The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  “If that was meant to get back at me, you twisted—”

  “Oh, no.” Sadie’s smile grew. “That was just a little extra. The real fun should be starting any moment now. Enjoy the show tonight, won’t you? Because it might take some time to get another one. I think you’ll find that the closest you get to Anathorn is reading the books while you’re unemployed. Fiona Gallagher is notoriously gun-shy about hiring actors with PR problems. And after all the...effort your family members have expended getting you to this point, too.”

  Freddy’s nails dug into the palms of her hands as Sadie leaned in, her breath fanning Freddy’s face, strong with the scent of cinnamon-flavoured chewing gum. “Next time, I suggest you keep your charming little comments to yourself.”

  She tapped Freddy’s cheek with one finger. She’d had to remove her bright red polish, but she’d kept the long, pointed shape, and the little prick on Freddy’s cheekbone acted on her nerves as violently as if Sadie had dragged her talon over a blackboard.

  “And tell your boyfriend that he ought to close his library windows,” Sadie finished, triumph a thick layer over every delicate feature of her face, “if he wants to keep your dirty laundry quiet. Plagiarism on a grand scale.” She tilted her head. “So much for the prestigious Carltons.”

  It would have been an exit line worthy of Shakespeare, if an assistant hadn’t come dashing out of the props room then, holding the dagger that was going into someone’s back in the first act. He yanked the door closed behind him before he sped off down the corridor, as Freddy stood frozen, her face burning with sudden heat while the rest of her went ice-cold. The latch slammed shut, and the carving hanging above the doorframe rattled—and dropped.

  As Sadie was punched in the left eye by a sculptural depiction of Odysseus, complete with disproportionately large wooden willy, she made a squawking noise exactly like the peacock in the garden. “Fuck.” With one hand cupped over her face, she glared down at the carving, which had cracked in two on the ground. “This fucking theatre.” Her malevolent one-eyed glare turned back on Freddy, who, hopefully not using up all her acting reserves before they got onstage, didn’t allow so much as a flicker of emotion to cross her face.

  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.

  “Forget about her,” Griff said, moving one shoulder as if he were shrugging away a persistent insect. Apt. “One thing at a time. For now—just concentrate on the show. We’ll deal with the rest as it comes.”

  The show must go on. The ultimate theatre cliché, but one that was bred into Freddy’s bones.

  “Y
es.” Reluctantly, she released him. “And I have to find Sabrina.”

  “Sabrina?”

  “Ferren slept with Maya the other night.”

  One of Griff’s brows went up slightly, and Freddy could read his expressions well enough now that she blinked. “Did you know?”

  “Before we end up on the outs again,” he said firmly, “no, I didn’t. Somebody was sneaking around the corridor in the early hours, however. I assumed it was Waitely’s latest conquest.”

  “No—Dylan’s turned out be something of a white knight today. Who would have thought?” She scowled. “Sadie spilled the beans during the broadcast. Sabrina’s devastated, your mate Nick Davenport was no help whatsoever, and now Ferren’s taken off and if nobody can find him we’re going to have to sub in his understudy. Who’s woefully underprepared because Ferren kept kicking up a stink about hearing someone else reading his lines.”

  “Is it going to come off as officious and interfering if I try to track down the cheating little pissant?”

  Freddy looked at him. “No. It’s going to come across as helpful and caring.”

  “I care,” he said, and his voice was very gruff. “A fuck of a lot.”

  “Me too.” A renewed rush of tears was clogging her throat, and her response was little more than a whisper.

  Griff’s eyes searched hers again, and then, with an achingly affectionate tug of one of her loose curls, he strode towards the outside door. Hand on the knob, he turned back. “Freddy, whether Ferren’s there or not, and whatever else Sadie’s done, you can do this.”

  She wound her hands into the fine muslin of her skirt, and asked the question she’d been afraid to voice. “Is my dad here?”

  She read the answer in his face before he said it. “He left. I’m sorry.” Griff’s expression darkened, with obvious concern for her, and equally clear exasperation with her father. “I think the scene this morning was too big a hit to his pride for one day.”

  And his pride was apparently more important than being here for her tonight.

  Wordlessly, she nodded, her chest tight.

  As she moved quickly down the hallway and into the corridor where the largest dressing rooms were located, her petticoats rustled and she kept her hand pressed against the lacing over her ribs, trying to breathe evenly. After a cursory knock on Ferren’s door, she pushed it open.

  Initially, she thought the room was empty; then she heard the tiny muffled sound, and turned, and her heart clenched.

  Sabrina—perfectly together, impossibly beautiful, vibrant Sabrina—was curled in a ball on the floor, one arm across her face. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, frizzing everywhere, as if she’d been repeatedly pulling damp fingers through the curls, and her long legs were gathered against her chest.

  “Oh, Sabs.” Shoving the door closed behind her, Freddy went to Sabrina’s side, down on her knees, wrapping her arms about her tightly.

  For four or five seconds, Sabrina went rigid, and then she broke. Her hand came up and clutched at Freddy’s forearm, and she buried her face in Freddy’s neck. Through her tears, she coughed out, “I’m ruining your costume.”

  Freddy tightened her arm where she was shielding Sabrina’s head. “Shut up, Sabrina,” she said, and heard a weak, wet, desolate chuckle.

  They sat like that for seemingly endless, timeless minutes.

  “You were right.” Sabrina exhaled shakily. “About Joe.”

  His name was a heartbroken cry.

  Freddy closed her eyes. “I didn’t want to be right, Sabs.”

  Sabrina held her tighter. When she spoke again, her voice was still husky. “And I fucked up the show tonight. In front of fucking Davenport. Who’ll probably be laughing all the way to the new presenter contract.”

  There was a brief knock on the door before it opened quietly. Even in these circumstances, Freddy’s stomach still did a little flip when Griff came into a room. His expression softened for a moment as his gaze met hers. “Nobody’s seen him,” he said, a tactful eye on Sabrina, who was red-eyed and haunted-looking. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work around the understudy.”

  Freddy breathed out. “Right.”

  Sabrina’s arms loosened, and moving sluggishly, she sat up, pushing her hair back. “He’s walked out on the job?” She swallowed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sorry, Freddy.”

  Griff was sorry about her father, Sabrina was sorry about Ferren; everybody was apologising for someone else’s shit behaviour, and suddenly Freddy was furious.

  “We don’t need Ferren,” she said, getting to her feet and reaching a hand down to pull Sabrina up. “Whether he’s on the stage or hiding in the grounds like a cowardly, irresponsible little dick, we’re going to smash it tonight. And you definitely don’t need Ferren. Look at you. You’re a rock star. You’re a total babe. Fuck him.”

  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 a
n 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.