Devil's Palace (17 page)

‘Thank you, Count Karolyi. I shall stay at Beausoleil under those terms until Lady Beston arrives,' she said stiffly, fighting her pain.

With intense restraint Sandor merely nodded and rang for fresh coffee.

Sunlight flooded the tiny room. French windows led out on to a small, flower-massed terrace. Jasmine wound itself insidiously around the doors so that it was difficult to discern where the room ended and the terrace began.

The maid entered with coffee. It was hot and strong and the coffee cup was of wafer-thin china.

‘A croissant?' he asked.

‘Thank you.'

He moved the plate in her direction. She reached out a hand and their eyes met. For a heart-stopping moment Charlotte thought she saw desire in the coal-dark depths and then it was chased away and she lowered her eyes, believing herself to be mistaken.

He did not want her for a mistress. He wanted her only to act the part of one. In doing so she would be in his company. She would be able to feast her eyes on him. Talk to him. And she would be spared the lecherous advances of Prince Yakovlev.

She strove to calm her inner tumult. Why had he made such an unusual request? Was it because he did not want another emotional entanglement after the tragic ending of his last love
affaire
? By being seen as his mistress, she would serve to protect him from the attentions of cocottes and ladies of fashion. The ladies of the
demi-monde
would envy her and no one, least of all Count Karolyi, would know of her heartbreak.

His voice broke in on her thoughts, sending her pulses pounding. ‘No doubt Jeanne will have already seen to it that a wardrobe has been prepared for you.'

Dark curls tumbled low over his brow. His hand reached out for the butter, strong and olive-toned. She longed to cover it with her own. To feel once again the touch of his flesh beneath hers. She lay down her croissant and clasped her hands lightly in her lap.

‘The dresses will be adequate but not entirely suitable. There is a dressmaker in the rue Grimaldi I have heard spoken of very highly. And a milliner. I suggest we pay a visit there this morning. Then perhaps you would accompany me when I pay a call on Mademoiselle Bernhardt, and I believe I am expected at the Palace for tea. François!'

The secretary entered the room.

‘Is it today Prince Charles requires my presence?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Thank you, François. That is all.'

The secretary left the breakfast-room and wondered if perhaps the Karolyi household was about to acquire a new and most unexpected mistress.

Charlotte stared at him. Accompany him on a visit to one of his mistresses? To the palace?

‘But will Mademoiselle Bernhardt not object to my presence?'

His brows flew upwards. ‘Of course not. Sarah has formed a great affection for you. Drama is her life, both on stage and off. Your action in the Boulevard des Moulins was one that could not fail to enthrall her.'

Her coffee cup was empty. Only crumbs remained on her plate. He rose to his feet and pulled back her chair. ‘First of all the dressmaker's and then the milliner's.'

He held out his arm. She felt her cheeks flush. Always before she had seen only the suffering, the impatience in the lines of his mouth. Now she saw the inherent charm. The sensitivity as well as the sensuality.

A Victoria hitched to a pair of perfectly matched grays was waiting on the sun-warmed gravel. Dressed still in her simple gown of lavender, she felt like a princess as Sandor personally assisted her into the carriage. He seated himself where his eyes could rest on her with ease and, aware of his glance, she ostensibly studied the beauty of Beausoleil's garden and the magical view of Monte Carlo below them, its high plateau jutting out into the amethyst blue sea.

She hoped that Lady Beston's arrival in Monte Carlo would be delayed. Old ladies were notoriously unreliable as to their movements. She also hoped that Sandor had not been optimistic in assuming that Lady Beston would be uncaring of her future companion's reputation. Certainly Princess Natalya would have been uncaring if a man like Sandor had explained the situation and the truth. But an elderly English lady? She would have to wait and see and trust in Sandor's judgment.

Sandor studied her face and then, aware of the discomfort he was arousing, lowered his eyes to her hands. They were folded on her lap, long and narrow with beautiful almond-shaped nails. A feeling of peace swept over him. Her presence soothed him, chasing away the habitual darkness of his thoughts. But only for a little time. Only until Zara came. Then he would have to forfeit the sight and presence of Charlotte Grainger and content himself with the perfumed ladies of the town and the acquiescent married ladies of society.

‘Ah, Monsieur le Comte!' The little French dressmaker hurried towards him welcomingly. ‘Of what service can I be? A day dress for Mademoiselle? An evening gown?'

‘Both, and in profusion,' Sandor said, sitting himself at ease as the dressmaker's minions hurried to Charlotte's side. ‘ I shall want gowns ready within days, Madame.'

‘Of course, Monsieur le Comte.' She was beaming, holding her hand out to Charlotte, leading her away from Sandor and into a room stacked high with silks and satins and velvets. Her measurements were taken. Roll after roll of cloth was unfurled so that her head swam, and then came the gowns already made.

A pale blue creation, low cut, with a little lace on the corsage and a posy of flowers at the waist. Charlotte stared at herself in the long mirror and gasped. Never before had she worn anything so
décolleté.

‘We will see if it meets with the Comte's approval,' the little dressmaker said, her eyes sparkling.

Before Charlotte could protest, she was ushered into the outer room with its expensive oak panelling and leather chairs where Sandor waited. The curve of Charlotte's breasts glowed, her waist was minuscule. Desire leapt through him and he suppressed it with iron self-control. To allow his feelings to show would be to frighten her away. His look of approval was cool. He nodded.

Charlotte was hurried once more into the rear room with its walls of mirrors. The pale blue creation was removed. A long-sleeved dress of pink Venetian velvet replaced it.

Again Sandor nodded approval.

The Venetian velvet was followed by a white muslin dress that made the breath catch in his throat. The muslin was followed by a pastel linen day dress with full elbow sleeves and a becomingly low neck; then by a dinner gown of cream-coloured chiffon, puffs of tulle framing her shoulders; then a classically severe white velvet dress embroidered with pearls; a green taffeta dress that exactly matched the colour of her eyes.

Suits with narrow fitted bodices, elegantly frogged, and skirts so tight at the ankle it seemed to Charlotte she would never be able to walk in them, were ordered in profusion. And then evening cloaks. Soft white wool, black sable-edged silver fox, an ermine cape that reached to her ankles, chinchilla, swansdown. Her head whirled.

‘Mademoiselle Grainger will wear the day dress – the pastel linen. The rest will be sent to Beausoleil.'

‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte. It has been a pleasure to do business with you,' the little dressmaker said truthfully.

The discarded lavender gown was about to be disposed of. Impulsively Charlotte stretched out a restraining hand. ‘No. I would like to keep that gown, if you please, Madame.'

Madame was too polite to show surprise. She merely smiled graciously and ordered that the simple lavender gown Mademoiselle had entered the salon in, should be wrapped with her own creations and delivered to Beausoleil.

Charlotte turned apologetically to Sandor. ‘It was given to me by the Princess. It is all I have left of her gifts to me.'

His pulse throbbed in his throat and he glanced quickly away from her. What other woman would have made such a gesture after being showered with a multitude of new gowns?

Charlotte's heart sank. She had displeased him but she had had no alternative. In silence they journeyed by carriage from Madame Rambert's to the milliner's. Hats laden with flowers were set on her copper curls, approved by Sandor, wrapped in tissue, and placed in lavish hat boxes. Little nonsenses of velvet and feathers followed suit. A small hat fastened by a chenille dotted veil was so exquisite that Charlotte could hardly bear to remove it.

Tentatively she protested at Sandor's extravagance and his brows flew together. Instead of curtailing his expenditure he took her into Monte Carlo's finest jeweller and purchased a rope of pearls, a bracelet of diamonds, a necklace of sapphires, a collar of emeralds.

Seeing her with the emeralds clasped around her throat he paused, his profile grim. The sumptuous stones reflecting the sparkle in her eyes were no match for her beauty. Charlotte had no need of jewels. The simple flowers she habitually wore in her hair were adornment enough. The pearls, the diamond bracelet and the sapphire necklace were purchased; the emeralds returned. The other jewels he had intended lavishing on her were left on their beds of velvet.

As they returned to the carriage he said with a curtness that concealed his true emotions, ‘Please try on the pearls with the gown you are wearing.'

With unsteady hands Charlotte looped the single, perfect rope of pearls over her head.

He nodded. The pearls were far more suitable than the emeralds could ever have been.

Charlotte felt a sudden onrush of anxiety. Why had he become so withdrawn from her? Why had he been so curt when she protested at his extravagance? Was it because the gowns, hats and jewels were not for her alone but for those who would take her place?

She blinked back hot tears, and asked in the soft, husky voice that so entranced him,

‘Are we going back to Beausoleil now, Count Karolyi?'

‘No. We are going to pay a visit to Mademoiselle Bernhardt and you are not to refer to me as “ Count Karolyi” but as “Sandor”.'

‘Yes, Count … Yes, Sandor.'

His face was no longer grim. Tentatively she fingered the pearls. ‘What will Prince Yakovlev say?'

‘And Lady Pethelbridge.' Sandor's mouth curved in a smile. ‘And the Countess of Bexhall and Princess Helene?'

Their eyes met and incredibly Charlotte felt laughter well up inside her.

‘They will be shocked,' she said, stifling a giggle.

‘Outraged.' His eyes danced with devilish amusement.

Suddenly it was too much. Simultaneously they burst into laughter at the thought of the sensation they would create on entering the casino, arm in arm.

The coachman's eyes widened. In ten years in Count Karolyi's service he had never heard the Count laugh so light-heartedly. Whoever the English girl was, she was accomplishing what the royal ladies of Europe had failed to do—chase away the almost palpable burden that lay on Count Karolyi's shoulders.

‘Mademoiselle Bernhardt is expecting you, Count Karolyi,' the hotel manager said, keeping his eyes politely from Charlotte.

They were led by a liveried bellboy along sumptuously carpeted corridors to the wing Sarah had commandeered for her visit. At the bellboy's knock Sarah's voice announced that they might enter with all the seductiveness of a woman about to greet her lover.

Charlotte's unease deepened. What was Sandor doing? As they entered the room and Sarah saw Charlotte, her face lit up with delight.

‘My dear Charlotte! What a lovely surprise! How sweet of Sandor to bring you.' Her eyes were mischievous. ‘ Especially when he was so reluctant for you to enjoy the Comte de Valmy's companionship.'

In that moment Charlotte knew that whatever the relationship was between Sandor and Sarah, it was not that of lover and mistress. Or at least, if it ever had been, it was so no longer. It was only that of two people who liked each other and enjoyed each other's companionship. The lazy seductiveness in Sarah's voice would have been there if she had been merely asking the bellboy for a glass of champagne.

She did not rise to meet them. She lay back on her
chaise longue
, dressed in a long, white, trailing dress, magnificently embroidered and beaded, an enormous wolfhound at her feet.

‘My darlings. Do sit down and have some champagne. I've been up all night sculpting a bust of Charlotte and it is absolutely exquisite, but no, Sandor, you
cannot
see it yet. It is not finished.'

The apartment was heavily sprayed with verbena. It was the most crowded, chaotic room that Charlotte had ever been in in her life.

There were easels with dozens of half-finished paintings. There were busts in the rough. There was a covered outline of a head and shoulders that Charlotte could only imagine was the sculpture of herself. There were palettes of paint, clay, all the accoutrements of an artist. In the far corner a skeleton stood as proper and as naturally as a footman. Through an open door beside a chiffon-tented bed, a pink quilted coffin lay open as if ready for instant occupation. There were daintily fashioned chairs, satin couches, vases big as sentry boxes, and towering plants. Manuscripts littered tables, scattered the floor. It was beyond imagination that the room was permanently furnished in such a fashion. Obviously Sarah carried not only clothes and jewels, but also her personal furnishings when she travelled.

Charlotte felt her eyes return again and again to the coffin in the bedroom. Sarah saw the expression in her eyes and laughed throatily.

‘A necessity I take everywhere, Charlotte. It is inscribed with my initials and my motto “
Quand même.
”'

‘And the skeleton?' Charlotte asked, round-eyed.

‘My oldest friend. An artist must know about bones and the human body and I am an artist in paint as well as an artist on stage.' Her eyes took on a wide, dreaming expression. ‘ Monsieur Bertora has asked me to perform in the Casino Theatre. Shall I be Sainte Therèse in
La Vierge d'Avila
or the Duc in
l'Aiglain
?'

‘Whatever you do will be breathtaking,' Sandor said with sincerity.