Devil's Palace (20 page)

For a long moment Georges and Sandor faced each other and then Sandor reluctantly lowered a bewildered Charlotte to her feet.

‘Georges is quite right, sweet love. Your mourning dress will not be suitable for a visit to the Palace.'

From the safety of a far doorway Jeanne hurried forward. ‘I have a dress all ready, Mademoiselle. The pink lawn. The cartwheel hat with the satin ribbons will complement it perfectly.'

Charlotte turned to Sandor, her lips bruised and burned by his kisses.

He nodded. ‘The pink lawn will be perfect,' he said, his voice thick with the desire he could not suppress.

There was love in his eyes. He would not treat her coolly the next time they met, as he had before. Reassured she ran glowing-faced to her room.

Sandor clenched his hands at his side until the knuckles showed white. He was trembling and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. Without Georges' intervention he would have made love to her in haste and passion and regretted it to his dying day. He loved her too much to take her in such a manner. In a moment of utter clarity he knew that he wanted her as his wife. He had found what he had long since given up all hope of finding.

‘Your diligence, Georges, is to be commended,' he said, wondering when the miracle had happened. When she had ceased to regard him as an enemy.

‘Yes, sir. Will you be requiring a brandy, sir?'

Sandor regarded his butler long and darkly. ‘Yes, Georges,' he said at last. ‘A very large brandy.'

Georges suppressed a smile. ‘Yes, sir. At once, sir.'

It seemed perfectly natural to Charlotte that she should be sitting in a crested landau drawn by plumed white stallions, her hand held tightly in Count Sandor Karolyi's, her cheek pressed close against his shoulder, as they approached the Grimaldi Palace. Nothing had been said between them but she knew she would not be returning to England with Lady Beston. Sandor would be as loath for her to leave as she would be.

The crenellated towers of the palace proclaimed that it had originally been built as a medieval fortress. Charlotte was unimpressed by the interior as they were led up the marble staircase of the Court d'Honneur and along endless passageways towards the State Apartments. The grandeur was drab and without warmth. The palace, Charlotte thought as they were ushered into the presence of the blind Prince Charles, was in need of a woman's touch. It was high time the eligible Prince Albert married and turned the Palace into a home instead of a fortress.

Prince Charles greeted her warmly, complained about the warmth of the weather and asked that his regards be given to Mademoiselle Bernhardt. He declined the suggestion that she visit him on the grounds that she would be enveloped in perfume and that the last time such an invitation had been extended she had arrived not only with her pet wolfhound, but with a monkey as well.

Charlotte's tender heart ached for him. He was blind, helpless and irritable, suffering from prolonged dizzy spells as well as his antipathy to flowers. She found that he had an intense curiosity about England, and though she could not inform him as to Court activities, he was fascinated by her description of Sussex village life and the day-to-day tasks that her father had performed as rector.

‘A fortunate man,' he said, time and time again, gazing at her sightlessly. ‘Loved, contented, needed. Your father was indeed a very fortunate man, Miss Grainger.'

Charlotte felt her throat tighten. It seemed strange that a prince should envy the lifestyle of her unassuming father, yet she knew that Prince Charles was correct in his judgment. Her father had indeed been fortunate because he had loved and been loved in return.

That evening, as Jeanne dressed her hair, the breath seemed so tight in her chest that Charlotte could hardly breathe. Within an hour she would appear publicly in the Devil's Palace on Sandor's arm. Every eye in the room would centre on her and everyone would believe that she was Sandor's mistress. She smiled to herself in the mirror as Jeanne adjusted a camellia nestling in the waves of her upswept hair. She was not his mistress yet, but she soon would be. She would be anything he asked of her.

Her gown had been selected by Sandor. It was of classically severe white velvet, daringly décolletée, lavishly embroidered with seed-pearls. Her only adornment was the flower in her hair and a bracelet of diamonds. She looked unbelievably beautiful – like a princess in a fairytale.

Her
toilette
was complete. Sandor was waiting for her downstairs in the marble entrance hall. She took one last glance in the mirror and turned, walking slowly along the corridor and down the curving sweep of the stairs. There was a concerted intake of breath from Georges and Sandor. She seemed to float. Her hair was an aureole of burnished copper. The sparkle in her eyes put the jewels on her wrist to shame. The velvet fell in soft, undulating lines to her feet. Her breasts caught the glow of the candles and her skin glistened in the flickering light.

Sandor's face was inscrutable. Apprehension seized her. Had she disappointed him? Why did he not smile at her? Hesitantly she stood before him and her light perfume enveloped them both. For a long moment he did not touch her, simply claimed her with his eyes, and then he said, his voice thick with emotion,

‘Allow me, Georges,' and he took the white satin and sable cloak from Georges' hands and settled it gently around her shoulders.

Georges stepped backwards discreetly. Through a half-open doorway the cook and kitchen maids watched round-eyed. From the balcony above, Jeanne peeped surreptitiously.

Slowly he tilted her face to his, his own brilliant with an expression of such fierce love that it was quite transfigured.

‘My love,' he whispered, lowering his mouth to hers. ‘My dear, sweet love.'

A sigh, barely audible, sounding as if it had been torn from her heart, was silenced as their lips met.

The maids closed the door. Georges and Jeanne looked away, aware that they had been spectators at the most intimate and momentous moment of Count Sandor Karolyi's life.

Charlotte's heart was overflowing with happiness as the Karolyi coach sped through the night towards the casino. Her hand was in Sandor's. Her head was resting against his shoulder. He loved her. Surely he would not have spoken to her as he had if he did not love her. Like a small shadow the memory of Irina, Vicomtesse de Salbris, flitted across her brain. She chased it away.

The Vicomtesse belonged to Sandor's past. She remembered the pain she had first seen in his eyes through the lenses of Princess Natalya's opera glasses and believed she knew the cause. He was carrying the burden of the Vicomtesse's tragic death. That was the reason for his brooding restlessness and palpable unhappiness. In the darkness her hand tightened on his. There would be no more unhappiness for Sandor. Tonight would be a new beginning for them both.

He glanced down at her. ‘Are you ready for your grand entrance, my sweet?'

She smiled, and all the love she felt for him shone in her eyes. ‘Yes, Sandor.'

He gave a low chuckle. ‘It's a pity Yakovlev has left Monte Carlo. Still, it will be a joy to see the expression on Lady Pethelbridge's face when she has to greet you.'

‘But maybe she will not, Sandor.' Apprehension filled her voice.

Sandor's chuckle deepened. ‘She has no choice. The Prince of Wales has accepted you and we shall be among his party this evening. The ladies who so churlishly refused you assistance in leaving Monte Carlo will be suitably chastened, and serve them right.'

The carriage halted outside the brilliantly lit casino. Charlotte felt a ripple of excitement run down her spine as she stepped into the sweetly perfumed night air.

One of Monsieur Blanc's frock-coated lieutenants hastened to greet them at the doorway. Her sable cloak was lifted deferentially from her shoulders. Sandor slipped her white, elbow-length gloved hand inside the crook of his arm. The soft strain of an orchestra playing in the hall beyond the gaming rooms could be heard distantly.

A lady who had arrived with her escort at the casino for the first time was politely being asked to remove the gardenia she wore in her hair as the flower was unlucky and the sight of it would cause distress to the other patrons.

Chandeliers glittered with a thousand lights. They had yet to enter the Salle Mauresque but already people were looking in their direction.

Camille Blanc was twirling his flowing blond moustache at a pretty actress and wondering whether she could be persuaded to join him for supper. An aide discreetly approached him and informed him of their presence.

‘My dear Count. What a pleasure it is to see you again. And …' His eyes gleamed wickedly as he took Charlotte's hand, ‘… your delightful companion.'

Charlotte, well aware that Monsieur Blanc knew very well how she had been acquired as Sandor's companion, merely smiled with the utmost composure and felt almost regal as she continued her procession towards the gaining rooms on Sandor's arm.

At the entrance to the crowded Salle Mauresque Sandor halted. Princess Helene, about to place her plaques on red number nine, paused, her eyes disbelieving. Lord Pethelbridge, engrossed in pursuing the Martingale system and doubling up to the limit, choked on his cigar and wondered what the devil the world was coming to. The Countess of Bexhall ceased her search for Justin and raised her eyebrows.

Conversation ceased. Tables were stilled. For a long, sensational moment no ivory balls twirled around the roulette wheels.

Monsieur Blanc's eyes were admiring. Twice in the same number of days the English girl had done the impossible and silenced his glittering gaming room.

Lady Pethelbridge turned slowly in her seat and flicked her ostrich feather fan shut with a snap. The girl was shameless. Flaunting herself as if she were a lady when everyone knew she was little more than a lady's maid. Her aristocratic features set in a tight line. Her breasts heaved indignantly over their formidable corsetry. This time Count Karolyi had gone too far. She rose majestically to her feet, stared full-face at Charlotte and then very slowly and deliberately turned her back. English nobility eyed each other uneasily. Lady Pethelbridge clearly expected her example to be followed. Yet there had been rumours…

The source of the rumours strode curiously into the room from the concert hall, intent on discovering what had stilled the usual clamour. Cigar smoke wreathed his royal head. There was a flower in the lapel of his dinner jacket. The bottom button of his lavishly embroidered waistcoat was characteristically left undone. Sarah glided gracefully at his side, exotic and flamboyant, alight with jewels.

Edward surveyed the scene with relish. He liked to be entertained and here was entertainment in plenty. With all the skill of a professional actor, he milked the moment for all it was worth, puffing contentedly on his cigar as Lady Pethelbridge remained standing, her back set squarely against Charlotte. The tension mounted. Charlotte remained at Sandor's side, her back straight, her head high. The Prince of Wales grinned and stepped towards her.

‘I commend you, Mademoiselle Grainger. Your beauty has stilled even the gaming tables.'

An ugly red flush stained Lady Pethelbridge's face and neck. All around her, her social equals deserted her, milling forward, eager to become acquainted with the breathtaking English girl who had been won at a hand of cards and who was being fêted by the Prince of Wales. Lord Pethelbridge, knowing his hours of gambling were at an end, sighed regretfully and crossed to his wife's side.

‘You've done it this time, old girl,' he said unsympathetically, and led her, frozen-faced, from the room.

‘My darling Charlotte. You look absolutely ravishing,' Sarah said, kissing her affectionately on the cheek. ‘The Hotel de Paris has insisted that I remove my cheetah from their premises and Bertie is being very English about it and very unhelpful.' She tapped the Prince of Wales on his chest reprovingly with her forefinger and Charlotte assumed quite rightly that Bertie was Sarah's name for the Prince.

‘Now I wonder if Sandor would be more understanding.' Her feline eyes gleamed speculatively.

‘No,' Sandor said emphatically. ‘I am not giving a home to your cheetah, Sarah.'

‘But it would only be for a
little
while, Sandor. And he is really very well behaved.'

‘No.' Sandor was adamant.

Sarah looked up at him from beneath her shower of gold-red hair. ‘
Please
, Sandor darling.'

‘No. Beausoleil is not a zoo.'

Sarah pouted provocatively. ‘You are being very ungallant. Where will my poor little cheetah go?'

‘You could send the damned creature to my nephew,' the Prince of Wales suggested darkly as a slightly-built gentleman with a withered arm and heavy dark moustaches entered the room, followed by a retinue of aides.

Uncle and nephew glared at each other with dislike and then greeted each other with outward signs of cordiality. Charlotte dropped into a curtsey before the future Emperor of Germany, and was aware that not even Sarah's gaiety could lighten the gloom that suddenly seemed to have descended.

‘I was not aware that you were in Monte Carlo,' Crown Prince Wilhelm said stiffly to his British uncle.

‘It is a short visit,' Edward said, with none of his usual
bonhomie.

The stilted conversation continued for a few moments while royal equerries waited patiently and Sarah raised her long cats eyes to heaven expressively.

Etiquette satisfied, the Crown Prince took his leave of them and made his way to the Salon Privé.

Edward tugged bad-temperedly at his short, fair beard as Sarah said undeflected, ‘ If the Hotel de Paris orders my cheetah to leave,
I
will leave also!'

Edward sighed, humour returning once more to his heavy-lidded blue-grey eyes. ‘ Then I think, my dear, that Count Karolyi has no alternative.'