Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

  Sleep drifted over her in waves. She wondered if the beautiful Sarah knew of Sandor Karolyi’s other face; the brooding, pain-filled face that he was so careful not to show in public. What occasioned his anguish? Past sins? Past loves? An inexplicable sadness engulfed her. Count Sandor Karolyi and Mademoiselle Bernhardt. Sandor and Sarah. And then, as sleep claimed her, Sandor and Charlotte.…

  Chapter Two

  That evening she dressed with extreme care, filled with a nameless excitement. Would he be in the Salle Mauresque when they entered? Would he pay her any attention? Her heart throbbed fiercely as she adjusted a camellia nestling in her hair. Of course he would not. She was Princess Yakovleva’s paid companion. Why should Count Sandor Karolyi condescend to speak to her in a place as public as the Salle Mauresque? The full satin skirts of her gown swirled as she picked up her fan and turned her back on the mirror. Besides, she had no desire for such attention. She wished for nothing more than to forget the whole distressing incident.

  She joined the Princess and allowed the coachman to assist her into the Princess’s carriage. Eventually she would have to face the manager of the Hotel de Paris, but perhaps he would have the good manners not to embarrass her by making any mention of the near catastrophe. Fortunately, it had occurred at a time of day when very few people had been present to witness it. She could remember only Monégasques and the liveried bellboys of the Hotel surrounding her as Count Karolyi had carried her into the Hotel de Paris lounge. And startled faces at upper windows. Her fingers tightened on the ivory clasp of her fan. The occupants of the Hotel de Paris were habitués of the casino.

  Her cheeks burned in the darkness of the carriage. Had her rash escapade been witnessed by Lord and Lady Pethelbridge and the Countess of Bexhall? Perhaps even by Princess Helena? She tilted her chin a defiant fraction higher. There was no way of rectifying the matter if they had. She could not have let the child be crushed by the flailing hoofs. Any gossip would just have to be lived with and ignored.

  The Princess, guessing accurately that the pucker on Charlotte’s brow was caused by memories of the afternoon, remained silent. While Charlotte was dressing she had summoned the manager of the Hotel de Paris to the villa and had heard a corroborated account of her companion’s courage. She pursed her lips. She must settle the matter of Charlotte’s future with her solicitor at the first opportunity. She would write to him immediately. It was impossible to think that Charlotte should be left unprovided for.

  The casino flamed and shone by the sea, lit by hundreds of chandeliers. As they alighted from the carriage Charlotte could hear the monotonous surge of the waves merging with the distant voices of the croupiers, the rattle of gold, the click of ivory balls spinning round roulette wheels. This was the moment that normally filled her with pleasurable anticipation. Tonight, as she descended from the carriage and faced the brilliantly lit entrance, her pleasure was overcome with anxiety.

  The doorman nodded deferentially as they entered. Monsieur Bertora, the casino’s manager, greeted the Princess warmly, resplendent in frock coat and silk hat.

  ‘I must warn you, Monsieur Bertora, that I feel exceedingly lucky this evening,’ the Princess said, a fortune of rubies hugging her throat and arms.

  He smiled. He liked the casino’s patrons to feel lucky. When they did, they gambled recklessly and heavily. And, occasionally, they won handsomely. Such an event did not disturb him. Money won in the Devil’s Palace was money only lent.

  In the glittering room Charlotte caught a glimpse of Princess Helena, full-bosomed and full-hipped, her tiny waist corseted in diamonds, the rich satin of her gown flowing into a demi-train.

  Lord Pethelbridge was talking to a Turkish pasha, a fat cigar in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other. Lady Pethelbridge was deep in a hand of trente-et-quarante, her corsage smothered in red roses.

  A croupier, delicately ignoring the presence of the ladies, announced ‘Gentlemen, eyes down’ and Lord Pethelbridge took his leave of the pasha.

  The gold plaques glittered and shone, rattling across the table. Lady Pethelbridge raised her eyes from the cards and nodded a greeting to Princess Yakovleva, her gaze flicking over Charlotte without interest. Charlotte breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. Lady Pethelbridge, for one, had not witnessed the afternoon’s events from the window of her room at the Hotel de Paris.

  It was the Princess’s custom to wander through the rooms, greeting friends and watching the play at the tables, before continuing upstairs to the Salon Privé and a hand of baccarat with other notable royals.

  A Russian grand duke, his sparkling eyed chère amie on his arm, crossed the room to meet the Princess. The Princess ignored the exquisite curtsey of the duke’s companion and conversing in Russian asked after the grand duchess and other family members.

  The pretty Parisienne refused to be deflated and flashed Charlotte a smile. Three months ago she had been the companion of an English lord. Six months ago, when Charlotte had first arrived in Monte Carlo, she had been constantly on the arm of an American railroad tycoon. After the grand duke there would no doubt be a marquis or a count, a prince or a millionaire.

  The boldness of the ladies of the demi-monde had at first disconcerted Charlotte. With plumes in their hair and daringly decolleté gowns of velvet and silk, they thronged the casino, laughing and chattering like a bevy of exotic birds. The titled friends of Princess Yakovleva paid little attention to Charlotte. The ladies of the demi-monde habitually smiled and exchanged a word of greeting. At first Charlotte had been apprehensive that this signified she had been mistaken for one of their ranks. But as time passed and this was clearly not so, she had begun to smile shyly and wish good evening in return.

  The grand duke was taking his leave of the Princess. His companion slipped a lily-white hand once more through his arm, wondering why a girl as beautiful as the Princess’s companion should be content only to watch and not participate in the many pleasures at the Devil’s Palace. Surely she would prefer to play the tables rather than remain so decorously a spectator? And surely she would prefer the company of a rich and handsome protector to the formidable companionship of Princess Yakovleva?

  The little Parisienne shrugged cream-smooth shoulders and turned her attention to the task of subtly guiding the grand duke in the direction of the roulette tables where the devastating Count Sandor Karolyi was staking high sums. The English girl did not look discontented, and as long as she was demurely dressed and constantly at the Princess’s side, was not a prospective rival.

  Charlotte watched the French girl glide across the vast room, drawing glances both envious and admiring. She knew full well that there had been sympathy as well as friendship in the china-blue eyes. She suppressed a smile. The sympathy was misplaced. She had no desire to be a cocotte, exchanging one lover for another as easily as a change of gown. Love was too precious to be treated so lightly. Perhaps one day she would discover it for herself. Unbidden came the memory of strong hands seizing her; of being carried with consummate ease into the shade of the Hotel de Paris’ grand lounge; of narrow black eyes holding hers appreciatively.

  ‘Voilà!’ A melodic voice called out, silencing the chatter in the room. ‘It is you! Oh, how brave! How heroic!’

  Charlotte gazed around, trying to see who had cried out and to whom the speaker was referring.

  The roulette tables were stilled. Cards were laid down. Beflowered and bejewelled heads turned simultaneously as an unmistakable figure rose to her feet, arms outstretched.

  Her hair was an abundant aureole of red-gold, her eyes the long-lashed, superb eyes of a beautiful animal. A choker of pearls clasped her throat. Her gown was a diaphanous creation of chiffon and lace, swirling around her as she moved forward, commanding the attention of every eye in the room.

  It seemed to Charlotte that the great Sarah Bernhardt was intent on descending on the person standing immediately behind her. Quickly she turned her head. There was no one there except one of Monsieur Bertora’s fr
ock-coated lieutenants. Startled, she gazed all around to find that the entire room was stilled and gazing in her direction.

  ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle.’ Sarah’s voice held the rhythm and music of poetry. A wide, smiling mouth revealed perfect teeth. Deep, luminous eyes held hers as Sarah clasped her hand and fell into a curtsey at her feet.

  Fevered whispers circled the Salle Mauresque.

  ‘Bravo!’ a male voice called out, the cry instantly taken up as the whispers spread.

  ‘A child …’

  ‘Risked her life …’

  ‘A runaway horse …’

  Charlotte stood transfixed. The greatest actress of the era remained at her feet. They were a tableau; an island in the centre of the room. Dazedly Charlotte heard the cheers; saw hands clapping; saw Lady Pethelbridge smiling across a vast sea of scarlet carpet; saw Princess Yakovleva, ramrod straight, a proud smile on her face.

  The sun-gold head lifted. ‘You were magnificent, Mademoiselle,’ Sarah said, rising gracefully. ‘Superb.’

  ‘I …’ Charlotte tried to speak and could not. Other hands were claiming hers. Incredibly she heard Lady Pethelbridge saying in a carrying voice,

  ‘What a brave child you are, Charlotte,’ as though they were intimately acquainted.

  It seemed that everyone in the room, Princess Helena and the Turkish pasha included, desired to meet her.

  ‘Champagne,’ the divine Sarah was saying. ‘On such an evening we must drink champagne!’

  ‘I’m afraid that I …’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Princess Yakovleva said, once more at her side, ‘We will be most happy to join you for champagne, Mademoiselle Bernhardt.’

  Charlotte gazed around her helplessly. Although the crowd was dispersing, the roulette wheels once more turning, every face was smiling, every eye trying to catch hers. For six months she had entered the casino at the Princess’s side and been ignored. Now, in a dizzying, terrifying instant of time, everyone was eager to make her acquaintance.

  Sarah Bernhardt’s tawny eyes gleamed. She knew very well what she had accomplished in the matter of a few seconds.

  ‘We must be friends,’ she was saying as she led Charlotte and the Princess back to the roulette table she had been playing.

  ‘I would love to be friends.’ Charlotte’s smile was soft and pleased.

  A champagne cork exploded into the air. It seemed to Charlotte she was the centre of the most delightful party she could imagine. And then they were at the roulette table and the croupier was giving her a bow and the Princess was seating herself and Sarah was saying in her voice of magic and music,

  ‘Darling Sandor, you are quite right. She is impossibly beautiful.’

  There was unconcealed amusement in his eyes as he rose to his feet and greeted her. Once more her hand was trapped in his. This time he raised it to his lips and at the touch of his mouth on her flesh, her blood leapt.

  Impossibly beautiful. Had Sandor Karolyi said that? And of her?

  The champagne was poured.

  ‘To Charlotte,’ Sarah said, raising her glass high.

  ‘To Charlotte,’ the Princess and Sandor echoed.

  Sandor was laughing. It had never occurred to Charlotte that he was capable of laughter. His teeth were strong and white. He turned, his gaze resting on Sarah, and Charlotte’s surge of joy died. She had not been the source of his pleasure. Sarah was the enchantress who had dispelled his inner dark thoughts and made him laugh. The knowledge brought with it desolation. Yesterday Charlotte had been happy, her heart at peace. Today, ever since she had gazed through the glasses at his handsome, tortured face, she had been in turmoil. She had become infatuated with a man at least ten years her senior; a man of wealth and title. A man with a notorious reputation. A man referred to by the Princess as the Devil’s spawn. A man who regarded her with mild amusement and nothing more.

  She gazed at Sarah, so sparkling and ravishing, and was incapable of jealousy.

  ‘Red number ten,’ Sarah cried and Charlotte sank back, hands folded in her lap, once more a spectator as the Princess leaned across the table and the ball spun.

  With difficulty Charlotte retained her outward composure. Her moment of glory was at an end. A fact for which she was not sorry. Mademoiselle Bernhardt might revel in public admiration, but Charlotte had found the moment when every eye had been turned on her excruciating. Now all attention was firmly riveted on Sarah as, blessed by the gods, piles of golden plaques were raked by the croupiers in her direction.

  Occasionally Sandor Karolyi’s dark eyes left the table and the captivating perfection of Sarah, and glanced across at her. Each time Charlotte quickly lowered her eyes to her lightly clasped hands. No doubt he was annoyed at her continued presence. She could still remember a mortifying evening when a Polish princess, an intimate of Princess Yakovleva’s, had asked loudly and bad temperedly why Princess Natalya felt obliged to bring her maid with her to the tables.

  Princess Natalya had tartly replied that Charlotte was a companion—not a maid—and that her company was far preferable to that of the present players at the table. The princess had risen furiously, vowing never to sit in Princess Yakovleva’s presence again.

  Princess Yakovleva had been unrepentant and Charlotte continued to sit at her side.

  From Count Karolyi’s slightly raised brows whenever he looked at her, it was obvious he was expressing the same feelings as the Polish princess. She was de trop. She gazed steadfastly away from the gay, titian-haired Sarah; from the Princess; from Count Karolyi, and stared out across the brilliantly lit rooms to where the darkened terraces led down to the sea.

  Exotic trees, shrubs and giant magnolias were silhouetted against the moonlit sky. She had an overwhelming urge to free herself from the brilliant gaiety of the gaming rooms and to escape into the secluded gardens. As if reading her thoughts, the Princess excused herself, declaring that she must get some air.

  ‘Please do not be long, Princess Natalya,’ Sarah said, her rose-red lips curving into a bewitching smile. ‘ Your presence has brought me luck this evening.’

  It seemed to Charlotte that, as they moved away, the dark head and the gold moved closer together.

  The light breeze from the sea was cool and reviving as they stepped outside. In the distance the lights of yachts in the Port twinkled like fireflies against the moonlit sky. The air was sweet, fragrant with the perfume of velvet-petalled magnolias. Couples sauntered along the terraces, the gentlemen magnificent in their evening attire, the ladies with chinchilla and sable draped around their naked shoulders. There was laughter, low and seductive, as assignations were made.

  ‘Mademoiselle Bernhardt has requested that you pose for a sculptured likeness to be taken by herself,’ the Princess said as they walked at a sedate pace.

  ‘Oh, but I couldn’t …’ Charlotte began in alarm.

  ‘I think you could.’ Princess Natalya’s voice was firm, brooking no argument. ‘It would be most rude to refuse such a request. Mademoiselle Bernhardt is an accomplished sculptress. A marble bust of her sister, Regina, has been exhibited at the Salon in Paris.’

  Charlotte lapsed into unhappy silence. Events were taking a turn she could not possibly have envisaged. First the standing ovation from the Salle Mauresque; now her likeness to be taken by Mademoiselle Bernhardt. It was all too overwhelming.

  The Countess of Bexhall stepped out from the shadows and towards them, an elegant young hussar officer in her wake. Pleasantries with the Princess were exchanged. The Countess, no longer young but exceedingly beautiful, requested an introduction to Charlotte. The hussar was also introduced and his eyes were attentive.

  The English girl had about her an air almost as magical as that of Mademoiselle Bernhardt. Her hair echoed the vibrancy of the actress’s, but was sleeker, smoother, darker. Nevertheless, even in the moonlight, it was possible to discern golden glints amongst the rich copper ringlets piled high at the back of her head. Her eyes were wide and lustrous,
thickly lashed, charmingly shy. Yet the young man sensed a passion unawakened; a recklessness that had not only prompted her to risk her life for an unknown peasant child, but that would make her a delightful initiate into the art of love.

  Justin, Comte de Valmy, bowed low.

  ‘My pleasure, Mademoiselle,’ he said, and his eyes, as they gazed up into hers, were blatantly admiring.

  The Countess, unaware that her escort’s attention was centred elsewhere, charmingly requested the Princess to introduce her to Mademoiselle Bernhardt. The Princess, aware that the Countess was indefatigable in her requests, sighed and led the way back into the thronged gaming room.

  Justin allowed the Countess to continue ahead with Princess Yakovleva and remained at Charlotte’s side as they stepped into the brilliantly lit room. Charlotte’s skirts rustled seductively. He was aware of a light perfume emanating from her skin and her hair. He noted the swell of her breasts beneath the lilac satin of her bodice, the gentle curve of her hips beneath the drapery of her skirts, the incredible smallness of her waist. A surge of desire flooded through him. She would be flattered by his attentions. Honoured. The Count of Bexhall was due to return to Monte Carlo within days. The Countess would no longer be so accessible. A diversion with Charlotte would be exceedingly pleasant.

  The gold plaques stacked in front of Sarah had risen higher and higher. At their approach Sandor raised his head and at the sight of Justin accompanying Charlotte in undue proximity, his eyes narrowed.

  Charlotte felt a pulse at the base of her throat begin to throb. Was her presence so distasteful to him? His greeting of the Countess was curt and brief, his attention returning once more to the roulette wheel.

  Charlotte forced herself to look away from him. He had wanted to monopolise Sarah, not share her with the Princess’s acquaintances.