Devil's Palace (13 page)

‘You mean she has nothing?' Sandor rasped at his secretary, frowning fiercely. ‘Not a sou? And that reptile, Yakovlev, tried to seduce her?'

The secretary flinched at the savagery in his employer's voice. ‘The maid was adamant that Prince Yakovlev demanded certain favours if the lady in question was to be paid.'

‘Damn him to hell, but he'll regret the day he was born!'

‘Yes, sir.'

The secretary waited obediently as Sandor strode the room, his handsome face contorted with anger. ‘That pot-bellied lecher will learn his lesson once and for all. As for Mademoiselle Grainger …'

‘Yes, sir.'

Sandor cursed, his eyes narrowing. Zara would be in Monte Carlo within days, perhaps even hours. Zara would take care of Charlotte; she could approach Charlotte without his name even being mentioned.

‘I want Mademoiselle Grainger to be informed that Lady Beston will be arriving in Monte Carlo before the end of the week and that she is desirous of hiring her as a companion for her journey back to England. Allow Mademoiselle Grainger to believe that a member of the English fraternity has spoken with Lady Beston and that Lady Beston has instructed a room to be set aside for her at the Hotel de Paris until her arrival.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Sandor rounded on him, ‘At
once
, François!'

Sensing the fury barely under control, François hastened from the room. Sandor swore viciously. Not a sou to her name and reduced to going to those uncaring bitches of high society and asking for employment. Employment they could easily have given her – if they had cared. He could imagine the air of dignity with which she had approached them, carrying herself straight and tall and with effortless grace. Damn them all to hell. The whole lot of them were not worth a hair of her head.

His jaw tightened. He would not leave Beausoleil until he knew she was safely installed at the Hotel de Paris.

Unable to curb his turbulent emotions, he ordered that his horse be saddled and stormed to his room, changing into riding breeches and a cream-coloured silk shirt with a high Russian neck. He dismissed his valet curtly, pulling on riding boots of soft Spanish leather, picking up his riding crop, marching to the stables, his brows pulled together demonically.

‘But today of all days!' Maria gazed aghast at Charlotte.

Charlotte sighed wearily. ‘I know, Maria. But the prince insists it is no disrespect to his mother and, to tell the truth, I think that perhaps he is right.'

‘But what will people say?'

‘In Monte Carlo?' Charlotte shrugged. In Monte Carlo the most outrageous behaviour went unnoticed.

‘The Prince will want you to wear a suitable gown,' Maria said doubtfully. ‘Something
décolleté.
'

‘I shall wear the gown I am wearing now. It is as near to a mourning gown as I possess. Monte Carlo may have forgotten the Princess the minute the funeral was over, but I have not.'

Maria nodded in agreement. ‘I will dress your hair with fresh rosebuds. That is all the adornment you will need.'

Already dusk had fallen. Maria summoned the undermaid to bring large jugs of hot water to fill Charlotte's bath and then set to work, pressing the lavender gown while Charlotte bathed.

Later, as Charlotte sat at the dressing table and Maria brushed the thickly waving chestnut hair high on the back of Charlotte's head, arranging it in a natural fall of ringlets, she thought that, despite her tiredness, Charlotte had never looked so lovely.

‘The carriage is waiting, Mademoiselle Grainger,' a Yakovlev footman said, his eyes vaguely troubled.

‘Thank you.'

Unwillingly Charlotte rose to her feet. Tonight would be her last night in the Devil's Palace. She had not thought to enter it again. Certainly not in such company. Always before she had set off for the evening amongst the glitter and the gold with a heady sense of excitement. Now she felt only reluctance.

The prince was waiting for her in the villa's magnificent entrance hall. His silk cravat was tied flamboyantly, a large diamond glittering in the intricate folds. His cut-away coat was expensively tailored but did nothing to flatter his portly figure. It was heavily embellished with black silk facings and a footman deferentially adjusted a scarlet-lined opera cloak around his shoulders.

For a moment the Prince was about to protest at the simplicity of Charlotte's dress, but seeing the wilful set of her chin he decided against it. Besides, she looked ravishing. He took her hand, kissed it, and complimented her lavishly on her appearance and then led her out into the soft night air.

Charlotte stepped up and into the carriage. Prince Victor followed, his physical presence overpowering her. A footman slammed the door shut and jumped on to the box. The coachman cracked his whip. Charlotte looked steadfastly away from Prince Victor who was devouring her with his small, protruding eyes, and prayed that the evening would come to an early end.

Victor Yakovlev was not a man accustomed to feeling out of his depth but there was something about Charlotte's gentle dignity that unnerved him. It was as if his rank, his wealth, meant nothing at all to her. She was young and indescribably beautiful. Surely being at his mother's beck and call had been hateful to her? Surely she must have longed for such an evening? A rich escort, gold
louis
to play the tables, champagne, caviar? Why then was she not teasing him with one of the smiles she bestowed so freely on Maria, on the footman—on anyone who performed the slightest task for her? Without his favour she would be destitute and yet she was not making the slightest sign of seeking it.

He strove for patience. He would wait until they had entered the casino. Till she had experienced the thrill of the croupiers pushing their wooden shovels of gold plaques in her direction. Till the champagne made her heedless and reckless.

He stroked his wispy moustache. She had been high and mighty the previous day when he had made advances to her, but that was before she had realised how utterly dependent upon him she was. Tonight would be different. Tonight he would teach her how to be grateful. He smiled in the darkness as the carriage rattled towards the casino and its myriad blazing lights.

Heads turned, shocked and disapproving, as Charlotte entered on the Prince's arm. She held her head a fraction higher. It was not she who had chosen to show disrespect to Princess Natalya. It was her son. What did the ladies and gentlemen at the tables know of her dilemma? What did they care?

Her skirts swirled softly as she continued to walk by the side of Prince Yakovlev, her eyes fixed firmly ahead of her, greeting no one. The rococo mirrors reflected her appearance. Duplicated it. The soft lavender of her gown intensified the golden highlights in her hair. Dressed in utter simplicity the Parisian-gowned and jewelled ladies of high society paled into insignificance beside her.

Dowagers in tiaras nodded acknowledgements to the Prince and pointedly ignored his ill-chosen companion. An elderly French marchioness, her face garishly coated with rouge and white powder, her hair henna-ed in a pathetic attempt to retain beauty long-since fled, froze Charlotte and pointedly turned her velvet-clad back.

Lady Pethelbridge raised horrified eyes and turned quickly away, the train of her gold-embroidered turquoise silk dress swirling on the lushly carpeted floor. The Countess of Bexhall followed suit. Back after back turned, fans flicking, indignant whispers rife.

Twenty-four hours ago they had clapped and applauded her. Charlotte's eyes were overly bright. Maria, a Monégasque peasant, was worth far more than the titled, wealthy ladies thronging the Salle Mauresque. Then, across the brilliantly lit room, a pair of eyes met Charlotte's, china blue and mischievous. Louise de Remy was on the arm of her Russian grand duke, her dress white satin and covered in seed pearls, diamonds at her throat, her wrists, her ears. She raised a hand, white gloved to the elbow, pressing it lightly against her lips and blew a kiss across the room in Charlotte's direction. Charlotte's smile was instant and spontaneous. Louise had misunderstood the situation entirely but what did it matter? She had halted her carriage for her when she was in distress. Her friendship was sincere and did not depend on Charlotte's popularity or unpopularity.

The Prince ignored the frozen glances cast in his direction. If society had expected him to remain in mourning, then society was going to be disappointed. Charlotte's hand rested on his arm so lightly it was like the touch of a butterfly. He could feel the rhythm of her graceful, swaying walk at his side. He thought of the room upstairs already prepared. The opulent divan, the chilling champagne. A rush of blood flooded his face. He must not hurry things. He must take it step by step, so as not to frighten her away. First she must experience the feel of gold in her hands. With a flourish the Prince seated her at a crowded roulette table, his hand caressing her shoulder proprietorily as he did so. Charlotte flinched.

‘Red or black, my dear?' the Prince asked, leaning so near to her that his moustache brushed her cheek.

‘I do not wish to play, Your Highness.'

‘Nonsense!' The Prince's joviality held a note of desperation. If she was going to be awkward so early on in the evening, then there was little hope for his other plans.

‘Black,' a male voice said behind them, ‘ for mourning.'

The Prince flushed and turned angrily. The English milord behind him merely smiled, bowed and moved away. Charlotte felt a rush of shame. What must they think of her, her fellow countrymen and women who took mourning so seriously?

‘Red,' the Prince said heavily, turning his attention to the table. ‘Red number nine, for the lady.'

The roulette wheel whirred, the ivory ball clicked slower and slower and then, miraculously, dropped into red nine.

The Prince was jubilant.

‘And this time?' He was leaning so close to her that she could smell the sweat beneath the sweetness of his cologne.

‘Number six.' She had to escape. She should never have come. The Prince was patting her hand, her arm, his small body pressed indecently close to hers. She was uncaring of where the ivory ball would fall. Her eyes searched the room in the hope of seeing Justin, of seeing Sarah. Instead they met the blazing dark eyes of Sandor Karolyi. With a gasp she swung her head away, staring sightlessly at the roulette wheel. Red number six had proved unlucky.

The Prince urged her to double up her previous winnings and place them once again on red nine. She did so, her distress barely under control. His gaze had held such hostility that for a second she had thought her heart would cease to beat. Vaguely she was aware that red nine had proved lucky again. She was trembling. What right had he to censure her so? Surely, of all the people in the Salle Mauresque, Count Sandor Karolyi was the one whose opinion of her should bother her the least? The play continued. Occasionally, whenever she raised her mortified eyes, she would see in the expression of those around her the belief that she had made the transition from companion to the mother to mistress of the son. Contempt, except from the ladies of the
demi-monde
, was obvious.

The Prince's hand now circled her waist. Beside them, a cocotte with creamily bared shoulders and near-naked breasts leaned laughingly against her escort. Charlotte was well aware of the intimacies exhibited so carelessly by the ladies of the town and their titled lovers. Of the caresses, the overt teasing of long-lashed eyes over feathered fans. Now she, too, was being treated as such. The heat of the Prince's hand seared the silk of her gown. Squeezed and pressed. She could endure it no longer. In her innocence she had thought that he had wanted her companionship to ease the burden of his loss. She now knew that Prince Victor Yakovlev felt no sense of loss at his mother's death: no grief. He was incapable of such honourable emotions.

‘Please … excuse me … I must leave …'

Already she was rising from the crowded table. Her winnings had been enormous. Prince Victor rose willingly. Now for the
coup de grace.

‘A change of play, I think,' he said as their places were taken at the table.

‘No.' Charlotte felt faint. Though she had not dared to look in his direction again, she knew that Sandor Karolyi's eyes had never left her. That they were fixed burningly on her even now.

The Prince's hand covered hers with unpleasant firmness. ‘We shall leave … soon. But first …' He indicated a flight of stairs leading to the upper rooms and the Salon Privé.

Charlotte had often accompanied the Princess there, for it was reserved for those of royal blood, those who preferred a little privacy as they staked and lost fortunes. Baccarat would be the game in progress. She could not play baccarat, therefore, for a time at least, she would be free of the Prince's touch. She could sit to one side as she was accustomed to doing, the Prince could indulge himself at the table, and then they would leave.

She nodded unhappy acquiescence and a triumphant Prince Yakovlev led her towards the gilded staircase.

Sandor's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening around the curve of his brandy glass. She had gone reluctantly, but she had gone. Had he been so wrong about her? Was it possible that his judgment had been in error?

His fury when François had returned and informed him that his message concerning Lady Beston could not be passed on to Mademoiselle Grainger because she had left for the casino with Prince Yakovlev had been white-hot. The Charlotte he knew would never have consented to accompany Prince Victor Yakovlev anywhere. He had stormed from Beausoleil, ordering his coachman to drive the horses to the utmost in his haste to be swiftly on her heels.

He had seen her the minute he had entered the room. Small pink rose-buds nestled in her hair. Her gown was the gown she had worn when she had visited Beausoleil. She was the only woman in the room whose shoulders were modestly covered. She was the only woman in the room that he had eyes for. He saw her every movement: the stiffening of her body as Yakovlev touched her, the anguish in her eyes as he treated her publicly as a cocotte. Then, to his utter disbelief, he saw her rise and accompany Yakovlev up the sumptuous staircase. Sandor was well acquainted with the private rooms ostensibly used for supper
à deux
and in reality retreats for seduction.