Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

‘But I have no money of my own with which to gamble and it seems so wicked to gamble away that which is not mine.’

  Sandor looked at her with unconcealed interest. ‘I find you intriguing, Charlotte. I know of no other young lady who would have the slightest qualm at gambling with that which is not hers.’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘But they perhaps did not have a parson for a father.’

  There was a curious edge to his voice, ‘You speak in the past tense. Is your father dead?’

  Charlotte’s eyes clouded. ‘Yes. He died two years ago.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She died shortly before my father. She was ill with a virulent sickness, and Papa nursed her, as he did many others in his parish.’

  ‘And you, in your turn, nursed him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  Sandor reached across the table and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that his strong, olive-toned hands should imprison hers.

  ‘And then?’

  She shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘ I cared for the children of a parson in the neighbouring parish.’

  ‘And you were unhappy?’

  Her smile was rueful. ‘I discovered that not all homes were as contented as my own had been. I couldn’t bear living in a rectory that was cold and cheerless and without laughter. It made my memories all the more painful. So I left, intent on becoming a governess, and found myself companion to Princess Yakovleva.’

  ‘And in Monte Carlo, surrounded by dandies, roués, spendthrifts and the scions of great European families all recklessly gambling away their fortunes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, and her smile once again held warmth.

  Sandor regarded her musingly. She was like a flame. Some kind of inner light seemed to illuminate her. The lobster and salad remained untouched. Her hand remained imprisoned in his. She had no need to say how she had delighted in the gaiety and frivolity. He had seen her at Princess Yakovleva’s side, watching the glittering throng around her with fascinated eyes; enjoying all that Monte Carlo had to offer and yet remaining totally uncorrupted by it.

  ‘I would like to see you play the tables,’ he said, and the curve of his mouth was devilish. ‘Beginners bring luck. You might very well make me a fortune this evening, Charlotte.’

  ‘But I might also lose!’

  He shrugged. ‘No one should gamble who cannot afford to lose.’

  ‘Tell me about gambling,’ she said impulsively. ‘ My father said it brought only ruin but you gamble excessively and you are not a ruined man.’

  At her candour Sandor threw back his head and laughed unroariously.

  Georges and Jeanne, patiently waiting to enter with the dessert, stared at each other in amazement.

  ‘Your father,’ Sandor said at last, still chuckling, ‘ was a most astute gentleman and perfectly correct. Gambling can become a compulsion and when it does, ruin usually follows.’

  ‘Then it is not a compulsion for you?’

  ‘No. For me gambling is a way of life.’

  The familiar darkness touched his eyes fleetingly. A way of life, because there was nothing of greater worth to replace it. No wife to love. No sons to teach to hunt and fish. No daughters to take pride in. Daughters with copper-gold hair and sea-green eyes.

  A small frown furrowed her brow as she regarded him, her head tilted slightly to one side. He tightened his hold of her hands and flashed her a devastating smile.

  ‘The first rule is to choose the game you have the most affinity for.’

  ‘Roulette,’ Charlotte said unhesitatingly, surprising even herself.

  ‘Why roulette?’ He was laughing at her again and this time she was laughing with him.

  ‘I do not know. I just enjoy the excitement of the spinning wheel and the click of the ball, and it does not require the skill of two-pack solitaire or baccarat.’

  ‘And so you will play roulette tonight?’

  She was caught up on a tide of recklessness. ‘Yes.’

  He grinned. ‘ Then this is what you must do. First of all, seat yourself at the table. Too many people stand in nervous anticipation and then lose money because they become tired. Seat yourself opposite the even chance, red or black, whichever you favour.’

  ‘But how do I know whether to favour the red or the black?’ Charlotte asked in perplexity.

  Sandor’s grin widened. ‘That, my dear Charlotte, is a matter of great skill. If your hair is black, favour the black. If it is red …’ His eyes rested on the halo of her hair. ‘Then perhaps it would be best to favour the red.’

  Her eyes were full of soft light. He wanted to rise from the table, sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his room. He said,

  ‘Once at the table, make yourself comfortable. Take out a card and pencil the figures one to five down the page. Ignore the other players. You are playing to win and when you have won, you will stop. That is perhaps the greatest secret of all. Your first bet is the sum of the top and bottom numbers on your list. Five plus one. Six gold plaques. If you win you cross out the five and the one on your list and your next bet is the sum of the remaining top and bottom numbers of your column. Four plus two. Your following bets are always the sum of the top and bottom numbers you have not crossed out.’

  Charlotte stared at him with mystification. ‘And will I win if I play as you say?’

  His smile was lazy and teasing. ‘ If you are lucky. If you are unlucky you will not lose a great amount because you will stop as soon as all the numbers you have written down have been crossed out. If you win you will not lose your winnings because you will not play again. That is the only way to make a profit out of gambling. Iron self-discipline.’

  She nodded her head, intrigued. ‘Yes. I see that this way the chances are greater than choosing a number because it happens to be the date of my birth.’

  ‘Then you are wiser than Sarah. She steadfastly refuses to follow any system at all and chooses her numbers at the table by sheer whim.’

  Charlotte’s smile was mischievous. ‘But she often wins. I have seen her.’

  ‘And loses, because she promptly gambles it all back again.’

  ‘That is true,’ Charlotte admitted thoughtfully, remembering the times Sarah had called for champagne to celebrate her winnings, and then for more champagne to console herself in her losses.

  ‘Princess Yakovleva did not often play roulette. She preferred baccarat.’

  ‘As I do.’ His voice was so tender that it startled her.

  He could restrain himself no longer. Her eyes had a captivating slant. Her lips were vulnerably soft. Her presence filled his senses, sending the blood surging through his veins. The desire that laughter had kept at bay showed nakedly in his eyes.

  Charlotte tried to hold on to reason and sense, and failed. Her heart seemed to rock within her breast. Slowly he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers one by one, his eyes never leaving hers.

  If she did not protest now she would be little better than Louise or Floretta Rozanko. She tried to speak and could not.

  Not releasing her hands, he rose from the table and stepped to her side. She could smell his cologne. His tightly trousered legs brushed her skirt.

  ‘No …’ she whispered, and then he drew her to her feet and she entered his arms like an arrow entering the gold.

  The blood pounded in Sandor’s ears. She was his. She would always be his.

  Her response now was not occasioned by fear. Nor was it a figment of his imagination. He kissed her urgently, hungrily, until she lost her breath in the passion of his mouth. Then, with a groan, he swept her up in his arms and strode from the room like a man demented. He was halted in his tracks by Georges.

  ‘Prince Charles is expecting your arrival at the Grimaldi Palace at three-thirty, Count Karolyi,’ Georges said, all too aware of Count Karolyi’s intentions.

  ‘The Devil he is!’

  Beyond Georges the staircase curved invitingly. />
  Georges stood his ground determinedly. He had been in Sandor’s service for many years and was accustomed to the endless stream of actresses and society beauties that found their way, briefly, into the Count’s bed. However, the English girl was different. She was not of loose virtue and she was not protected by a complacent husband. Sandor’s brows drew together demonically and Georges quaked in his highly-polished shoes as he said through parched lips.

  ‘Miss Grainger will need to change her attire, and it is already after two o’clock.’

  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.

  Chapter Eight

  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.