal in the last scene. Fingers crossed. There would be some poetic justice in taking responsibility for Sadie’s fictional demise.
Sadie’s voice was a hiss. “It doesn’t really pay to profit by fraud, either. That also tends to backfire.”
She shoved Freddy physically out of the way as she went backstage to sulk, digging an elbow into her—and despite Freddy’s surge of bravado earlier, she couldn’t suppress the flicker of foreboding in her stomach as she rubbed at her arm.
Lydia threw her arms around Wickham’s neck, pressing her lips to his supposedly waxy mouth.
Logically, Griff realised it was only a few seconds before Freddy released the chisel-jawed wanker and moved swiftly into the next cheeky line of dialogue, but the stage kiss seemed to linger into eternity.
What had she said? As passionate as boiling an egg.
Fleetingly, as the active camera focused on Wickham’s smug face, Freddy gave the audience a saucy little wink. She had the room in the palm of her hand—Lydia was stealing scenes and earning unprecedented sympathy in this adaptation, although if he remembered the convoluted mess of a script correctly, she was also shaping up to emerge as the murderer—but Griff hadn’t missed that she’d looked straight in his direction with that gesture. His mouth curved.
At his side, Charlie cleared his throat, low and pointedly. His brother was holding his phone on his lap, keeping track of the voting numbers as his friend the app developer sent through figures. Ignoring the teasing glint Charlie was aiming his way, Griff cocked an enquiring brow at the phone, and Charlie tilted it where he could see the screen.
Griff pursed his lips in a silent whistle. With three of four votes down, the figures were exceeding even the studio’s upper predictions. The advertising revenue from the broadcast tonight would be lucrative. With his fist, he gently nudged Charlie’s knee, a gesture of acknowledgment. Gratitude. Job bloody well done on his brother’s part. And Freddy, who was helping carry the show through up there, despite Joe Ferren’s absence and the minor hiccups caused by a flustered understudy and a very slightly off-note Maya Dutta.
God knew how long it would take to sort the legal and financial nightmare of The Velvet Room, especially if Rupert started dragging his feet and tried to worm out of playing his part—and Griff wouldn’t put it past him—but tonight’s pay cheque should clear the immediate backlog of bills.
Charlie’s cheeks went a little pink, but he looked pleased. His phone was on silent, but Griff heard the vibration when it buzzed. Still smiling a little, Charlie checked the notification, and his expression altered. Frowning, he brought up another screen with quick taps of his fingers, and swore quietly.
“What’s the matter?” Griff asked under his breath, with foreboding. He’d had a nagging feeling that tonight’s challenges were not quite kicked to the curb.
“Stay here,” Charlie whispered, checking the screen at the side of the room to make sure the camera trained on the audience wasn’t doing a reaction shot. He stood quickly. “I’ll check it out.”
Griff stuck out his leg to prevent him vanishing and leaving it at that. “Check what out?”
Charlie’s words were a quiet hiss before he hopped over Griff’s foot and made a dart for the door. “My alarm system’s gone off. Someone’s broken into the garage.”