Devil's Palace (14 page)

He held himself taut, every line of his body rigid. Was she going to sell herself to Yakovlev for a handful of gold
louis?
A blood-red mist swam behind his eyes. A pretty vicomtesse approached him, spoke and was ignored. An English duke exchanged a word of greeting and was similarly treated.

He should have marched over to the roulette table the minute he entered and saw her sitting there. He should have forcibly removed her from Yakovlev's side. A nerve throbbed at his jaw. She would not have gone with him. He had destroyed for ever any faith she might have had in him. All he could hope to do was to shield her from Yakovlev until Zara arrived. That was, if she wanted to be shielded.

The crystal shattered in the tightness of his grasp. One of Monsieur Blanc's minions hastened forward. The glass was swept swiftly and discreetly away. A handkerchief staunched the blood from his already scarred hand. Sandor stood oblivious as the ministrations were carried out, his eyes fixed on the head of the staircase. How long had she been gone? Two minutes? Three? If she remained voluntarily with Yakovlev in the private supper room upstairs, then he knew nothing would ever be the same. Any belief he had in inherent goodness would have gone for ever.

Charlotte paused bewilderedly. They were not heading towards the Salon Privé. Were there other gaming rooms: rooms she had no knowledge of? Triumphantly Prince Victor opened the door of the room he had so carefully reserved, and ushered her inside. She stood for a moment, uncomprehending. There were no green baize card tables, no elegant gentlemen, cigar smoke wreathing their heads, no tiara-crowned ladies. Only a supper table laid for two, a divan heavily showered with soft cushions, champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket.

She swung around, her eyes flashing with realisation and revulsion. ‘This is no gaming room, Prince Yakovlev!'

‘I thought supper,
à deux
…' Prince Victor's voice was sharp. She was not being amenable. She had not even counted the gold plaques she had won at the roulette table. She had refused all offers of champagne.

‘I thought you needed companionship this evening, Prince Yakovlev, to ease your grief. That is the reason I accompanied you. I did not realise that the companionship you required was that of a … a …
putain!
'

Prince Victor goggled at her vocabulary, struggled for speech and failed. She swept past him, eyes blazing.

‘Keep your gold, Prince Yakovlev! Your champagne! Your
hospitality!
'

She was out in the corridor, shaking, fighting to control the tears of rage and humiliation that threatened to engulf her.

Prince Victor felt the veins in his neck swell and throb. He rushed after her, seizing her wrists.

‘Where the devil do you think you are going?'

‘To the villa!' She wrenched herself free of his grasp. ‘I shall collect my belongings and I shall leave.' She marched away from him, her skirts swishing.

‘You shall not! Not unaccompanied!'

Charlotte paused and turned, her eyes withering in their contempt. ‘Are you concerned for my virtue, Prince Yakovlev?'

‘No, by God! My reputation!'

Charlotte laughed, the unshed tears stinging her eyes. ‘Of course. How foolish of me. It would be damaging to your reputation if I were to be seen publicly leaving alone, wouldn't it? Well; I am afraid you will just have to live with that humiliation, Prince Yakovlev.'

‘
Never!
' He had hold of her wrist again. He was panting, his eyes fevered. If she left in the mood she was now in, the news would spread through the casino like wildfire. He would be a laughing stock. A Prince rejected by a paid companion. His sweating fingers tightened their hold. ‘Remain with me in the Salle Mauresque for five, ten minutes. Then we will leave together.'

‘No!' She pulled away from him, half running towards the head of the stairs.

Gasping for breath he caught hold of her again. ‘Your salary. Do as I ask and I will pay you your salary.' It was a pittance. He would take it from her winnings. Winnings he had no intention of allowing her to keep.

‘Five minutes.' Her voice was tight with defeat. If she rushed unescorted from the casino she would have to face the long walk to the villa in the dark and alone. And where would she go when she reached her destination? Where would she take her pathetic belongings? She had endured much. Surely she could endure another five minutes and leave with a semblance of dignity?

Her satin-slippered feet hurried down the broadly sweeping stairs, Yakovlev following in her wake, his protruding blue eyes glazed with the fury of a man defeated.

Smoothly Sandor crossed to the foot of the stairs, his relief incalculable. She had not stayed to receive Prince Yakovlev's amorous advances. He remembered the Princess's love of baccarat and her frequent card-playing in the Salon Privé. No doubt that was where Charlotte had believed she was being led.

He wanted to take hold of her, chase the misery from her eyes, reassure her, comfort her. He could do none of those things because she would misunderstand his intentions. He could not even ask that she return with him to Beausoleil and wait there for Zara's arrival. She would not believe in Zara's existence. She would think it yet another ploy to rob her of her virtue.

His eyes slanted under their winged brows. There was only one way of achieving her safety. A cruel, heartless way, and yet if he did not act soon—tonight—she would be gone.

‘Good evening, Mademoiselle.'

She sprang back from him as if he were the devil incarnate.

‘Good evening, Prince Yakovlev.'

Prince Yakovlev had no desire to converse with Count Sandor Karolyi, yet Karolyi was a man it was wise not to snub. He accepted the Count's condolences on the loss of his mother and felt a surge of adrenalin in his veins as Count Karolyi suggested a hand of poker. To be seen seated with the notorious Sandor Karolyi would restore some of his lost self-esteem. It would also ensure that he did not have to make a hasty and undignified exit with Charlotte.

For a panic-stricken moment Charlotte wondered whether she should abandon all dignity and simply run from the Salle Mauresque and out into the night. Common sense asserted itself. Whilst the Prince played cards with Count Karolyi he could not touch or molest her. By remaining with him in the casino, she would have carried out her part of the bargain.

Aware that Sandor Karolyi's eyes were resting on her with disquieting frequency, she kept her own lowered as they crossed the room to a card table. An unopened pack of cards was brought across to the two gentlemen, was ceremoniously unwrapped and cut. Play commenced.

Charlotte, seated at the Prince's right-hand side, was only feet away from Count Karolyi. She could not help but be aware of his disturbing nearness, of the thick black hair, springy as heather. Of the high, lean, cheek-bones, the amber flame burning deep in his eyes, the bandaged hand. She wondered if he had cut it, burnt it. How? Where? She tried to direct her thoughts elsewhere but it was impossible.

The first hand fell to the Prince. A corner of Sandor's mouth curved in a crooked smile. Play commenced again. Two further hands fell to Prince Yakolev. Count Karolyi was known as a card player to fear and yet it seemed to Charlotte that he was playing with almost negligent carelessness.

The Prince, buoyed up by the skill he was displaying, increased his bets. Socialites wandering the salon paused to watch the play. Again Count Karolyi lost. Again Prince Yakovlev was gleeful.

Sandor's eyes rose from the green baize of the table and caught Charlotte's unaware, holding her prisoner. The desire he aroused in her flooded through her so that she could hardly bear it. She tore her eyes away from his, her heart slamming painfully.

The idle bystanders had increased in number. A lady's sable brushed Charlotte's shoulder. A gentleman asked
sotto voce
what the devil Karolyi was playing at.

Three kings. A flush. Again Sandor lost and as his mouth curved into a smile and he picked up the cards in front of him, Charlotte was filled with sudden disquiet. He was losing on purpose. Luring Prince Victor into a state of euphoric self-confidence.

A strange tightness began to grow in her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. He was doing more than luring Prince Victor into parting with his gold. In that instant of time when their eyes had held, she had read something unfathomable in their depths. Something that both frightened and exhilarated her.

Again he lost to the Prince. This time, when he raised his eyes to hers she held them. A brief smile touched his mouth. Time wavered and faltered. In that moment she knew why the Vicomtesse had taken her life for love of him. A tremor ran through her body. No other man would have the power over her that Sandor Karolyi had, yet she would not yield to it. She would not become another in his long line of conquests. Her defiance shone in her eyes. His smile twisted, his mouth setting in a tight line.

This time the Prince lost to the Count. Charlotte was too overcome with the tumult of her heart and mind to care. She must not look at him. Must not remember the feel of his mouth on hers. The feel of his body as he held her with such easy strength. Unseeingly she stared at the bodices of the ladies surrounding the table: at corselettes of diamonds, of swathes of tulle and brocade.

Another hand went down to the Count. Perspiration was beginning to break out on Prince Victor's brow. The audience surrounding the table made it impossible for him to call a halt to the game. Honour demanded that it be continued.

Charlotte strove to dismiss the Count from her mind. In the morning she would leave the Villa Ondine as soon as she had been paid. She would travel by carriage to Nice and then by wagon-lit to Paris. Surely there would be enough money for her to make the journey in reasonable comfort? In Paris she would rest overnight and then continue by road to Calais. In Calais she would take a ship to Dover.

His eyes were on her again. She would not turn her head. In Dover she would …

Cards were expertly shuffled and dealt. Covertly she slid her eyes across to his lowered head. He looked disturbingly commanding. In full control of the game he was playing.

Again the Prince lost. Lazily Sandor suggested that the stakes be raised. Unable to lose face, Prince Victor agreed. With almost insolent ease Sandor took Prince Victor's full house with a running flush. Excitement around the table was palpable. Victor Yakovlev's wealth was not vast, despite his rank. He had relied upon his mother for his finances and doubt had been expressed as to whether or not the Princess had left her fortune to her son.

Sandor Karolyi's wealth was indisputable. With utter assurance, hand after hand fell to the Count. Sandor continued to play, showing not the slightest mercy to his victim. Too late Victor Yakovlev realised that his judgment had been clouded from the moment he had first sat at the table. He had been seething with fury at the English girl's rejection of him. His initial wins had restored his self-esteem. Now, thanks to his foolishness, he was a broken man. He had nothing left to stake. Monsieur Blanc would not extend credit to him. Credit had been extended too often in the past—and not repaid.

Savagely he rose from the table. He dared not continue to gamble on the strength of his mother's will. That document was still unread, languishing in the offices of her St Petersburg solicitor.

‘One moment,' Sandor leant negligently back in his chair, regarding Victor Yakovlev with a curious expression in his eyes. ‘I do not think the game is yet at an end.'

Victor Yakovlev glared at him with hatred. They were surrounded by half the crowned heads of Europe. Was Karolyi going to add to his humiliation?

‘It is at an end,' he said curtly. ‘I have nothing left to stake.'

On the table between them lay a ransom in gold and bank notes and letters of promise.

‘I think, Prince Victor,' Sandor said lazily, ‘that perhaps you have and are not aware of it.'

Prince Yakovlev halted. There was complete confidence in the Hungarian's voice.

Around the table the conversation ceased. News of Prince Yakovlev's loss had quickly circulated the salon and even the roulette wheels stilled as the curious walked across to the table where the two men faced each other and tried to obtain a view over dinner-jacketed and naked shoulders.

For several minutes Sandor did not put the Prince out of his misery. Then he leisurely lit a cigar, blowing a haze of blue smoke into the air and said carelessly, ‘Stake your companion, Yakovlev. It will add spice to the game and, who knows, if you win you will not only retain the delightful lady but also recoup the money you have lost.'

For a second there was a stunned silence and then slowly Prince Yakovlev sat down and reached for the cards. If he lost Charlotte he had lost nothing. Meanwhile, he stood to win a great deal.

‘My companion,' he said, and his smile was one of malicious pleasure. ‘Your deal, I believe, Count Karolyi.'

Charlotte felt as if she were drowning. The breath had frozen in her throat, her heart had ceased to beat. It could not be happening. She had misheard—misunderstood.

‘Prince Yakovlev has staked his mistress to Karolyi!'

The shouts went from table to table. Winning hands of cards were put down uncaringly. The whirr of roulette wheels ceased. The whole attention of the room was centred on the two men facing each other across the green baize table. And on Charlotte, standing immobile at Prince Yakovlev's side, her hand to her throat, her eyes disbelieving.

The crowd around her jostled and pushed.

‘Where's the girl?'

‘Surely she was Princess Natalya's companion?'

‘What the devil is Karolyi up to?'

Words, sentences, permeated her brain. She tried to turn and run but could not for the crowd that hemmed her in.

No longer did Sandor Karolyi seek to hold her eyes with his. His glossily dark head was bent intently over the cards in his hand, his face taut with concentration. The langour, the carelessness, was gone. He was a man playing for high stakes. Stakes he had no intention of losing.