Devil's Palace (2 page)

Once inside the Devil's Palace anything could happen. Fortunes could be won and lost; reputations made and broken. In her six months with the Princess she had seen ladies of royal blood hiss at each other like alley cats over a dispute at cards. Had seen Prince Roland Bonaparte challenge a member of Britain's aristocracy to a duel; had seen breathtakingly beautiful young women of lowly background accompany kings; had watched love
affaires
flourish, wane and die; had become part of the peculiar society of Monte Carlo. A mixture of international royalty and the twilight world of the
demi-monde.

‘I shall now take my afternoon rest,' the Princess announced, rising to her feet.

‘Do you wish me to read to you, Your Highness?'

It was part of Charlotte's duties to read to the Princess the daily French and English newspapers that arrived in Monte Carlo long after their date of publication.

‘No. The sun has given me a headache. I shall take a sleeping draught. Please see to it, Charlotte, that Henri delivers my card to Mademoiselle Bernhardt.'

Charlotte accompanied the Princess from the terrace and into her opulent bedroom. As the maid assisted her from her voluminous folds of black silk, Charlotte closed the shutters, plunging the room into shadow.

It would be seven o'clock before the Princess awoke and dressed in readiness for the evening's entertainment. In Monte Carlo; days were turned into night, nights into day. Though in her eighties, it was seldom earlier than four in the morning before Princess Yakovleva returned from her nightly
sorties
at the whist and
écarté
tables.

The maid placed a jug of iced water on the bedside table, carefully plumped the lace-trimmed pillows and adjusted silk sheets with their lavish monogram of the House of Romanov.

Discreetly they withdrew, the maid to attend to the Princess's evening gown; Charlotte to request the coachman to deliver the Princess's card to the Hotel de Paris.

Stepping out into the sunshine on the terrace, she hesitated. The sun was high in the sky. Monte Carlo was asleep. There could be no harm in taking the short walk to the hotel unescorted. Decisively she stepped back into the villa, perched a deliciously small hat of bows and feathers low over her forehead, picked up her parasol and quietly closed the door of the villa behind her. Even the Monégasques had taken refuge from the heat. Magnolia and hibiscus gave way to the narrow cobbled lanes that climbed the hills behind the casino and hotel. In the Boulevard des Moulins a handful of children played barefoot, laughing joyously.

The Princess had told her that when she had first come to Monte Carlo, in the early 1870s, the Boulevard des Moulins had been practically non-existent. Now, thanks to the success of the casino, fashionable villas spilled window boxes of strelitza and scarlet geraniums along its length. There were now hotels, too, their owners desperately vying with the long-established Hotel de Paris for the droves of Russian grand dukes who descended yearly to spend their gold at the gambling tables.

The hotel adjoined the casino. The children grinned impishly at her as she closed her parasol and stepped past them into a world they would never enter. A liveried bellboy discreetly approached her. Charlotte deposited the Princess's card on a small silver tray.

‘For Mademoiselle Bernhardt from Princess Yakovleva,' she said, her soft smile making the bellboy her instant slave.

As she spoke, the hotel manager, resplendent in frock coat and with a gardenia in his buttonhole, hurried across the opulent lobby to greet a gentleman descending the crimson-carpeted stairway.

‘I trust we will have the pleasure of accommodating you once again, Count Karolyi.' His bow was sweeping.

‘I am afraid not,' a deep, rich-timbred voice replied. ‘ I have recently purchased Beausoleil and shall be remaining there for the duration of my stay.'

‘Ah, yes!' The hotel manager clasped his hands together. ‘A most beautiful residence, if I may say so, Count Karolyi. Perhaps I can persuade you to partake of some refreshment? Champagne perhaps, or brandy?'

‘No. I came only to pay my respects to Mademoiselle Bernhardt.'

His eyes flicked past the hotel manager and rested on Charlotte. The expression in them changed from one of uninterest to one that was bold and black and frankly appraising. Charlotte turned away quickly, the blood rushing to her cheeks. For an insane moment she feared that he would recognise her but common sense quickly asserted itself. He had seen nothing but the flash of sun on the lens of opera glasses. He had no way of knowing that only an hour ago she had studied him with indecent intimacy, marvelling at the pain in his anguished eyes. There was no pain there now. His manner was one of almost arrogant self-assurance. His voice caused her nerves to throb. It was like the man, strong and dark, the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

Aware of his continuing gaze, her discomfort mounted. In her lightly accented French she wished the bellboy goodbye and turned to leave. The sound of galloping hoofs shattered the dignified calm of the hotel's richly furnished lobby.

From the narrow streets came shouts of alarm, the thundering rattle of wheels hurtling over cobbled stones. Hastily Charlotte hurried to the door, the bellboy and hotel manager following in her wake.

The bolting horse was petrified, eyes rolling; nostrils flaring; foam flecking its mouth. In the sturdy peasant cart being dragged in its wake a few sacks of grain rolled perilously from side to side. The children halted in their game, gazed at the oncoming fury and fled to press themselves against the nearest wall. All save one small boy who remained sitting in the dust, transfixed in terror.

Charlotte screamed. A sack of grain tumbled to the ground, bursting open in a golden shower. She could see the sweat on the horse's coat, feel the vibration of the hoofs.

The child cried out in fear; the hotel manager crossed himself and closed his eyes, and Charlotte flung her parasol to one side and darted in front of the oncoming horse. Her arm circled the child, lifted. Dust flew around her. She could feel the breath of the horse on her neck, see the flailing hoofs bearing down on her. Instinctively she raised her free arm in an effort to ward off the crushing onslaught. As she did so she was seized and hurled bodily across the boulevard. She thudded down on the ground, the child still clasped in her arms, the breath driven from her body. The horse snorted and whinnied and was gone. The child struggled from her grasp and ran into the beefy arms of a peasant woman, crying loudly. She tried to rise to her feet and failed. Dazedly she was aware of the commotion around her, of strong hands grasping her as a blood-red mist clouded her vision.

‘A brandy for mademoiselle,' the hotel manager cried, clearing a way as Count Karolyi swept her up into his arms and carried her away from the rapidly growing crowd of curious Monégasques and into the privacy of the hotel lounge. Her head was against his chest. She could feel the strong beating of his heart, smell the faint aroma of cologne. Count Karolyi was carrying her with consummate ease past the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIV, and into the Hotel de Paris' lounge. Her cheeks flamed at the indignity; at the turbulent emotions that threatened to rob her of coherent thought or speech.

The manager proffered the brandy again and Charlotte declined it, wondering where the striding Count was taking her with such indecent familiarity. At last, to her intense relief, he halted. She felt herself lowered gently, felt the comforting support of a velvet upholstered sofa. Overcome with confusion, she raised her eyes to his. He was standing over her, regarding her with an unfathomable expression.

Her hat had been dislodged, bowling down the boulevard with the flying grains of wheat. Her elaborate chignon had come undone and her hair tumbled around her shoulders in wild disarray. Her cheeks smarted and pressing her fingers to her face she felt a trickle of blood. The turquoise satin gown that had been her pride and joy was covered in dust and dirt, the hem torn.

She tried to speak, to regain some semblance of dignity, but her breath was ragged and her limbs shook.

‘I think it best if you drink the brandy, Mademoiselle,' Count Sandor Karolyi said firmly.

She pushed her hair away from her eyes, humiliatingly aware of her dishevelled appearance.

The brandy was proffered once more, this time by a strong, olive-toned hand. Not daring to do otherwise she took it and drank, coughing as the unfamiliar spirit burned her throat. Above her, her rescuer suppressed a smile.

He was well aware of her discomfort but had no intention of putting an untimely end to it. She was still trembling with shock and her grazed cheek would need attention before she could leave the hotel.

‘That was an extremely foolish and courageous thing to do, Mademoiselle …'

‘Grainger,' Charlotte said, not daring to lift her eyes to his, wishing with all her heart that he would excuse himself and allow her to compose herself and tidy her hair and attend to her face and dress.

He frowned. He had meant to chastise her for risking her life so heedlessly and occasioning him to risk his own, but the sight of her lying so vulnerably on the sofa with her hair tumbling around her shoulders filled him with compassion. She looked little more than a child. Her eyes were a soft, smoky green, thickly lashed; her cheekbones were high; her mouth full and soft and generous. The shining mass of her hair was a rich copper that glinted gold in the morning sunlight. She was, Count Karolyi observed, outstandingly beautiful.

He turned to the hotel manager. ‘Could I have a bowl of warm water and a sponge, please. Mademoiselle Grainger's face is in need of attention.'

‘No!' Charlotte's mortified protest was torn from her throat.

Count Karolyi raised well-defined brows.

‘It … would not be … proper,' she stammered. ‘I can attend to my face myself.'

‘A maid perhaps,' the hotel manager offered obligingly.

A hint of a smile curved Sandor Karolyi's mouth. ‘Water and a sponge,' he reiterated.

Charlotte gazed helplessly at the hotel manager, but a bellboy had already been sent to carry out the Count's orders.

‘I feel quite rested,' she lied in vain, attempting to move from the sofa, seeking only to escape from his overpowering presence.

His hand restrained her firmly. ‘You have sustained a very severe shock, Mademoiselle.'

The water was brought and as maids and bellboys gathered round at a respectful distance, Count Sandor Karolyi began to sponge flecks of blood from the graze on her cheek.

A Russian grand duchess, entering the hotel lobby with her retinue, halted in her tracks at the stupefying sight of Count Sandor Karolyi on his knees beside a semi-conscious young woman. Only a heavy whiff of smelling salts restored her and even then she had to be physically assisted to her room.

Charlotte thought she would die with humiliation. Her cheeks burned; her eyes painfully avoided his. At last her torment came to an end. Satisfied as to his ministrations, Count Karolyi rose to his feet and handed the bowl and sponge to a maid.

‘There will be no mark,' he said reassuringly. ‘ If your carriage can be summoned, I will escort you to your destination.'

Charlotte gathered the last remnants of her pride. ‘I have no carriage,' she said stiffly. ‘I am companion to Princess Yakovleva.'

The interest in his eyes deepened. There was a hint of a smile around the abrasive lines of his mouth.

‘Then you must allow me to put my carriage at your disposal, Mademoiselle Grainger.'

‘I … No … I …' To protest was useless. Count Sandor Karolyi was a man accustomed to being obeyed. Vainly she scooped her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with the few pins that remained.

To Charlotte's anguished eyes it seemed that the whole staff of the hotel had congregated in the lounge as she allowed herself to be escorted by Count Karolyi towards his waiting carriage.

In the sunlight she became even more aware of her dust-covered and bedraggled gown. The carriage that had drawn up outside the Hotel de Paris's main entrance was drawn by white stallions with crimson cockades. The coachman was resplendent in full livery, the carriage door emblazoned in gold with the Count's crest.

From the windows of the hotel wealthy patrons watched with interest, a golden haired, feline-eyed woman with delight, as Count Sandor Karolyi helped her into the scarlet leather interior. Charlotte held her head high, blinking back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Soon her ordeal would be at an end. Soon the devastatingly handsome Count Karolyi would turn his attention elsewhere. To Mademoiselle Bernhardt; to one of the ravishing cocottes who haunted the casino. To a lady of his own rank.

Through narrowed eyes Sandor regarded her speculatively. She was certainly a different breed from the beauties he usually associated with. Her actions had saved a child's life. And, if it had not been for his own presence of mind, could have cost her own. Her shyness was touching; her dignity appealing. He continued to survey her in unnerving silence and a pulse began to beat wildly in her throat. He had saved her life and she had not yet found the presence of mind to thank him for his action. Was that why he was gazing at her with such disturbing intensity, his satanically black brows furrowed as if in displeasure?

Her throat felt dry, her hands twisted nervously in her lap.

‘I would like to thank you for saving me from hurt,' she said in a voice little more than a whisper.

Something flickered in the back of his eyes. Was it amusement? ‘You appreciation is accepted,' he said and it seemed to her that the hard lines of his mouth softened imperceptibly.

She looked away quickly, her heart pounding, staring blindly at mimosa and pine. For a split second of time she had been overcome with the immodest desire to reach out and touch him. Did he know the effect he was having on her? The answer came swift and fast. Of course he did. Count Sandor Karolyi was a professional lover; a man who amused himself with countless women, discarding them as lightly as the Princess did her gloves. No doubt his anecdote of how he had saved a lady's companion from death would entertain his friends vastly. As would the fact that the lady in question had fallen instantly in love with him. Her head lifted imperceptibly; her hands tightened. She would give him no such satisfaction.