by Lucy Parker
“Oh,” the foreman said, disappointed. “Papers.” He’d clearly been hoping for doubloons. “If you don’t need anything else in here, I’ll get back to directing operations outside.”
Griff thanked him, but he was already engrossed in the first papers he’d pulled out, crouched down on his haunches, his sleeves rolled up. Freddy did realise it was an inappropriate moment to be enjoying the sexy scholar look.
Charlie was rifling through the chest with a lot less care. “What is it?” he asked, turning papers back and forth. They were mostly covered with faded scrawled ink. “Letters? Christ. Considering what old George felt comfortable literally plastering all over the property, anything he thought was so saucy it had to be hidden behind a mocked-up wall must be incendiary.”
“It’s not letters.” Griff turned another page. “I’m fairly sure it’s an early draft of The Velvet Room.”
Freddy caught her breath, and all her brimming amusement over the situation faded away. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t connected the dots as to what could be behind the wall, but the whole thing was just so bizarre she felt like she was spinning along in a riptide now, going where it pulled her, everything happening too quickly for thought.
“No way.” Even Charlie, who didn’t give a shit about the infamous play or the Wythburn Group shenanigans, sounded excited. “That’s got to be worth a mint, right? Would it bring in enough for what we need?”
Freddy’s gaze was fixed on Griff. She didn’t miss a single emotion that crossed his face, and she saw the dawning surprise, his knife-sharp brain working rapidly. “I doubt it. But it would be worth quite a bit to literary collectors, if it was the original draft. This seems to be a copy.” He flipped over another page. “The handwriting isn’t Henrietta’s.”
“Bugger,” Charlie said. “Whose writing is it? George’s stenographer, on loan to his lady love?”
“I don’t think so,” Griff said, slowly. “It looks like—”
“Violet’s writing?” Freddy spoke for the first time since they’d all crowded into the office, and Griff lowered the papers and turned on his heel to look at her, and the room seemed to grow still.
* * *
“When did you start to suspect?”
Griff stood leaning against the desk in his bedroom, one ankle tucked over the other, his hands in his pockets, and his gaze intent on her face.
Freddy curled her legs up where she sat in the middle of his big, comfortable bed. She was surrounded by pages of script and notes that they’d strewn across the covers. She’d said very little as they’d gone through it with their heads together, and Griff was Griff, he didn’t waste words. His occasional, disbelieving curse had said it all.
It was all in there, the whole creative process of the play, evolving from scribbled comments about characters to intricate plot maps. All in Violet’s distinctive looping handwriting with dashes instead of dots over her i’s, and e’s that dropped lower than any other letter in a line.
There was no longer much doubt.
“That there’s a very good reason why The Velvet Room is light-years better than anything else Henrietta wrote? In fact, anything that Henrietta wrote, period.”
It was almost nine o’clock and it was the first time they’d had a chance to talk since a production assistant had come running into Henrietta’s office to tell Freddy that she was late for rehearsal and Maf was breathing fire. Charlie had looked between them, obviously confused and wanting to know what was going on, but by habit not expecting Griff to fill him in.
He’d have to know soon. Everyone would have to know.
She was so tired of feeling like she was tiptoeing around all the time. “It was the letters, the ones Violet wrote. I don’t know what she was like in public, on the surface, but she poured her heart into those letters to Billy. Her personality bounces off the page. She was witty, and funny, and very acerbic.”
“In other words—all the qualities critics use to describe The Velvet Room.” Griff moved his head, stretching his neck and shoulders with a grimace. He had to be shattered. He’d spent the past few hours helping to shift rubble outside The Henry. Freddy had heard distant clattering and banging coming from the west side while she’d been on the stage, trying to look enthusiastic about kissing about the former male model who was playing Wickham. He was an insanely handsome man, basically one giant smoulder, and compared to her attraction to Griff, the chemistry between them was a damp fizz.
Maf had been firing off scene changes at them like a drill sergeant, testing their reaction time, to see if they could keep their lines straight yet.
The result hadn’t been encouraging. Dylan had been in a right strop, his head bandaged and his ego chastened; Sadie was word-perfect but increasingly sharp about anyone else’s mistakes; Ferren was still worryingly chirpy; and Maya had ended up on the verge of tears, neatly encapsulating everyone else’s reaction.
Freddy had got through by imagining being able to sleep in Griff’s arms again tonight. If he still wanted her there after this.
“The more letters you read, the more you see the similarities. You read Violet’s words, her voice, and you hear the play so clearly. I kept thinking of what Wanda said, that she didn’t think Henrietta knew about Violet and Billy. If Henrietta had written the script, it would have proved Wanda wrong on that point. Somehow, I can’t see Wanda missing a trick where the relationship dynamics were concerned with that lot. And then in one particular letter, the one I temporarily borrowed,” she added hastily, foreseeing his commentary on that, and the corners of his eyes briefly crinkled, “there are a few expressions Violet uses. She and Billy had a private, ongoing joke about old Victorian slang. She teased him with the phrase ‘got the morbs’ when he was missing her and feeling a bit down. Which is—”
“In the play.” Griff let out a low whistle. “One of the most well-known playwrights in Europe. The most decorated piece of British drama in the last century. And she may not have written a bloody word of it. It’s almost unbelievable.”
“I’ve been rereading the play.” Freddy realised she was actually wringing her hands, like a nervous old woman in a film. She should be as exhausted as Griff, but she felt hyped up and jittery, as if she’d been chewing on espresso beans for hours. She tried, unsuccessfully, to stop fidgeting. Several of his early reviews had made sarky comments on her excess of energy.
Really, he was lucky he was sexy.
“I can see why some people considered Marguerite to be a semi-autobiographical character,” she murmured. “I never understood that, but from the picture I’m building up of my grandmother now, I reckon it’s a brutally accurate portrayal of Henrietta in print. The good and the bad sides of her. If Violet started off in awe of Henrietta, she quickly saw through her—even before Grandma pinched her work and passed it off as her own.”
“Christ.” Griff shook his head. “Henrietta conned the entire British public.”
“And kept up the deception her whole life.” Freddy frowned. “I’m surprised she didn’t soften the characterisation of Marguerite before she submitted the play to producers. I’m assuming The Velvet Room debuted after Violet passed away?”
“It opened at the old Metronome about six months after Violet’s accident. And Marguerite is the play. I think it’s justified to say she’s one of the most morally complex characters in literary history. Softening her would have stripped the play of most of its impact. Henrietta may not have been a talented writer, but she was an extremely savvy actor. She would have recognised brilliance even if she couldn’t produce it herself.”
Freddy crossed one arm over to rub at her opposite shoulder, and Griff pushed away from the desk.
“Freddy—are you all right?”
She stopped moving, with her hand still on her shoulder. “Yes.”
The bed dipped a bit as he sat on the edge of the mattress. She wasn’t looking at him,
but could sense him studying the part of her face he could see.
He touched the back of his finger to her cheek. “Henrietta was your idol when you were a child. Even as an adult, it’s difficult to realise that somebody you admired—”
“Was a brilliant actor, a very mediocre writer, and apparently totally lacking in scruples?” She shook her head, dropping her hands to her lap. “She died before I was born, and when I started to suspect... I felt—personally betrayed.” A little sound came from her chest. “Stupid.”
“No.” Griff’s palm was warm against her neck and ear. He pulled her into him and rested his cheek against hers. “Understandable.”
She tucked her fingers around his wrist. “I feel like I should be apologising to you. To your family. On behalf of mine.”
“What happened in the past has nothing to do with us.” Firm and decisive words, but—
“That’s not true, though, is it?” Freddy pulled his arm down so she could twist to look at him. “What happened then is going to directly impact what happens now. To start with, it’s probably going to be a legal nightmare. There’s a lot of royalty money involved that’s been directed to the wrong estate. It’ll take years to sort out that mess.” She hesitated. “And there’s your film.”
Griff had one of the sharpest minds she’d ever encountered. He would have seen the new door that had just opened, the moment he’d realised what he was holding as he crouched by his grandfather’s hidden chest.
When the facts were made public, it would be a literary scandal. This was a text that was studied for university entrance exams. It made an absolute fortune in performance royalties and West End ticket sales. And it had been stolen. The observations and hopes and despair and love of the most invisible member of the Wythburn Group, ripped away and presented as coming from the brain and heart of the tabloids’ favourite actress. The secret hidden for decades. An extramarital affair on one side. Heartbroken true lovers on the other.
A man once considered to be an unsuitable match, who’d gone on to become society’s pet painter. That was tragic, that Violet had died so soon after she’d found Billy again. The letters made it clear that she wouldn’t have let the fear of her family’s disdain dissuade her away from him this time. And in the end, it would have resolved itself anyway. Presumably, even Griff’s stodgy great-grandparents would have found the newly wealthy William Gotham eligible. It was such a waste.
And it was cinematic gold.
The entertainment business moved quickly; it struck while public fervour was at a peak. Griff’s film was already far advanced in preproduction. Even with the new angle, he had it ready and waiting for a studio to snap up. Her father could do nothing to prevent it. His own project—and his treasured, critically acclaimed biography—had just been rendered obsolete.
Freddy was fairly sure that any support she gave to the Ford-Griffins from here on out would be the final straw where her relationship with her dad was concerned.
“This will change things where the studio is concerned. Won’t it?”
“Yes, I expect it will.” He wore a strange, preoccupied expression as he looked down into her face, a small frown etched between his brows.
Freddy took a deep breath and released it shakily. “I’m glad.” Her voice was husky. “I’ll be so glad if you can keep Highbrook. And you’ll give Violet the recognition she should have had. You’ll give her back her voice. One side of this is such a relief.”
The other side was shattering.
“I thought about saying nothing.” The words blurted out, and she couldn’t look at him. “I saw my father stumble in Henrietta’s office, and he looked so old and in so much pain, but so proud, and I couldn’t bear it. The thought of having to tell him.” She felt Griff make an abrupt, abbreviated movement at her side, and looked up, her misery and shame probably evident in her eyes. “I thought about keeping it buried. Which would have been so utterly wrong. I’m so sorry.”
That weird look remained on Griff’s face, but he didn’t hesitate. His arms came around her and he pressed his mouth to her temple. “Freddy. Believe me, I understand the impulse to protect family.” An indecipherable note to the words. “Don’t look like that. I understand.”
A muscle in her back was still twitching, and she moved her shoulder restlessly. Griff pushed up her top, his hand stroking, warm and strong, up her spine, and started kneading at the rock-hard tension there. It occurred to her how far they’d come in many ways, that he would even initiate this sort of intimacy. It was so good that, as the judders of emotion slowly soothed into stillness, Freddy felt herself start to go boneless, her weight sinking into him.
She could hear the light sound of his breathing in the otherwise quiet room. Without sitting up, she stretched out a hand, carefully pushed Violet’s painstaking work into a pile and set it aside, then twisted against his body to circle his neck with her arms.
A different sort of shiver racked her. It was a good thing her massage therapist in London didn’t have this effect on her. It seemed like, no matter what else was going on, the moment Griff touched her she felt it as a warm, almost narcotic glow in her stomach, edged with the fluttering of arousal. If she were a man, she’d soon be in danger of waving a giant flag that she was really, really enjoying the backrub. One of the many perks of being a woman. Willies were fun to play with, but occasionally they just seemed inconvenient. And kind of odd-looking.
She liked Griff’s, though, and she had a feeling it might be equally affected by the touching. He was breathing deeper.
However, his mind, like hers, was still weighted by the underlying situation and the day’s revelation. “It’s fairly obvious Henrietta didn’t pull this off by herself. At least after the fact.”
Freddy rubbed her cheek on his shirt, an instinctive seeking of comfort, and her breath hitched when she felt the press of Griff’s lips against her shoulder. His mouth moved there for a few seconds, not sexually, just gently. It was as if he’d read her mind, sensed her need. “Your grandfather helped her. Hid the evidence.” She shifted as he resumed the slow rubbing, pressing his thumbs in circles over her tight muscles. “And went to quite an extreme to do it. There was basically no chance anyone was going to find Violet’s drafts while he or Henrietta were still alive. Do you think he plastered over the wall with saucy tiles as a sort of double bluff? Like, everyone would look at the wall, but you’d be too distracted to even think of looking beyond the wall.”
“No. I think the old rip just took any opportunity to exercise his tastes in home decorating. But you’re right. He safeguarded that secret like Cerberus protecting the gates of the underworld. Henrietta’s office was off-limits when I was small.”
“He may have kept the secret, but he didn’t destroy those drafts and he ended his affair with Henrietta. And never spoke to her or of her in public again. When all is said and done, Violet was his sister. And as you said—” she lifted her head “—making sacrifices for family seems to be a quality that runs strong in the Ford-Griffins.”
His eyes searching hers, Griff lowered his head and rested his mouth on hers. It was more of a caress than a kiss. Freddy couldn’t resist touching the tip of her tongue to his, and his palm slipped over her body to cup the curve of her shoulder. She assumed it was stage one of a campaign advancing towards her breasts.
“I can’t have penetrative sex,” she said against his mouth, and he nuzzled her cheek with his lovely, exuberant nose.
“Ever again, or just tonight?”
“Probably tonight and tomorrow. My pelvic muscles are really tight mid-cycle, and penetration is usually uncomfortable.” She put her hands on the back of his head, feeling the softness of his hair and the warmth of his body. “Sorry.”
Griff leaned back on his elbow, stroking her shoulder, tracing light circles on her chest. “You don’t have to apologise for not wanting sex, for any reason. And Jesus, if it’s g
oing to be painful for you, tell me to fuck off.”
“Not that I’d tell you to fuck off anyway.” Freddy leaned forward and entwined her arms back around his neck. “But I said penetrative sex, and I emphasised. Acting lessons with Freddy, part two: following a cue.”
His smile met hers before he kissed her deeply, and she made a little noise of pleasure when his fingers ran up her thigh beneath her dress. She’d already kicked off her leggings to get more comfortable. Griff brushed his knuckles very lightly across the silk between her legs. While he kissed her, he kept his hand there, making gentle movements over the fabric.
An element of mutual comfort underlay the building lust, both the giving and seeking of solace after the turmoil of the past few days.
He trailed his lips over her chin, down her jaw, and found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. He really was a fast learner.
Freddy’s breath started to fracture as he slipped his hand up to her stomach and then stroked down beneath the lace band of her knickers. Her own fingers faltered on her mission to undo his buttons.
Griff kissed her neck, applying gentle suction, and then blew lightly on her; and holy crap she had a quick trigger where he was concerned. She could usually only get herself to this point so rapidly, and most of the time she needed a toy to help.
Closing her eyes, with another low sound she couldn’t suppress, she put her hand over his to adjust the pressure. Her legs were starting to shake, and she inhaled sharply through her nose when the change in touch made her hips jerk upwards, pushing towards him.
The more control she took over her own enjoyment, the sexier he seemed to find it. His cheeks were streaked with a flush of red. For an instant, though, he stilled. “Am I hurting you?” His voice was a rough rasp, and in answer, Freddy tugged on his fingers, bringing them back to where it felt really...really...
