Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘And to risk her life for a child!’ Henrietta said admiringly.

  ‘Sheer melodrama.’

  In the darkness Sandor grinned down at her. ‘There will be more melodrama unless we return to the gaming rooms, my love.’

  She giggled and slid her hand comfortably into his. As they stepped forward from the concealing bushes, Henrietta and Sophronia gasped in alarm.

  ‘Good evening,’ Sandor said genially to the two elderly ladies. ‘I am happy to see you are enjoying the night air and a little gossip,’ and swept past them, Charlotte on his arm, leaving Sophronia gasping for breath and Henrietta more admiring than ever.

  ‘That was most unfair of you.’ Charlotte chided. ‘ You could have at least pretended not to have heard what they were saying.’

  ‘Why? Perhaps in future that gorgon, Sophronia, may be a little more careful before she speaks of someone she has no personal knowledge of.’

  The laughter and chatter of the Salle Mauresque enveloped them. Charlotte’s eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, Sandor. What is Floretta Rozanko about to do?’

  The gipsy-dark Floretta, eyes flashing, smile dazzling, was swaying voluptuously towards the Prince of Wales’ table, determined not to be bested by Louise.

  Her progress was watched with bated breath. At last, with no escort, no one to introduce her, Floretta stood before the Prince of Wales and with the cheek of the Paris gutter from which she had sprung, said in fractured English,

  ‘’Allo, Wales.’

  Before the royal equerries could hurry her away, she blew him a kiss and sprang on to a table, launching into an exuberant can-can. From beyond the gaming room the orchestra hesitated, and then, French to every last man, proceeded to play merrily for her.

  Floretta’s gartered legs kicked provocatively before the Prince of Wales. Lavishly laced petticoats whirled.

  The Prince of Wales grinned broadly. This was just the kind of entertainment that he loved.

  As the music reached a crescendo Floretta leapt from the table, executed a perfect cartwheel, and fell into the splits at the Prince’s feet, her head thrown back triumphantly, her arms held high above her head.

  The stunned silence was broken as Edward applauded gustily. Soon the sound of clapping and cheering filled the room. Louise smiled sweetly at her rival, concealing her rage with exquisite self-control.

  Sarah’s feline eyes held a dangerous gleam. She had no desire to lose the Prince’s company while she remained in Monte Carlo.

  Sandor’s arm tightened around Charlotte’s waist as he said with a grin, ‘It would seem Mademoiselle Rozanko has stolen the evening.’

  Charlotte gazed at the breathless Floretta dazedly and could only nod in agreement.

  A royal equerry stepped forward and said deferentially, ‘Crown Prince Wilhelm has now left the Salon Privé, Your Highness.’

  ‘Good.’ Edward rose to his feet. ‘I would appreciate another display of your art later on this evening at the Café de Paris, Mademoiselle.’

  Floretta flashed a brilliant smile and then, uncaring of the watching bystanders, winked quite openly at the Prince.

  Edward chortled and led the way to the Salon Privé. Sarah took his arm, glaring ferally in the direction of the unrepentant Floretta.

  Louise refused to allow Floretta the pleasure of knowing the extent of her fury and twined her arm through Justin’s, making quite sure that Floretta knew he was her new conquest.

  Justin was unaware of her, his eyes on Charlotte’s retreating back. He had been a fool. He had acted crassly and without finesse and he had lost Charlotte to Karolyi. The knowledge brought with it a surge of desolation he had never before experienced.

  Charlotte was no Louise, to be enjoyed and discarded without thought. Justin’s eyes were reflective. Karolyi had never been known to indulge in long standing affaires. He was a notorious breaker of hearts. He would remain in Monte Carlo and if Charlotte should be in need of consolation, he would give it. Honourably. He thought of the marriage arranged for him in September and shrugged. Extricating himself from such an obligation would be unpleasant, but would be a small price to pay for a lifetime spent with Charlotte.

  Charlotte’s slender figure disappeared from sight. With reluctance he returned his attention to Louise.

  ‘I am damned if I want to spend tonight playing baccarat,’ Sandor said bad-temperedly, acutely aware of the soft rise and fall of Charlotte’s breasts as she made her way up the stairs.

  ‘Shush, the Prince will hear you.’ Charlotte was alight with happiness. Sandor had offered her shelter out of kindness and had grown to love her. Any doubts she had previously entertained had fled. She was now quite sure that his reputation was undeserved; that he had suffered acutely over the death of the Vicomtesse and that his suffering had caused him to be grim and forbidding. He was so no longer. His narrow black eyes lit with pleasure whenever they fell on her. Which was constantly. The harsh, impatient lines of his mouth had given way to dazzling smiles and to laughter.

  Male eyes gleamed appreciatively as she entered the salon on Sandor’s arm. Sandor drew back her chair and she sat down at the baccarat table in the room reserved for only the most distinguished patrons.

  The croupier sat at one end of the oblong table, Sandor the other. That meant that Sandor was going to be the banker. Charlotte had watched enough games of baccarat to understand that the banker was the individual who put up the money for the others to play against. And the amounts were always high. There were not many people, even among the Russian royals, who could afford to play for the stupendously high stakes that Sandor set.

  Edward seated himself comfortably, lit another of his cigars, and lovingly fingered counters engraved with the Prince of Wales feathers.

  Sarah sat opposite Charlotte, her willowy body betraying none of the tension and excitement she felt at the prospect of such dangerous play.

  Edward’s other guests were introduced and seated. An English lord and his wife; a French duke and his Russian mistress. The gentlemen placed their stakes and cigarette cases around the edge of the table, the ladies their lucky mascots.

  Sandor, aware that it could be early morning before he would once again have Charlotte to himself, breathed a sigh of irritation and began to deal.

  The novelty of the game was such that the hours at the table were not so tedious to Charlotte as they were for Sandor. She had watched Princess Yakovleva play baccarat and her quick wits accomplished the rest. Occasionally Edward would raise a royal brow in her direction as she played unfalteringly and she knew that he was amused by the knowledge that it was the first time she had played.

  Sandor dealt another three cards, one to himself, one each to the player on his left and right and imprisoned her with his eyes. She read the impatience there, the desire. Demurely she lowered her eyes, aware of the heightened colour in her cheeks.

  Sandor reluctantly turned his attention to his cards. He held a natural, a six and a three, and was obliged to declare it. No one could match it and so, once again, he won.

  When, several hours later, play ended and the Prince of Wales invited his guests to join him at the Café de Paris, Sandor politely declined.

  Edward, aware of Sandor’s eagerness to have Charlotte to himself, accepted his refusal with good grace. He didn’t blame his friend.

  Miss Charlotte Grainger was a young lady of exceptional charm and beauty.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Sandor said as he hurried her down the gilded staircase. ‘I thought we were going to be at the card table until morning.’

  ‘We nearly were,’ Charlotte said as they stepped out of the casino and into the waiting Karolyi carriage. ‘Can you see how the sky is pearling to dawn beyond the horizon?’

  ‘Damn the dawn,’ Sandor said, and as the coachman cracked the whip and the carriage rattled off in the direction of Beausoleil, he pulled her towards him hungrily, kissing her with barely suppressed violence.

  To Charlotte, the return to Beausoleil was like
returning to a dearly loved and familiar home. The white walls of the villa shimmered, dreamlike, in the early morning light. The spiky green leaves of exotic shrubs gleamed with the first drops of dew. Roses, magnolias and lilies hung their closed heads, waiting for the sun.

  As she stepped from the carriage she paused and looked up at him, her eyes shining with love.

  ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, Sandor. I shall never forget it.’ Standing on tiptoe she kissed him lovingly.

  From the doorway of the villa came a discreet cough. Without releasing her, Sandor raised his head. ‘Lady Beston has arrived, sir,’ Georges said apologetically. ‘She is distressed and is resting in the main salon.’

  She could feel his body tense, see the expression in his eyes change.

  ‘Thank you, Georges. Tell Lady Beston I shall be with her immediately.’

  Swiftly he strode towards the open doorway. Charlotte ran after him, her satin pumps uncomfortable on the harshness of the gravel.

  In the entrance hall the pendants of glass in the magnificent chandelier tinkled as Georges closed the door after her. Sandor began to walk swiftly towards the main salon, and then stopped, swinging round on his heel to face Charlotte.

  ‘I shall be some time with Lady Beston, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘It would be best if you retired.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely audible, her disappointment acute.

  Lady Beston’s arrival had altered Sandor’s whole demeanour. He had asked her to retire as politely and indifferently as he might have asked any guest. The magic of the last few hours seemed suddenly to have disappeared. His eyes when they had looked at her had been the eyes of a stranger.

  Unhappily she began to climb the stairs to where Jeanne waited to help her undress. From the main salon came the distant throb of voices. Sandor’s and that of a female voice, thick with emotion.

  Charlotte paused, one hand on the balustrade, cold fear gripping her heart. Surely Sandor could not intend that she still return to England with Lady Beston? Her breathing steadied. She was being ridiculous. Of course he would not. He would be faced with the unpleasant task of informing his elderly friend that she must look elsewhere for a companion. She climbed another two stairs and halted again. Princess Yakovleva had been eccentric and irascible, but even she would not have descended on a gentleman friend in the hours before dawn, waiting like an outraged matriarch for his arrival.

  She turned her head. The door to the main salon was ajar. Curiosity engulfed her. It was quite probable she would never have another opportunity of seeing the lady who had so nearly become her employer.

  Quietly she retraced her steps and from the foot of the stairs took a quick peep into the salon. At what she saw her heart ceased to beat and her blood froze in her veins.

  This was no patchouli-scented grande dame greeting Sandor, but a woman at the height of her beauty; a woman with an olive-toned skin and shining black hair piled high in an intricate coiffure. A woman with violet dark eyes glistening with tears of joy. A woman clasped close in Sandor’s arms. She heard the break in his voice as he said hoarsely, ‘Zara, it’s been so long, my love. So long,’ and then she was stumbling up the stairs, her fist pressed tightly against her mouth to stifle the cry of pain, her world in ashes, the truth all too cruelly clear.

  Chapter Nine

  Brother and sister clung together in the candlelit salon, Sandor’s eyes overly bright, Zara’s wet with unshed tears.

  ‘Sandor! How good it is to see you again! I can’t tell you how ghastly things are!’

  The tears spilled down her cheeks and he rocked her fiercely against his chest. ‘Don’t cry, my love.’

  ‘But I can’t help it, Sandor. Beston is unbearable. He tells me that I am stupid and useless and nothing that I do pleases him. He seems to take a delight in distressing me and …’ her voice was barely a whisper. ‘He … he accuses me of having improper relations with gentlemen I scarcely know.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Sandor’s voice was low and tight and terrifying.

  ‘I don’t know. I heard him tell his valet he would not be back until morning. He often stays away all night.’ She raised her face piteously to his. ‘ He doesn’t love me. I don’t believe he ever has. He married me because he thought I would bring him wealth. When he discovered that the Katzinskys had little but their title he accused me of deceiving him.’ She began to sob again, this time hysterically. ‘I dare not think what he would do if he ever discovered that I was not of true Katzinsky blood.’

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders and his eyes darkened, filled with shadows. So much suffering from one heedless afternoon of sin. He wondered if his mother had truly loved the flashing-eyed gypsy who had seduced her. If she had thought the world well lost for love. Had she ever imagined the anguish that her children would suffer when they learned the truth of their parentage? His jaw tightened. She was dead and he could feel no bitterness towards her. Her impulsive, passionate blood flowed in his veins as it did in Zara’s. Hadn’t he, too, allowed his heart to rule his head?

  Zara rested against his chest with a little moan. ‘If only I had never married him. If only we could meet openly as brother and sister.’

  Sandor held her close. If … If only Count Istvan Karolyi had reared Zara as his child as well as himself. If only the Count had legally adopted him. If only he had written a will leaving him the wealth and lands that he intended him to have. But he had done none of those things.

  Zara had been given to the childless Katzinskys. No legal adoption had ever taken place, for Count Istvan had believed that such action would make his wife the object of rumour and gossip. No will had been left because the old man had not deemed it necessary. The world regarded Sandor as his son. Therefore he would inherit Valeni. To Count Istvan the matter had been simple. It would not be so if Lord Beston ever discovered the truth. Gently Sandor lowered his sister on to a sofa.

  ‘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.