Devil's Palace (23 page)

‘There must be a way of freeing you from him,' he said, pouring a brandy.

Zara shook her lovely head. ‘We are doomed, Sandor. Both of us are doomed because our lives are a lie.'

He wanted to tell her about Charlotte but now was not the time. Her eyes were dull with fatigue and misery.

‘You must get back to the Hotel de Paris,' he said tenderly, helping her to her feet. ‘If Beston should arrive and find you absent, the situation would only be made worse.'

‘Yes.' She picked up her cape of black fox and trailed it on the floor after her as she walked to the door. ‘ If I were absent whose bed would he accuse me of sleeping in? Lord Romberry's? The Duke of Steene? The Earl of Lale? According to Beston each and every one is my lover. As are a score more.'

Thin white lines etched the corner of his mouth. ‘You will not suffer such calumnies for much longer, Zara. Trust me.'

She smiled up at him sadly. ‘He is my husband, Sandor. He can abuse me as he pleases.'

Sandor's jaw tightened and his eyes were scarcely recognisable. ‘You are my sister, Zara, and he cannot.'

He walked outside with her and handed her into the carriage. She was tall and willow-slim with hair as black as his own and eyes the colour of velvet-dark pansies. Her skin tone was the same as his, a honey gold that lent an exotic quality to her dark beauty. It never ceased to amaze him that the likeness between them was never commented on.

‘Darling Sandor,' Zara said softly, oblivious of the bedroom window open above their heads. ‘If I could not see you, even for a little while, I think I should die.'

‘You will see me tomorrow,' Sandor said, kissing her cheek. ‘ I shall make it my business to call on Beston.'

‘Yes.' Such visits were always made. Outward civility between Sandor and her husband was the only thing that made it possible for her to enjoy Sandor's presence in public.

‘Goodnight, dearest Sandor.'

‘Goodbye, dear love.'

The carriage rattled away in the early morning light and Sandor remained immobile, watching it until well after it had disappeared, a tic throbbing at the corner of his jaw, his eyes mere slits as he considered Lord Beston, pillar of English society and destroyer of his sister's happiness.

Charlotte stared sightlessly at the ceiling, exhausted from her tears, drowned in grief. The emotionally charged conversation that had taken place beneath her window left no room for doubt. If Sandor had spurned Irina, Vicomtesse de Salbris, it had been because of Zara, Lady Beston. If he carried a burden of grief and love, it was for Zara, Lady Beston, wife of one of England's peers.

The depth of feeling in his voice had not been that of a man for a casual mistress. It had been that of a man who loved, and who loved deeply.

She had discovered his secret at last and it was as if a dagger had been driven into her heart. She had been correct in her first assumption, that he had taken her in at Beausoleil so that she might be of use to him. Not, as she had so fondly supposed, that she might protect him from amorous females whilst he recovered from the death of the Vicomtesse, but so that with Monte Carlo society believing her to be his mistress, he could more openly associate with the married woman who held his heart.

The woman he had had the effrontery to suggest she accompany back to England. She rose from the bed and stood at the window, watching in desolation as the first flush of dawn tinged the sky and pearled the distant sea.

She would do as he desired. She had very little option. Once in England she would rebuild her life, as she had rebuilt it on the death of her parents. It would be unbearably hard, crucifyingly lonely, but no other future lay open to her.

She remained at the window staring sightlessly as the grey of the sky deepened to blue; as the sea warmed and shone; amethyst and jade, aquamarine and sapphire.

When Jeanne entered with her morning tray of hot chocolate and croissants, she was barely aware of her. Or of the maid's stunned shock at seeing her still gowned in white velvet and seed-pearls.

With firm gentleness Jeanne removed the gown, ordered that a bath be drawn and ushered an unprotesting Charlotte into the rose-scented water. Using her own discretion, Jeanne selected a pretty day dress patterned in pastel roses and after brushing Charlotte's hair once more into a
coiffure
of upsweeping deep waves and curls, helped her to dress, looping the long, single rope of flawless pearls over her head.

‘Mademoiselle looks very beautiful,' she said sincerely, hoping for some response in the unutterably sad eyes.

‘Thank you, Jeanne.' Charlotte's voice was soft and gentle – and heartbreakingly sad.

‘Count Karolyi is already breakfasting,' Jeanne ventured.

Charlotte rose from her dressing table stool. He would have to be faced. She could not hide in her room for ever. The charade must continue.

With reluctant feet she walked slowly along the opulent corridor and down the vast, sweeping staircase.

Georges greeted her with a smile, but he was concerned at the lacklustre of her usual sparkling eyes. Had the Count and the English girl quarrelled? Were Beausoleil and Valeni to be bereft of the mistress their staff so desired?

Sandor's night had been as sleepless as Charlotte's. Nevertheless, at the sight of her his heart warmed.

‘I didn't expect you to rise until much later,' he said, rising from the table, drawing a chair out for her, dismissing the footman so that he might pour her coffee himself, breakfast with her in delicious privacy.

‘I was not tired.' It was a blatant lie. She was exhausted.

He frowned. ‘Is everything as it should be, Charlotte?'

She did not trust herself to meet his eyes. How could he ask such a question? Hadn't he only hours ago abandoned her to be reunited with the woman he loved? Hadn't Lady Beston told him passionately that she would die if she could not see him, even for a little while? And hadn't Sandor promised that they would meet again that very morning?

‘Yes, thank you.' Her voice was cool and remote.

His frown deepened. ‘As you know, Lady Beston has arrived in Monte Carlo. I plan to call on her this morning.'

There was silence from the other side of the table. He leaned forward, covering her hands lovingly with his. ‘You will be able to see what an ideal employer she would have made.' Beneath the heat of his hand her blood seemed to freeze. He no longer wished her to accompany Lady Beston to England. Perhaps he was afraid that she would be indiscreet. That Lady Beston would discover that he was not against engaging in flirtations when she was absent. She kept her eyes firmly averted from his.

‘I am sure Lady Beston would still make a most admirable employer,' she said stiffly.

He stared at her. ‘What do you mean, Charlotte? You cannot imagine that after what has happened I still intend that you should accompany Lady Beston to England?'

She raised her head and braved his eyes. ‘But of course,' she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘How else am I to reach there?'

His incredulity was total. ‘You cannot mean it, Charlotte!'

Her coffee remained untasted, her croissant untouched. ‘ I am afraid that I do. I enjoyed yesterday exceedingly, Count Karolyi, but now I must think of my future.' She was talking to him as if she were at an afternoon tea party with a stranger.

Sandor felt himself held in the grip of a nightmare. This conversation could not possibly be taking place. Either she was mad or he was. His brows flew together, his eyes blazed.

‘Your future is here! With me!'

She felt faint, as if she were poised on the edge of a precipice and about to plunge headlong into a void from which there was no return. If she wanted, she could remain outwardly his mistress. It was what Sandor desired. In Budapest and Vienna, in Paris and Monte Carlo, he could meet Zara and the world would be no wiser. For an insane moment she was tempted to capitulate. To live with him on any terms he offered. And then she remembered the sight of Lady Beston in his arms and knew that such recurring pain was beyond endurance.

‘I am afraid not, Count Karolyi,' she lied politely. ‘ There is a gentleman to whom I am betrothed waiting for me in London. He has little finances but he is honourable …'

‘God's teeth!'
Sandor rose to his feet in a fury, coffee cups spilling, plates scattering to the floor. ‘You have the
audacity
, the
effrontery
to tell me that you are returning to England to marry!'

Charlotte placed her napkin on the table with a trembling hand and rose to her feet.

‘Yes, I am sorry that I did not tell you earlier. It did not seem important.'

With a savage oath he crossed the space between them and seized her. For a terrifying moment she thought he was going to strike her and then he said savagely,

‘So your betrothed is honourable, is he? It's more than I can say of you! Louise de Remy and Floretta Rozanko could learn a lot from your wiles, Mademoiselle Grainger!' and, crushing her to him, he kissed her with cruel viciousness.

She could not free herself from his bruising mouth. Her hands pushed in vain against his chest, but he was too strong for her. She could smell his skin, hear his heart beating, feel her body responding to his even as she struggled.

As he raised his head from hers, blood seared her lips.

‘We will leave in fifteen minutes! I expect you to be ready and waiting.' He spun on his heel and stormed from the room.

She steadied herself on a chair and wiped the blood from her mouth. She had disrupted his plans and incurred his wrath. The devil incarnate Princess Yakovleva had called him. Now she understood why.

She steadied her breathing. She had played her part well. Even Sarah could not have played it better. Her pride had been salvaged. Sandor Karolyi was disabused of any belief he might have had that he had won her heart. And now she must tend her lip, resume her play-acting, and meet the woman whose reputation Sandor had gone to such lengths to protect. Zara, Lady Beston.

On the carriage ride to the hotel, Sandor felt as if his world had fallen apart. She sat opposite him, eyes lowered, hands lightly clasped in her lap. He had seen the bruises on her lips and had felt remorse mixed with murderous rage. Dear God in heaven, had she taken him for a fool right from the beginning? What had happened that he, Sandor Karolyi, a man whose reputation was notorious, should have fallen for the charms of a nineteen-year-old English girl? He cursed inwardly. At thirty-two he had thought himself immune from such foolishness. Now he was so deeply embroiled that even knowing how little she cared for him, his feelings remained unchanged. He loved her. She was in his blood and in his bones. He would love her to the day he died.

The perfume that emanated from her hair filled his senses. He had to clench his hands into fists to prevent himself from seizing hold of her and crushing her once more against him. Her skirt brushed against his leg as they entered the hotel and he felt as if every nerve ending in his body were raw.

The Bestons' suite was in the opposite wing of the hotel to Sarah's and bore no trace of its occupants' personalities as Sarah's so lavishly did.

Lord Beston was clearly not pleased at receiving visitors. He was tall and narrow-shouldered, his moustaches immaculate and flecked with grey. His hand barely touched Charlotte's as Sandor introduced them. Looking up into his colourless, almost opaque eyes, Charlotte felt an unpleasant chill touch her spine. Lord Beston was a man it would be wise not to cross. Or to be alone with.

‘Lady Beston,' Charlotte was aware of the underlying throb in Sandor's voice. ‘Miss Charlotte Grainger.'

Charlotte took a deep breath and looked directly into the eyes of the woman Sandor loved.

Shock reverberated through her. The face was vaguely familiar, but from where? When? Blue-black hair was upswept in deep, undulating waves. Instead of the creamy white skin so treasured by professional and society beauties, Lady Beston's skin seemed sun-kissed, as if she had dispensed with protective parasols and broad-brimmed hats. Her face was oval, her cheekbones high, and her eyes held a tantalisingly familiar slant. Her smile was warm and gracious, but the limpid pools of her thickly-lashed eyes held such suffering that all hostility drained from Charlotte's tender heart.

‘I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Grainger.'

Charlotte stared at her helplessly. The dislike she had expected to feel was absent. She saw only a woman who was bitterly unhappy. A woman who lived only for the brief moments when she was in Sandor's company. As she herself did. A woman who was graciousness itself.

‘I understand you have lately been in Vienna,' Sandor was saying to Lady Beston. ‘Did you enjoy the opera?'

‘My wife would not know a good opera from a bad one,' Lord Beston said unkindly.

Charlotte saw two high spots of colour appear in Lady Beston's cheeks.

‘I am sure you are mistaken, Lord Beston,' Sandor said smoothly. ‘I have heard it said that your wife is a keen patron of the arts.'

‘She is a keen patron of dressmakers and jewellers, but an understanding of the arts is unfortunately not within her grasp.'

Charlotte stared at him. Did he know how much his carelessly spoken words were wounding his wife? She saw the expression in his eyes and shivered. He knew, and he did not care.

Sandor was speaking civilly to him about the Prince of Wales's presence in Monte Carlo and Charlotte saw that Lady Beston's eyes were fixed almost beseechingly on Sandor, as if willing him to keep her out of the conversation and away from the attention of her husband.

As the minute hand on the clock moved up to the hour, Charlotte ached to escape from the claustrophobic confines of the room. Lady Beston's unhappiness was palpable. Sandor's eyes rarely rested on her, but Charlotte knew that he was acutely aware of her and that he entertained nothing but contempt for the man to whom he was speaking. It was with overwhelming relief that she saw Sandor was rising, that they were about to take their leave. Lord Beston turned away to summon service imperiously. In that brief moment Lady Beston's and Sandor's eyes met, the love each felt for the other nakedly exposed.