The manager proffered the brandy again and Charlotte declined it, wondering where the striding Count was taking her with such indecent familiarity. At last, to her intense relief, he halted. She felt herself lowered gently, felt the comforting support of a velvet upholstered sofa. Overcome with confusion, she raised her eyes to his. He was standing over her, regarding her with an unfathomable expression.
Her hat had been dislodged, bowling down the boulevard with the flying grains of wheat. Her elaborate chignon had come undone and her hair tumbled around her shoulders in wild disarray. Her cheeks smarted and pressing her fingers to her face she felt a trickle of blood. The turquoise satin gown that had been her pride and joy was covered in dust and dirt, the hem torn.
She tried to speak, to regain some semblance of dignity, but her breath was ragged and her limbs shook.
‘I think it best if you drink the brandy, Mademoiselle,’ Count Sandor Karolyi said firmly.
She pushed her hair away from her eyes, humiliatingly aware of her dishevelled appearance.
The brandy was proffered once more, this time by a strong, olive-toned hand. Not daring to do otherwise she took it and drank, coughing as the unfamiliar spirit burned her throat. Above her, her rescuer suppressed a smile.
He was well aware of her discomfort but had no intention of putting an untimely end to it. She was still trembling with shock and her grazed cheek would need attention before she could leave the hotel.
‘That was an extremely foolish and courageous thing to do, Mademoiselle …’
‘Grainger,’ Charlotte said, not daring to lift her eyes to his, wishing with all her heart that he would excuse himself and allow her to compose herself and tidy her hair and attend to her face and dress.
He frowned. He had meant to chastise her for risking her life so heedlessly and occasioning him to risk his own, but the sight of her lying so vulnerably on the sofa with her hair tumbling around her shoulders filled him with compassion. She looked little more than a child. Her eyes were a soft, smoky green, thickly lashed; her cheekbones were high; her mouth full and soft and generous. The shining mass of her hair was a rich copper that glinted gold in the morning sunlight. She was, Count Karolyi observed, outstandingly beautiful.
He turned to the hotel manager. ‘Could I have a bowl of warm water and a sponge, please. Mademoiselle Grainger’s face is in need of attention.’
‘No!’ Charlotte’s mortified protest was torn from her throat.
Count Karolyi raised well-defined brows.
‘It … would not be … proper,’ she stammered. ‘I can attend to my face myself.’
‘A maid perhaps,’ the hotel manager offered obligingly.
A hint of a smile curved Sandor Karolyi’s mouth. ‘Water and a sponge,’ he reiterated.
Charlotte gazed helplessly at the hotel manager, but a bellboy had already been sent to carry out the Count’s orders.
‘I feel quite rested,’ she lied in vain, attempting to move from the sofa, seeking only to escape from his overpowering presence.
His hand restrained her firmly. ‘You have sustained a very severe shock, Mademoiselle.’
The water was brought and as maids and bellboys gathered round at a respectful distance, Count Sandor Karolyi began to sponge flecks of blood from the graze on her cheek.
A Russian grand duchess, entering the hotel lobby with her retinue, halted in her tracks at the stupefying sight of Count Sandor Karolyi on his knees beside a semi-conscious young woman. Only a heavy whiff of smelling salts restored her and even then she had to be physically assisted to her room.
Charlotte thought she would die with humiliation. Her cheeks burned; her eyes painfully avoided his. At last her torment came to an end. Satisfied as to his ministrations, Count Karolyi rose to his feet and handed the bowl and sponge to a maid.
‘There will be no mark,’ he said reassuringly. ‘ If your carriage can be summoned, I will escort you to your destination.’
Charlotte gathered the last remnants of her pride. ‘I have no carriage,’ she said stiffly. ‘I am companion to Princess Yakovleva.’
The interest in his eyes deepened. There was a hint of a smile around the abrasive lines of his mouth.
‘Then you must allow me to put my carriage at your disposal, Mademoiselle Grainger.’
‘I … No … I …’ To protest was useless. Count Sandor Karolyi was a man accustomed to being obeyed. Vainly she scooped her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with the few pins that remained.
To Charlotte’s anguished eyes it seemed that the whole staff of the hotel had congregated in the lounge as she allowed herself to be escorted by Count Karolyi towards his waiting carriage.
In the sunlight she became even more aware of her dust-covered and bedraggled gown. The carriage that had drawn up outside the Hotel de Paris’s main entrance was drawn by white stallions with crimson cockades. The coachman was resplendent in full livery, the carriage door emblazoned in gold with the Count’s crest.
From the windows of the hotel wealthy patrons watched with interest, a golden haired, feline-eyed woman with delight, as Count Sandor Karolyi helped her into the scarlet leather interior. Charlotte held her head high, blinking back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. Soon her ordeal would be at an end. Soon the devastatingly handsome Count Karolyi would turn his attention elsewhere. To Mademoiselle Bernhardt; to one of the ravishing cocottes who haunted the casino. To a lady of his own rank.
Through narrowed eyes Sandor regarded her speculatively. She was certainly a different breed from the beauties he usually associated with. Her actions had saved a child’s life. And, if it had not been for his own presence of mind, could have cost her own. Her shyness was touching; her dignity appealing. He continued to survey her in unnerving silence and a pulse began to beat wildly in her throat. He had saved her life and she had not yet found the presence of mind to thank him for his action. Was that why he was gazing at her with such disturbing intensity, his satanically black brows furrowed as if in displeasure?
Her throat felt dry, her hands twisted nervously in her lap.
‘I would like to thank you for saving me from hurt,’ she said in a voice little more than a whisper.
Something flickered in the back of his eyes. Was it amusement? ‘You appreciation is accepted,’ he said and it seemed to her that the hard lines of his mouth softened imperceptibly.
She looked away quickly, her heart pounding, staring blindly at mimosa and pine. For a split second of time she had been overcome with the immodest desire to reach out and touch him. Did he know the effect he was having on her? The answer came swift and fast. Of course he did. Count Sandor Karolyi was a professional lover; a man who amused himself with countless women, discarding them as lightly as the Princess did her gloves. No doubt his anecdote of how he had saved a lady’s companion from death would entertain his friends vastly. As would the fact that the lady in question had fallen instantly in love with him. Her head lifted imperceptibly; her hands tightened. She would give him no such satisfaction.
The hill steepened. With relief she saw the warm ochre walls of the villa between the trees. Soon she would be free of his unwelcome presence. She would be able to bathe, brush her dishevelled hair and calm herself.
‘It is a long time since I have seen Princess Yakovleva. I am looking forward to meeting her again,’ Sandor Karolyi said, shattering her barely recovered composure. ‘I trust she is well.’
‘Yes, very.’ Her voice was barely audible. It had not occurred to her that he would alight from his carriage at the Villa Ondine. She had hoped to enter the villa discreetly; to make no mention of the incident to the Princess. Now she saw that to do so would be impossible. Her agony was to be prolonged. The Princess would chastise her for walking unaccompanied to the hotel, she would probably be outraged at having her companion make a public exhibition of herself. Once again she was acutely aware of her dust-marked dress; of the rent in the hem; of a stubborn curl spilling
free from the hastily gathered knot in the nape of her neck. She looked more like a peasant girl than companion to a princess of royal blood.
Hot tears stung the back of her eyes. She blinked them away rapidly. She had behaved impulsively but in no way that she need be ashamed of. Her chin tilted defiantly. Anger replaced humiliation.
Watching her, Sandor’s amusement deepened. For a moment her lips had trembled and he had seen the brilliance of tears in her eyes. They had been swiftly suppressed but her mouth was still softly vulnerable. He wondered what it would be like to kiss and thought that it would be an exceedingly pleasant experience but one he would have to forgo.
Her demeanour was one of modesty and breeding. A light flirtation would be misunderstood, a liaison disastrous. His mouth tightened. All liaisons were disastrous, bringing nothing but agony and pain. He thought of Irina, marble-white and beautiful in death, and his knuckles clenched fiercely. Damn it to hell; would it always be so? Would he never find happiness? Would the burden he carried continue to darken his life and destroy the lives of those he loved? Irina had not understood and so, in a foolish gesture, had taken her life. She had been a delightful companion, gay and tender, yet he had known instinctively that she would have been unable to live with his secret as he lived with it. And so, unable to marry her, he had severed the relationship. And she had taken her life.
At his sigh of despair Charlotte turned her head. The winged brows were pulled together in a deep frown. The suggestion of a smile had vanished. His mouth was a tight, harsh line. His hair tumbled low over his forehead as if he had just run his fingers hopelessly through the blue-black curls. He looked forbidding yet curiously vulnerable. Her anger fled. Her first opinion of him had been correct. Count Sandor Karolyi was a spirit tormented. She wondered what dark thoughts caused him such anguish and remembered the Vicomtesse who had taken her life when he had spurned her.
The carriage had halted. The coachman had dismounted and opened the door and still Sandor sat, lost in his inner hell.
Charlotte cleared her throat hesitantly.
‘Thank you for escorting me safely, Count Karolyi.’
He passed a hand across his eyes. The past was past. He was a fool to dwell on what could never be altered.
‘The pleasure is mine, Mademoiselle,’ he said, once more himself as he alighted from the carriage and courteously held out his hand to assist her.
At his touch she trembled slightly. His mouth curved into a smile. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her copper curls were rapidly escaping the remaining pins. He wondered if the Princess would be willing to give up Miss Grainger’s services. The English girl was exactly the kind of young lady Zara needed for companionship.
At the thought of Zara his smile faded. She would be in Monte Carlo within days. There would be distant courtesies exchanged in the presence of her insufferable husband. All too short and infrequent furtive meetings in his absence. There were times when he wished neither he, nor she, had ever been born.
‘Sandor!’ To her alarm, Charlotte saw that the Princess had risen early and was walking towards them, black silk rustling, rubies shining blood-red. ‘Whatever has happened? Charlotte! Your face! Your gown!’
‘I had a mishap,’ Charlotte said, hot with embarrassment. ‘If you will excuse me, Your Highness …’
‘Most certainly not!’ The Princess thumped her cane smartly on the ground, her white-powdered face grim. ‘What is the meaning of this, Sandor? Why is Miss Grainger’s face grazed and her gown torn?’
Sandor took the Princess’s hand and kissed it.
‘Miss Grainger has been playing the part of heroine, Princess Natalya. She saved a child from being trampled to death by a bolting horse in the Boulevard des Moulins.’
The Princess’s thinly arched eyebrows rose. ‘Is this true, Charlotte?’
‘I … Yes …’
The Princess pursed her lips. There would be time enough to ask what Charlotte had been doing walking down to the hotel unescorted when Sandor had taken his leave.
‘I trust the horse was not yours, Sandor?’
‘It was not.’ He had taken the Princess’s arm and was escorting her to the chairs and tables on the terrace. Charlotte, undismissed, was obliged to follow unhappily in their wake.
‘How long do you intend to stay in Monte Carlo?’ the Princess asked as they sat down.
‘Until it bores me,’ Sandor replied easily.
‘And how is that abominable cousin of yours, Povzervslay?’
‘As bestial as ever.’ The words were languid enough but there was an intensity of feeling behind them that shocked Charlotte. Was this the cousin whose crimes were crimes of blood?
The Princess’s fingers tightened over the knob of her cane. ‘I saw him at Marienbad last season and left the place immediately. He contaminates the very air. What is the matter, Charlotte? Surely you wish to change? Your hair looks like a peasant girl’s.’
Charlotte’s cheeks flamed. There was nothing she wanted to do more, and it was the Princess’s fault that she had been unable to do so. There were times when, despite her fondness for Princess Natalya, she sympathised with her scores of predecessors.
‘Yes, Your Highness. Please excuse me.’
Her eyes caught Count Karolyi’s for a brief second and met undisguised amusement. Her own sparked with a flash of anger. Any man who derived such amusement from a lady’s misfortune was contemptible. With her head held high she swept from the terrace and walked swiftly to the sanctuary of her room. Her vexation increased when she stood in front of her mirror. Her face was smudged with dirt. Her hair disarrayed. And so she had sat opposite the elegantly attired Count Sandor Karolyi for the best part of half an hour.
‘Wretched man!’ she said, wrenching at the small pearl buttons of her bodice. ‘Wretched, detestable, hateful creature!’
She bathed her face, applied salve to the graze, grudgingly grateful that Count Karolyi had insisted on cleaning it and that it showed no sign of infection. She brushed her hair vigorously, smoothing the curls high into a gleaming chignon. The dust-blown gown was exchanged for a pretty creation in lemon with long, full sleeves gathered tightly at the wrists. The bodice was cuirass, accentuating her tiny waist and the gentle swell of her hips. When the Princess’s maid knocked on the door and announced that the Princess required her presence on the terrace, she gave one last, hasty look in the mirror and was well pleased with what she saw. When she emerged into the late afternoon sunshine to find the Princess alone and the Count gone, her disappointment was acute.
Princess Yakovleva gestured to her to sit down and she did so, wondering why she had been so eagerly looking forward to being once more in the Count’s disturbing presence. She had no time to come to a conclusion. The Princess was saying crisply,
‘I congratulate you, Charlotte. You’ve achieved more than the Marquise Vermont achieved in a month.’
‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness.’ Charlotte tried to concentrate on what the Princess was saying to her and not on disturbing black eyes.
‘Count Karolyi,’ the Princess said with unconcealed satisfaction. ‘Ariadne, the Marquise Vermont, tried to attract his attention for a whole month at Bad Homburg. You attracted it within five minutes.’
‘Not intentionally,’ Charlotte replied tartly.
The Princess laughed. ‘Maybe not, but you should be well pleased with yourself all the same. It’s unlike Sandor to show such unnecessary civilities to anyone. He had no need to escort you all the way to the villa. He could quite easily have deposited you in the care of his coachman.’
‘I believe he wished to see you, Your Highness.’
‘He’ll see me tonight, and every other night, in the casino,’ the Princess said practically. ‘Don’t throw yourself before any more bolting horses, Charlotte. The turquoise silk is ruined and will have to be discarded.’
‘The rent can quite easily be mended,’ Charlotte began apologetically.
The Princess waved her h
and dismissively. Charlotte had entered her employment wearing a serviceable and unbecoming gown and with only one other in her portmanteau. She had set about furnishing her with a suitable wardrobe and had taken great pleasure in doing so. Her only child was a son she disliked and seldom saw and Charlotte had become more like a daughter than a paid companion. She made a mental note to get in touch with her lawyer and have her will altered so that on her death Charlotte would be left with a suitable income.
‘If Sandor is residing at Beausoleil, why was he at the Hotel de Paris?’
‘He had been to call on Mademoiselle Bernhardt, Your Highness.’
The Princess nodded to herself, a smile playing on her wrinkled lips. ‘Young devil. I should have realised it was La Bernhardt that had drawn him away from Paris.’
A strange emotion suffused Charlotte. One that she had never experienced before. Her heart felt as if a knife had been plunged into it and cruelly twisted. The Princess continued to talk but Charlotte no longer heard her. Why did she feel such sweeping desolation at the knowledge that Sandor Karolyi had come purposely to Monte Carlo to see the divine Sarah? Why did it matter to her who he escorted?
Her head pounded. The afternoon had been traumatic. It was no wonder she was reacting perversely. The sight of the child in the path of the galloping horse; her impetuous dash; the throb of the ground as the horse raced down on her; the strong arms that had hurled her to safety.
The Princess eyed her with concern. ‘I think it would be best if you rested before dinner,’ she said with a gruffness that disguised affection. ‘Today is the tenth of the month and ten is my lucky number. I have great expectations of alarming Monsieur Blanc by winning repeatedly at the tables this evening.’
With relief Charlotte returned to her room and lay down on her bed. The day had started so calmly, so ordinarily, and had contained so much. She closed her eyes. It was still not over. Tonight she would accompany the Princess to the casino and surely there, among the glittering throng, would be Count Sandor Karolyi and the beautiful Sarah Bernhardt.
Devil's Palace Page 2
