Devil's Palace (7 page)

The second the horses were reined to a halt, she leapt to her feet and opened the carriage door.

‘Charlotte! What is the matter? Where are you going?'

He sprang to his feet, starting after her. The carriage door slammed sharply on his hand and he screamed in pain. Charlotte was uncaring. Tears stung her eyes and choked her throat. Twice in the space of a few hours she had been treated as a lady of loose virtue. She began to run, heedless of Justin and his shouts. Never before had she felt so lonely; so isolated. She fitted in nowhere. Not with the society the Princess kept, nor with the pleasure-loving cocottes. Yet if she left Monte Carlo and the Princess's employ, where could she go? Her heart beat rapidly as she ran down the dusty track. Her haste was unnecessary. No carriage tried to overtake her. Justin, furious at the damage done to his hand and the insult of her reaction to his proposal, had bad-temperedly ordered his coachman to continue on his way. The girl was foolish and deserved to live and die at the beck and call of cantankerous elderly females.

Fearfully Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. There was no one in pursuit. Gasping for breath she reduced her pace to a walk, wondering what to say when Princess Natalya enquired about her morning's outing. She would tell the Princess nothing of the Comte de Valmy's shameful behaviour. It would only arouse the Princess's wrath and the thought of being the centre of attention of another scene was almost more than she could bear.

Hot and tired she stumbled down another incline and entered the Villa Ondine's exotic gardens. The Princess was still in her room and Charlotte escaped thankfully to her own, sponging her face and drinking a calming glass of iced water. By the time the Princess summoned her for her afternoon promenade, she had regained her composure. The Comte would not trouble her again. He had made an error of judgment, as had she in consenting to drive with him. The incident was over: past. She even permitted herself a wry smile at the thought that she had believed his intentions were honourable and that she had been on the verge of receiving a proposal of marriage. Albeit one she had no intention of accepting.

The Princess still felt uncommonly fatigued and did not enquire after Charlotte's carriage ride with the Comte. She had a pain in her right arm and a tightness in her chest that occupied all her attention. Seeing that she was unwell, Charlotte suggested that they remain at the villa, but the Princess tapped her cane impatiently, insisting that she had never in her life missed her daily walk and that she had no intention of beginning now.

The Yakovlev carriage which transported them from the villa to the boulevard overlooking the Port was summoned. The Princess entered it with difficulty, her breath rasping. A worried frown puckered Charlotte's brow. The Princess's exact age was a well-kept secret but she was almost certainly an octogenarian. The ruby collar she wore only emphasised her pallor. For once she was disinclined to talk. Charlotte quietly asked the driver to take extra care and to ensure that the horses did no more than walk at a sedate pace.

White lilies nodded their heads gracefully as the carriage passed. The twin-domed towers of the casino could be seen in the distance, golden in the sunshine. A yacht, flying the red ensign, was making for the harbour, waves creaming around its prow.

‘Are you sure you feel well enough to walk?' Charlotte asked anxiously as the coachman stopped at his accustomed place.

‘Of course I am,' the Princess snapped irritably. ‘A little breathlessness never hurt anyone.' Another twinge of pain shot up her arm and she clenched her teeth. She couldn't be ill now. Not until she had returned to St Petersburg and put her affairs in order.

She dismissed the coachman, sending him on to the Hotel de Paris with a message for Mademoiselle Bernhardt.

The palm-shaded boulevard was a favourite walking place of many of Monte Carlo's rich and royal visitors. Today it was sparsely populated. Two ladies, delicately frilled parasols disguising their identity, strolled leisurely some distance away. An elderly gentleman puffed wreaths of cigar smoke into the air and studied the amethyst sea with contentment.

‘I think,' the Princess said heavily, ‘it is about time that I saw Victor again.'

Victor was the Princess's son: a gentleman rarely mentioned.

‘I am sure that is a very good idea,' Charlotte said. She hated to see divisions in families and was sure the Prince was not as boorish as the Princess had led her to believe.

The Princess paused and stared unseeingly at the sea. ‘He is not so far away. He winters in Nice and this year has remained there.'

Charlotte felt a stab of shock. Nice was only a carriage ride away and yet the Prince had not once visited the Villa Ondine.

‘Perhaps tomorrow, when I feel stronger, I will make the journey and see him.'

‘If you really feel so unwell, Your Highness, could not a message be sent …?'

The Princess lurched heavily against her. Charlotte cried out, taking her weight.

‘Charlotte …' The breath rasped in the Princess's throat. She was no longer able to stand unaided. A wizened hand clawed at the collar of rubies, as if trying to wrest them from her throat. ‘Charlotte… I …' Her knees buckled and Charlotte was no longer able to hold her upright. She pitched forward, black silk billowing around her frail figure.

With a moan of horror, Charlotte knelt at her side, removing the necklace with trembling, fevered fingers, loosening the bodice of the Princess's gown at the throat, gazing frantically around for help. The two ladies were no longer discernible: the gentleman had gone.

‘Charlotte …' The raisin-black eyes in their whitened mask held Charlotte's.

‘Charlotte … Thank you …' The breath gurgled in her throat. She choked, tried to speak once more, and then her head fell back against Charlotte's arm and she was silent.

Help. She must get help. Tenderly she lowered the Princess's head on to the unrelenting ground, and scrambled to her feet. It could be an age before the Yakovlev carriage returned. There had to be someone, somewhere, who could take the unconscious Princess speedily to a doctor.

She began to run along the boulevard in the direction of the Port. The white stallions trotted towards her, resplendent in scarlet harness, a spanking landau bowling in their wake. She almost sobbed in relief. Frenziedly she ran towards them.

‘Stop! Oh, please stop!'

There was a startled oath and then a command. The coachman reined in obediently.

‘Oh, thank goodness!' The horses snorted and pawed the ground. Gasping, she almost fell against their sides.

A lithe figure leapt from the coach and seized hold of her shoulders. ‘What the devil is the matter?'

Once more Count Karolyi's face was only inches from hers. ‘The Princess,' she panted. ‘She has collapsed …'

In the heat haze, on the ground, the black silk shimmered. ‘Into the carriage,' Sandor said tersely. ‘Quickly, Alphonse.'

His coachman did not need to be told twice. He flicked the reins and within seconds Sandor was kneeling at the side of the inert Princess.

‘We must get her to a doctor!' Charlotte's eyes were large and bright.

Without speaking, Sandor scooped the pathetically small figure into his arms and strode back to his landau.

‘Doctor Deslys,' he ordered. ‘Fast!'

Charlotte leaned back against scarlet leather upholstery, feeling as if she were in the grip of a nightmare. The Princess's head lolled against Sandor's arm grotesquely. The landau sped heedlessly over the cobbles, between narrow lanes of golden-stoned houses, their balconies thick with bougainvillaea, their walls covered in jasmine. A brass plate decorated the residence of Dr Deslys.

Alphonse rapped on the door.

‘For God's sake, man. Walk straight in,' Sandor commanded tersely, a frightening expression on his face.

Alphonse did as he was bid. A maid hastened towards them and was brushed aside. An elderly, bespectacled gentleman hurried from his study and at the sight of Sandor with the Princess in his arms, opened his surgery door wide so that they might enter.

Sandor laid Princess Yakovleva on the doctor's leather examination couch. Charlotte remained by the door, terrified of getting in the way her hands pressed tightly against her chest, a prayer on her lips.

The doctor felt the Princess's pulse, opened the lid of one closed eye and sighed heavily. Almost without haste he adjusted his stethoscope and listened intently to her heart. Then he raised his head and shook it.

Fear drowned Charlotte. ‘What is it? A heart attack? A stroke? She's going to be all right, isn't she?'

‘I am afraid, mademoiselle, that the lady is dead.'

Charlotte gazed disbelievingly from him to Sandor and then back to the lifeless figure on the couch.

‘No!' The word was torn from her throat. ‘No! She can't be dead!'

‘A brandy for mademoiselle,' the doctor was saying. Sandor was moving towards her but she was uncaring. Her eyes were riveted on the ethereally calm features of Princess Yakovleva.

‘No! There must be a mistake!' She stumbled forward and felt a strong hand support her arm. ‘Princess … Your Highness …' The ruby ringed hand she took in hers was still and already cold. She sank to her knees, pressing it against her cheek, weeping unrestrainedly.

The brandy was proffered and ignored. Through a sea of grief she heard Dr Deslys ask Sandor if the deceased had been her mother. A serviceable masculine handkerchief was thrust into her hand. Gently, strong hands raised her to her feet.

‘There is nothing more you can do for her, Charlotte.' He was looking down at her compassionately.

‘I loved her,' Charlotte said helplessly, her eyes bright with pain.

His arm circled her shoulders. ‘I know, and the Princess knew. It is all that matters.'

Her head was cradled against the frilled linen of his shirt. Incredibly, she was content to let it stay there, crying in a way she had not cried since the death of her parents.

His strength seemed to surround and protect her. His arms were a haven she had no desire to leave. She could hear the strong beat of his heart and was aware that he was holding her with astounding tenderness.

She leaned against him, grateful for the comfort of his presence as he led her away from the surgery. The door was closed on the dead Princess. Maria, brought swiftly from the Villa Ondine by Sandor's coachman, was standing in the hallway, ashen faced.

‘Oh, mademoiselle,' she cried and Charlotte left Sandor's arms and grasped Maria's outstretched hands.

She remembered very little of the journey back to the villa. She had lost the person dearest to her in the whole world. There would be no more acid-tongued conversations; no more kindnesses; no more laughter. She was once more alone in the world. Penniless in an environment where paupers had no place. Where respectable employment was almost impossible to find. Only hours ago she had been offered the only financial safety a girl without family could hope to find in Monte Carlo. She had refused it then and she would refuse it now. Whatever happened, she would not abandon her honour and become a cocotte. She would return to England. Find employment in a respectable house. The prospect sank like lead on her heart. Respectable employment as a governess or companion in England was worlds away from the sun and the society to which she had grown accustomed in Monte Carlo. Her dazzling, brilliant world would have to be abandoned. There would be no more evenings in the glittering Salle Mauresque; no more hours of excitement as fortunes were staked in the Salon Privé.

She rose bleakly to her feet. A return to England would cost money. She had travelled to Monte Carlo at the Princess's expense. Her gowns had been generously paid for by the Princess, as had every other item she owned. She had had no need of her salary and the Princess had retained it for safekeeping. Now there was no one she could approach who had the authority to pay her what was due. Her head ached. What would happen to the Princess's body? Where would it be buried; and by whom?

Maria stepped out on to the darkened terrace.

‘Count Karolyi wishes to speak with you, mademoiselle.'

Charlotte turned to enter the lamplit room but he was already striding towards her.

In the moonlight his black hair had a blue sheen. The firm jaw and finely chiselled mouth were strangely comforting.

‘I have sent word of the Princess's death to Prince Victor in Nice. I have also seen to it that the newspapers in London, Paris and St Petersburg are informed.'

‘Thank you.'

She looked up at him with sad, vulnerable eyes and he felt a surge of pity for her.

‘I have also arranged that the Princess's body be brought to the villa to lie in state. The Princess expressed a wish many times to be buried in Monte Carlo and I am assuming that Prince Victor will accede to her request. Therefore I shall go ahead with the necessary arrangements.'

‘Yes. Thank you.' There was so much she wanted to say and could not for the tears that choked her throat.

‘You need rest,' he said abruptly, the darkness hiding the concern in his eyes.

‘Yes.'

She had determined never to speak to him again but that had been before his kindness in Dr Deslys' surgery. Now he was being kind again, offering to take the burden of the Princess's death from her shoulders.

‘Goodnight.' He could stay no longer. If he did so he would be unable to maintain his cool politeness. There was something at once innocent and paganly beautiful about her. She needed loving and cherishing and the temptation to undertake the task almost overcame him.

The abrasive lines of his mouth were bitter as he restrained himself. The imprint of her fingers had taken a long time to fade from his cheek and he had no desire to add to her distress by pressing on her attentions that were so patently unwelcome; attentions that could lead to nothing but disillusion.