Devil's Palace (9 page)

The Prince arrived late that evening in a Victoria drawn by two greys. Other equipages carrying his valet and household staff followed. He was stout, flush-faced, flamboyantly dressed and displayed none of the Princess's caustic charm.

In the dimly lit hallway Charlotte was barely discernible as his valet removed his cloak. Apprehensively she stepped forward.

‘Miss Charlotte Grainger, Your Highness. I was companion to Princess Yakovleva.'

Small, almost feminine lips pursed. ‘And where is … Princess Yakovleva?'

There was no outward sign of grief. He seemed rather to be annoyed at the fatigue of his journey.

Dutifully Charlotte led him through the luxuriously furnished rooms to the flower-filled boudoir where Princess Yakovleva lay in state, candles at her head and feet.

The Prince did not enter the room, merely slapped his doe-skin gloves repeatedly in the palm of his hand and then turned away, demanding a brandy and a cigar.

Charlotte remained at the open door of the room aghast. She had known that there was little love between Princess Yakovleva and her son, but surely he could have at least spent a few moments in silence and prayerful thought at her side. The Prince was talking to a sombrely dressed gentleman Charlotte assumed was his secretary.

‘The body must be transported by
wagon-lits
to Petersburg at the earliest opportunity.'

Shock numbed her into action. Softly she closed the door on the candlelit room and hurried towards them.

‘Excuse me, Your Highness. Princess Yakovleva expressed the wish to be buried in Monte Carlo …'

As the Prince turned on her she faltered. His pale blue eyes were icy in their frostiness.

‘I do not believe I addressed you, Mademoiselle,' he said crushingly.

Charlotte's cheeks burned at the uncalled for reprimand. ‘But Your Highness …'

Prince Victor was already turning his back on her. Were Princess Natalya's last wishes to be ignored? Her chin tilted defiantly.

‘The Princess's wishes were expressed on paper as well as verbally,' she said to a back upon which the rich material of the jacket stretched dangerously.

Prince Victor stiffened but did not deign to turn around. ‘Remove her,' he said to his pale-faced secretary.

Charlotte felt as if the ground were yawning in a chasm at her feet. Within minutes she had antagonised the one person whose good will it was in her interests to keep. There was the money owing to her; carefully documented in the Princess's own handwriting in her personal ledger. Without benefit of it she had no way of returning to England. And only the Prince had the authority to remunerate her.

‘Your Highness, you must allow me to speak with you.' There was a note of barely concealed desperation in her voice.

Slowly Prince Victor turned while his secretary quaked. The Prince surveyed Charlotte thoughtfully. He had paid her little attention on entering the villa. His thoughts had been elsewhere; on the bad taste his mother had shown in expiring only a stone's throw from the notorious Devil's Palace; on the vulgar scene his current mistress had exhibited on being told he would not be returning to her; on the financial implications of his mother's death.

He saw, to his surprise, that his mother's last companion was devastatingly different from those who had preceded her. She was extraordinarily beautiful. Her dress was demure enough, the gown fastened high at the throat with small pearl buttons, but delightfully rounded breasts were clearly defined beneath the grey silk of her bodice. Her waist was minuscule, her hips a seductive curve. He raised his eyes to her face; to the creamy soft skin, the lustrous eyes, the mouth of rose petal softness. A familiar gleam heated the ice in his eyes.

‘Indeed you must speak to me, Mademoiselle Grainger. But later. When I have rested.'

He turned, walking quickly from the salon, his retinue hurrying in his wake.

Charlotte felt a flood of relief. He had been curt because he had been distressed. Once he read the Princess's private papers he would acquiesce to the funeral she desired. And if he did not, perhaps Count Karolyi would speak to him. At the thought of the Count she was overcome with fresh anxiety. He had done so much for her. It was thanks to him that the Princess had not lain for far longer in the ignominy of the boulevard. It was thanks to him that a doctor had been reached so speedily, albeit in vain. It was thanks to him that Prince Victor had been notified, that the Princess's body had arrived in full splendour to be laid in state. And her barely coherent thank you of the previous evening when he had startled her on the terrace, was insufficient. Good manners demanded that she thank him properly.

The next morning Prince Victor's household staff received the steady stream of visitors and Charlotte was freed of the tasks she had carried out since the Princess's death. Prince Victor had declared his intention of resting. Her absence would not be noticed.

Count Karolyi was residing at Beausoleil, a magnificent villa overlooking the Port. She donned a black mantilla over her hair, exchanged her customary white day gloves for black ones and slipped from the villa. The Princess had allowed her the use of the landau any time she desired. She hesitated in the villa's courtyard. The road to Beausoleil was steep and the sun was already hot. With the Princess dead she had no longer any authority to use a Yakovlev carriage. She turned her back on the landau and horses, her skirts whipping around her ankles as she walked swiftly out of the luxurious grounds and headed in the direction of Beausoleil.

Tall pines shimmered in a heat haze. Fields of rosemary stretched out on either side of her, thick with clusters of myrtle and arbutus. Occasionally she paused, looking down at the far distant boulevard, the casino and the sea. Beausoleil had no near neighbours. It stood magnificently alone among orange trees and thyme.

Hot and tired she rang for admittance. The footman was liveried in green and gold. The hall was floored in pink marble. An exquisite bronze by Gouthiere decorated one corner; a Boucher tapestry the other.

After some moments' absence the footman returned and led her into a drawing room so unlike those to which she was accustomed that she gasped. The walls were white, the carpet was white; pale lilac and jonquil sofas were thickly endowed with cushions. The vast windows overlooked the curving rock of Monaco, the yacht-clustered port, the fairytale twin towers of the casino.

Sandor had just returned from his morning ride. His white ruffled shirt was opened to reveal a firmly muscled chest and a pelt of crisply curling dark hair. His breeches fitted snugly about his narrow hips. His boots gleamed. His masculinity was overpowering, taking her breath away.

He surveyed her silently, making no move towards her. She fought down a rising sense of disquiet.

‘Excuse my calling on you uninvited, Count Karolyi. I thought it only proper that I …' Hesitantly she began to thank him for his kindness.

Sandor regarded her through narrowed eyes, oblivious to what she was saying.

So, with Princess Yakovleva dead, Mademoiselle Grainger was without a protector. And, as so many others had attempted to do in the past, she had come to him in the hope that he would be so moved by her beauty, her vulnerability, that he would take pity on her.

He remembered the kiss on the darkened terrace of the casino. Safe in the Princess's care, she had shown all too clearly what she thought of his advances, yet here she was, only days later, offering herself to him almost as a gift.

His handsome, satanic features darkened. His disillusionment was acute. In Charlotte Grainger he had thought he had discerned the exception to the rule. A young lady neither mercenary nor shallow. In the casino she had been delightful, charmingly shy, breathtakingly lovely – a welcome change from the flaunting, forward ladies of the
demi-monde
and the brittle society beauties. When the Princess had died her grief had been genuine, she had wept unrestrainedly, uncaring of his presence or her appearance. He had liked Mademoiselle Charlotte Grainger exceedingly, and now …

His eyes lingered on her mouth. If he did not become her lover, no doubt Justin de Valmy would. Or had she already been there and been refused? He doubted it—de Valmy had been obviously infatuated with her. But de Valmy was not as rich as he, Sandor Karolyi was rich. And that was why Mademoiselle Charlotte Grainger was now standing before him, her hands clasped disarmingly, her mantilla of mourning accentuating the rich chestnut of her hair.

The most curious longing swept through him. She was not what he had hoped and yet she was still entrancing, still sufficiently different to arouse in him instincts both primeval and protective.

Charlotte faltered. Why was he looking at her so strangely? It had not occurred to her that he would take such exception to her visiting him unaccompanied. After all, he knew of her circumstances. She had no female relatives; no maid.

Slowly, almost languidly, he moved towards her. The whipcord muscles rippled beneath the linen of his shirt. She lowered her eyes, averting them from the lean, tanned contours of his body, aware of her pulse leaping, the blood surging into her face.

On the white, deep-piled carpet, black hessian boots faced petite high-buttoned ones peeping from silken skirts.

He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her bewildered face to his. ‘Set your mind at rest, Mademoiselle Grainger. Your immediate future is assured. And after me …' He shrugged and there was bitterness in the lines of his mouth. ‘There will, no doubt, be others.'

‘I'm afraid I do not understand. I …'

She tried to step away from him but his eyes hypnotised her. She was aware of hints of gold in the near-black pupils, of the indefinable smell of his maleness, of the fact that, in some strange way, she had aroused his anger.

His hands caught hold of her wrists. ‘You understand perfectly, Mademoiselle Grainger,' he said, his voice dangerously soft. ‘Your mission is accomplished. Let us have no more false modesty.'

She tried to free herself of his grasp but his fingers were pressed so tightly it seemed he would crush the bones rather than release her.

‘I am sorry … There has been a mistake …' Even to her own ears her voice sounded high and strained.

White teeth flashed in a mirthless smile.

‘There has been no mistake, Mademoiselle.'

The expression that flamed in his eyes sent the blood pounding along her veins. Slowly, almost languidly, he drew her towards him.

‘No,' she whispered, feeling her wrists released and her waist imprisoned. ‘No. Oh, please. No.'

Her protests were silenced as his mouth came down on hers in swift, unfumbled contact.

Heat swept through her like a forest fire. She swayed against him as he kissed her slowly at first and then harder, his hands bending her in to the hardness of his body. For a terrifying moment time seemed to be suspended. She was aware only of a need so primeval that it robbed her of coherent thought. Her hands had slid up and around his neck for she could feel the tight spring of curls against her palms. His mouth took and took and she trembled convulsively, yielding without protest. Then his hands cupped her breasts, caressing and arousing over the silk of her gown. She heard herself moan and was aware of strong fingers unbuttoning her bodice. The feel of his fingers against her naked flesh shook her into sanity.

Violently she began to struggle, aware of her body's betrayal, of its yearning to succumb utterly to the intoxication of Sandor Karolyi's hands and lips. He chuckled, restraining her with ease, bruising her mouth, her throat, her shoulders with fiery kisses.

Tears scalded her cheeks. She had asked to see him merely as a courtesy and she had allowed him to think that his advances were welcome. Hating herself for lack of judgment, hating her body for its weakness, she fought like a wildcat. At last the wetness of her tears permeated Sandor's consciousness and he released her with a look of baffled surprise in his coal-dark eyes.

‘Is no woman safe from you?' Charlotte panted, running for the door, grasping the porcelain doorknob for support. ‘First the casino! Now this! Do you accost women in the streets, Count Karolyi? I am surprised that you did not force your attentions while the Princess lay dying! You are unbelievable! Beyond contempt!'

With a look of stunned incredulity he strode towards her but she wrenched open the door, pushing past a startled footman, running, running as she had never run before in her life. The breath hurt in her chest. She dropped her mantilla and didn't pause to retrieve it. Pines, hibiscus, myrtle, merged and swam before her eyes. The road wound dizzily. The sun blinded her. Her heart pounded, her breath coming in harsh gasps.

There came the sound of trotting hoofs and a carriage and she turned in terror but it was only a lady of the town out for an afternoon drive. Cockades of pink carnations decorated the horses' bridles. The lady lolled back against satin upholstery, a lavishly frilled parasol sheltering her flawless skin from the sun, her lips crimsoned prettily with rouge, her eyes rimmed in kohl.

As the carriage drew alongside her, Charlotte heard a husky voice command the coachman to rein in the horses.

‘You appear to be in distress, Mademoiselle. May I be of assistance?'

Charlotte turned her head and found herself gazing into the eyes of the pretty Parisienne who had smiled at her on her last evening in the casino. The carriage door was opened invitingly.

‘Please, Mademoiselle. The sun is hot and the pebbles are hard.'

Gratefully Charlotte stepped into the open caleche. The Parisienne's eyes were mischievous. ‘Are you going to tell me why you are so distressed and dishevelled, Mademoiselle? Is a gentleman responsible?'

‘No gentleman!' Charlotte said so vehemently that the Parisienne laughed delightedly.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Louise de Remy and you, I know, are Mademoiselle Charlotte Grainger, companion to Princess Yakovleva.'