Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

  Resuming her place at the Princess’s side, she reflected that no matter how accustomed he was to getting his own way, in this Count Sandor Karolyi would be disappointed. Sarah’s witchery would never belong solely to one man; it belonged to the world.

  Play commenced. The Comte was slightly disconcerted at seeing Charlotte so openly engaged in the part of companion. Did Princess Yakovleva never allow her to play the tables? But of course not. With what would she play? He smiled to himself, imagining her delight at being supplied with gold louis with which to indulge herself.

  Charlotte was uncomfortably aware of his gaze resting on her with disquieting frequency; of the admiration in his eyes; of the intimate smile playing around his lips. He was in his early twenties, young and dashing. Exquisitely dressed ladies of the demi-monde tried repeatedly to catch his attention. It was fixed on Charlotte. He even declined to play so that he could enjoy the sight of her without interruption. Her silken hair was parted in the centre, looped softly over her ears, gathered high with a velvet ribbon and spilling in a cascade of natural ringlets. Her expression was as sweet as that of a madonna. The Countess, overcome by Sarah’s presence, was oblivious that her escort’s attention was centred elsewhere. The Princess had eyes for nothing but the ball as it spun and clattered around the wheel, bringing, as she had anticipated, fortune in its wake.

  Sandor was not so unaware. Justin, Comte de Valmy, did not abide by the rules Sandor set himself, restraining his conquests to world-weary cocottes and sophisticated married ladies all too happy to enter into a liaison and stave off boredom. Justin’s thoughtless conquests were all too often innocent virgins; young girls overcome by the honour of his attentions and speedily forgotten. The de Valmy estates were littered with his carelessly conceived progeny. In Justin’s eyes the breathtakingly beautiful English girl would be just another amusing diversion.

  ‘The whole of Monte Carlo is talking of your courageous action this afernoon,’ Justin said as Sarah called for more champagne to celebrate her continuing good fortune.

  ‘It was Count Karolyi who was courageous,’ Charlotte said shyly in her lightly accented French. ‘I acted only on impulse and my action would not have saved the child. It was Count Karolyi who did so – and who saved my life as well.’

  ‘I had not realised you were the true hero of the hour, Sandor,’ Justin said as his champagne glass was replenished.

  ‘I was not.’ There was a distinct edge to Sandor’s voice and he did not condescend to look in the Comte’s direction. ‘ I merely removed an exceedingly foolish young woman, and an even more foolish child, from the path of a horse to prevent the animal breaking its knees and having to be shot.’

  Charlotte’s cheeks burned. Sarah and the Princess were too engrossed in the spinning wheel to hear his remark.

  The corners of Justin’s mouth twitched. It seemed that Count Karolyi was exceedingly put out that the honours for the afternoon’s escapade had fallen to the Princess’s companion.

  ‘But no doubt if Mademoiselle Grainger had not acted so promptly you would not have felt obliged to remove the child?’ he asked smoothly, and was pleased to observe a thin white line around Sandor’s mouth, signifying anger barely under control.

  ‘Assume what you wish,’ Sandor said curtly, wishing that the Countess and her lover would remove themselves elsewhere.

  The flush of colour in her cheeks only emphasised Charlotte’s gentle beauty. The Comte fought the desire to unpin her ribbon, sending her hair spilling about her shoulders in a shining mass.

  The Countess, losing yet again, excused herself from the table and was immediately taken to one side by an elderly Russian with silver hair and unnervingly pale blue eyes. As the Countess declared how pleased she was to see him again, Justin took the opportunity he had been waiting for.

  ‘I would deem it an honour if you would accompany me on a drive tomorrow afternoon,’ he said in a low voice, and was well pleased at the disbelief his words aroused in her sea-green eyes.

  ‘I am afraid that I cannot, Monsieur. My duties are to attend Princess Yakovleva.’

  ‘I am sure that if I approach the Princess on your behalf, she will consent.’

  Sandor swung away from the table so suddenly that Sarah cried out in alarm.

  ‘You will kindly address your attentions elsewhere, de Valmy. Mademoiselle Grainger is Princess Yakovleva’s companion and is not open to such requests.’ There was a savagery in his features that silenced even Justin. Sandor Karolyi was not a man it was wise to cross. There was talk of more than one duel; of more than one death.

  Anger flooded through Charlotte like a tide. Her suspicions had been correct. In Count Karolyi’s eyes she was nothing but an appendage to the Princess. A menial of whom no consideration must be taken.

  ‘If the Princess consents, I shall be delighted to accept your kind offer,’ she said, her eyes flashing defiantly.

  The Princess looked at her in astonishment. Had the attention that Sarah had brought to her gone to the child’s head? Her raisin-black eyes flew from Sandor’s grim face to the Comte de Valmy’s furious one. Her bewilderment vanished. A suspicion of a smile tugged at the corners of her wrinkled mouth.

  ‘A carriage ride would make a welcome diversion for Charlotte,’ she said and was rewarded by the Comte’s flashing smile and Sandor’s blazing anger.

  The Russian departed. The Countess returned her attention to Justin, unaware of the assignation her lover had just made. She took her leave of Sarah and the Princess, bade Charlotte a charming goodnight and murmured to Justin that she had a headache. He patted her hand, aware that she had no such thing but that she was anxious to leave the casino and enjoy his company in private. There would be no such opportunities when her husband returned.

  ‘Shame on you, Sandor,’ Sarah chastised, tapping him lightly on the arm with her ostrich-feathered fan. ‘ Why should not Charlotte accompany the Comte for an afternoon carriage ride?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Princess, ‘ why not?’

  Charlotte gazed at her employer in disbelief. She had expected the wrath of heaven to fall on her for her forwardness. Instead, the Princess seemed positively buoyant at the prospect of being deserted the following afternoon. Her head whirled. Why had the Comte made such a request? Surely he was aware of the difference in their social status? And why had the Princess acceded to it?

  Sandor’s face was taut with fury, his eyes blazing. He, at least, was well aware of the incongruity of her being escorted on a carriage ride by Comte Justin de Valmy, Charlotte thought bleakly.

  Sarah’s gaiety dispelled the tenseness that had descended on the table. The wheel continued to spin. The Princess continued to play, forsaking her usual game of baccarat in the Salon Privé. To Charlotte the night seemed endless. Sandor Karolyi’s anger, though controlled, was patently not dissipated. The sun-bronzed face was hard and uncompromising. A pulse throbbed threateningly at the corner of his jaw. She averted her gaze from his downturned head and surveyed the sparkling throng milling in the room. The little Parisienne who had smiled at her so warmly was ecstatically scooping up a pile of gold plaques, the grand duke watching indulgently at her side. A wave of apprehension flooded Charlotte. Had the Comte mistaken her for a cocotte? Was that the reason he had so surprisingly asked her to accompany him? The heat in the room seemed insufferable. She longed to walk the terrace and feel the breeze from the sea cooling her face. No such mistake could have been made. Princess Yakovleva had made it perfectly clear that Charlotte was her companion.

  A member of the royal house of Serbia entered the room, a bevy of plumed and jewelled ladies in his wake. A crowd was congregating around a trente-et-quarante table as the bids rose astronomically. Monsieur Blanc was striding from table to table. The Countess of Bexhall had been delayed in her exit by Princess Helena. The Comte was at her side, his thick, fair hair gleaming beneath the lights of the chandeliers. Charlotte averted her gaze swiftly. Why had she accepted his invitation? She had not the slightes
t desire to ride with him.

  In turning her head from the Comte’s direction her eyes inadvertently met Count Karolyi’s. The harshness in his expression made her feel faint. She had accepted the Comte’s invitation because he had paid attention to her and Count Karolyi had not. The hard glitter of his eyes was unnerving.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I would like to take some air.’

  The Princess turned her head sharply. Charlotte’s face was unnaturally pale.

  ‘Would you like me to accompany you, child?’

  ‘No thank you, Your Highness. That will not be necessary. I shall only be a few moments.’

  The Princess nodded and Charlotte excused herself with relief, her skirts rustling as she walked hurriedly across the Salle Mauresque and out on to the terrace and into blessed coolness.

  There were too many couples promenading for her to feel at ease and she ran lightly down the terrace steps and on to a lower, less populated terrace. Pots of verbena and marguerites shone palely in the moonlight. A high bank of rhododendrons concealed her from the view of those above. She halted against a marble statue of Venus and gazed out over the silk-black sea. She had behaved foolishly, allowing Count Karolyi’s uninterest to goad her into accepting an invitation she had no desire for.

  The night air was fresh. From above she could hear subdued laughter and the murmur of voices but there was no one on the lower terrace to disturb her privacy. She leaned her cheek against the coolness of the marble, reluctant to return to the heat and dazzle of the Salle Mauresque.

  There was the sound of a footfall. The leaves of the rhododendrons were brushed aside and a dark figure descended the steps. She picked up her skirts, intent on leaving now that her privacy had been invaded. His silhouette was unmistakable. Thick curling hair, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and an air of negligent sensuality that sent the blood pounding in her veins. Helplessly she looked around for a way of escape, and found none.

  ‘I would like a word with you, Mademoiselle Grainger,’ he said, and there was a hint of menace in his words.

  ‘I think not,’ she retorted bravely, aware that her voice held an underlying tremor. ‘If you will excuse me.’

  She moved towards the steps purposefully but he barred the way.

  ‘I feel obliged to point out to you that if it had not been for the events of this afternoon and Mademoiselle’s Bernhardt’s attention, the Comte de Valmy would have paid you no regard at all.’

  ‘I don’t see of what interest that is to you, Monsieur.’ Her eyes sparked dangerously.

  He seemed to hesitate and for a moment Charlotte thought he was going to step aside and allow her to ascend the steps. Instead, he said with a depth of feeling that startled her,

  ‘If I had not saved your life earlier today, you would not have been able to accept the Comte’s invitation. Therefore I feel a measure of responsibility for you.’

  ‘Let me assure you, you have no need! I have given you my thanks for …’ Anger and humiliation choked her, ‘… for … hurling me to safety. There is no need for you to feel any responsibility for my future actions.’

  She was so near that he could smell the clean perfume of her hair. He cursed inwardly. What the devil was it to him whether de Valmy seduced her or not?

  ‘And now, Monsieur, if you will excuse me?’ Her lips were parted and trembling.

  ‘De Valmy has only one motive in seeking your company, Mademoiselle Grainger, and it is not an honourable one.’

  She gasped. ‘ How dare you imply that … that …’ She struggled to find the right words and failed, ‘… that he is without honour!’

  The broad shoulders shrugged carelessly. ‘ Because it is a truth known throughout Europe.’

  ‘As is the truth of your own reputation, Monsieur!’ she flared, her breasts heaving.

  His eyes narrowed, holding her prisoner. ‘My reputation is none of your concern, Mademoiselle!’

  ‘And my actions are none of yours, Monsieur!’

  There was a sudden flexing of muscles at his jaw line as they glared furiously at each other.

  ‘Then you still intend to keep your assignation with him?’

  She tilted her head defiantly. ‘I am looking forward to it exceedingly.’

  Something deep inside him, long suppressed, exploded.

  ‘Then this is what you are looking forward to, Mademoiselle!’

  His hands shot out, grasping her wrists. She tried to wrench them away but he held her easily, drawing her in one swift movement into the circle of his arms.

  ‘No! Please! No!’ Her protests were in vain. His mouth came down on hers in a hard, silencing kiss.

  Her hands pushed purposefully against his chest. His lips claimed and demanded, searing hers, hot and sweet.

  She twisted her head but there was no escape. His hands burned through the silk of her gown. Heat surged through her body as if she were in the grip of a fever. His mouth parted hers and she could summon no resistance. Weakness flooded through her and she swayed helplessly against him, held upright only by the strength of his arms.

  His kiss had lost its savagery. It was long and slow and expert, shocking in its effect on her. Her hands no longer pushed against him in protest. Instead her fingers opened and closed helplessly and then clutched despairingly at his shoulders, sliding upwards of their own volition to the warmth of his neck as her senses reeled.

  For a lifetime his mouth held hers captive and then very gently he released her, looking down at her with a strange expression in his devil-dark eyes.

  ‘Charlotte …’ His voice was unsteady, scarcely recognisable. She was panting for breath, suffused with shame, her emotions in turmoil. She struggled to speak and when she did so the words were ragged and thick with suppressed tears.

  ‘You … are … despicable.’

  Falteringly she backed away from him.

  ‘Charlotte, please …’ The harsh planes of his face looked almost Arabic in the moonlight.

  Her voice rose, edged with hysteria. ‘Don’t touch me … don’t ever touch me again!’

  His nearness, his masculinity, were overpowering. She had to move, had to be free of his presence. His hand reached out for her and she struck it blindly away.

  ‘You are hateful! Detestable! I never want to set eyes on you again!’

  Her hand rose again, slapping him full across the face and then the tears that had been held back for so long scalded her cheeks as she whirled away from him, running along the terrace and up the steps, as if the Furies themselves were at her heels.

  He didn’t move. His face had hardened into an impenetrable mask. As she disappeared from sight he cursed softly and then, his eyes bleak, followed slowly in her wake.

  She paused at the entrance of the Salle Mauresque, struggling to regulate her breathing. Charlotte. He had called her Charlotte. And he had behaved infamously. She pressed her hands against her scalding cheeks. She was trembling violently, her heart racing. Captured in his arms she had felt no revulsion, only a wild, fleeting joy. She had wanted to remain there, to hear the thud of his heart against hers; to feel the strength of his body; the heat of his hands. The blood surged through her veins in a hot tide. She was shameless; little better than the Parisienne who flaunted herself on the grand duke’s arm. She took a deep; shuddering breath and stepped once more into the laughter-filled room.

  The Princess eyed her curiously. Unless she was very much mistaken, Charlotte’s cheeks were unduly flushed and there was a suspicious glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. She felt suddenly tired. Perhaps she had been unwise in allowing Charlotte permission to accompany Justin de Valmy. Certainly a proposal of marriage would not be forthcoming from such a venture. De Valmy was not a young man who would be so rash as to align himself to a girl of no social status.

  ‘I shall be enchanted to join you for supper tomorrow evening, Mademoiselle Bernhardt,’ she said as she prepared to depart.

  Sarah’s almond-shaped eyes danced. ‘I have much to
show you, Princess Natalya. My paintings, my sculptures, my animals. They travel everywhere with me.’ In a graceful, fluid movement she rose to her feet and kissed the Princess goodbye. ‘Will you be brave enough to play with my pet cheetah tomorrow, Charlotte? He is as brave and beautiful as yourself. Naughty Monsieur Bertora will not allow me to bring him into the casino. Yet my cheetah is not so wild as some who pass through his door!’

  Despite her anguish, Charlotte laughed. Sarah’s blatant joy of life was infectious.

  ‘That is better,’ Sarah chided. ‘You were made to smile and laugh, my dear Charlotte, not to look so inexplicably sad.’

  Her acolytes surrounded her, eager to gain attention. Sarah ignored them and announced her desire to bathe in the sea.

  The Princess walked without her usual sprightliness through the gilded rooms. ‘I feel unusually fatigued,’ she said as she entered her coach.

  ‘You won splendidly.’

  A hint of Princess Yakovleva’s zest returned. ‘I did, didn’t I? I told you today was a lucky day for me.’

  Charlotte remained silent. It had not been lucky for herself. It had been momentous; traumatic; nearly tragic. But it had not been lucky.

  Twelve hours ago she had been unaware of Count Sandor Karolyi’s existence. Her lips burned with the memory of his kiss. It had been the first she had ever received. Were all kisses so inflaming to the senses? She thought of the Comte, dashing and appraising. Her pulse remained steady. Her heart did not beat in long, thick strokes as it did when her thoughts dwelt on the handsome Hungarian. If Justin de Valmy kissed her, would she feel the same, shameless response? It was a question that would go unanswered because she had no intention of permitting such liberties. She had every intention of pleading a headache and not accompanying him at all.

  The carriage swept through the stone, lion-flanked gateway and Maria, the Princess’s maid, hastened from the lamplit villa to divest the Princess of her sable wrap and to assist her to bed. Charlotte walked slowly to her own room.

  Dawn was already tingeing the sky a dull gold. She removed her dress and took the camellia from her hair. If it had not been for Sandor Karolyi’s presence, the evening would have been the most memorable of her life. For one heady moment every eye had been turned in her direction.