Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Enter.’

  Charlotte did so. The salon had been the Princess’s favourite room. In it she had lain on the Louis Philippe chaise longue while Charlotte had read to her. In it she had sat, eyes clouded with memories, reminiscing to Charlotte about the days of her youth. Charlotte felt her stomach turn and tighten at the sight of the empty chaise longue. There would be no more such happy moments. The atmosphere in the villa had already changed. It was as if the very rooms were no longer so warm, so light. With a shock she saw that the Princess’s personal stationery, her gold embossed pen, her crystal paperweight, had all been removed from the desk. Photographs, too, were missing. The Grand Duchess no longer smiled from her silver frame on the secretaire. Within hours the room had been robbed of the Princess’s presence.

  Prince Victor was sumptuously attired in military uniform. He had a weakness for gold braid and tasselled epaulettes. His military uniforms were splendid and various, and all entirely honorary. As he rose from the gilded chair behind the desk the scarlet of his jacket tightened dangerously. The Prince refused to accept his portliness and instructed his tailor to make all his jackets for a man of a lesser size, believing that the effect was complimentary. His hair was fine, effeminately soft, pale in colour. His moustaches were sparse and though grown long at either side of his mouth in order that they could be dashingly twirled, remained limp and drooping, no matter how much care was expended on them.

  He was fifty-four. There had been a wife but she had died. He couldn’t remember when or where. She had been a whey-faced creature who had given no satisfaction in bed and had not even had the courtesy to produce an heir. He would marry again. At his leisure. A girl of rank and wealth and tender years.

  Prince Victor seldom exerted himself over any female over the age of fifteen, but the girl in front of him was an exception. He surveyed her appreciatively. ‘Please be seated, Mademoiselle Grainger. I have ascertained that there is money owing to you.’

  Charlotte breathed a deep sigh of relief that was quickly quelled as the Prince sat himself disconcertingly close beside her.

  ‘And your family, you are no doubt desirous of returning to them?’

  ‘I have no family.’

  ‘Ah …’ The Prince moved slightly. A bulging thigh pressed against Charlotte’s skirts.

  ‘I know that the time is not fitting to discuss financial matters,’ Charlotte began, painfully aware of his unwelcome weight and of the Princess’s body only rooms away, ‘ but my position is … difficult.’

  Prince Victor observed the long, slender fingers, the almond tipped nails.

  ‘Whilst in Princess’s Yakovleva’s employ I had little need of my salary and the Princess kept it in her care.’

  Prince Victor’s pale blue eyes gleamed. It was going to be even easier than he had anticipated. The girl had no money. She was entirely dependent on him. The seduction of a virgin of good breeding was always titillating. The seduction of a girl who had been in his mother’s employ even more so, especially if that seduction were carried out only yards from where his mother lay in state, candles at her head and feet.

  His hand moved up and clasped her shoulder.

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. She drew as far away from him as politeness would allow. His kindness was disturbing and his manner of showing it unwelcome.

  ‘And so, I must ask you if you will kindly pay me the money owing to me,’ she said with a rush. ‘The amount is written in the Princess’s account book. The book is in the top, right-hand drawer of the secretaire …’

  ‘Do not worry yourself on account of the money,’ the Prince said, and there was a tone of unmistakable heat in his voice. ‘ I shall take exceedingly good care of you, my little Charlotte.’

  Charlotte trembled. What had happened to the world? Was every man a lecher?

  ‘I will get the account book now, Your Highness.’ Perhaps she had misunderstood the Prince. Perhaps his manner was merely unusual—European. She tried to rise to her feet and a hot, avaricious hand circled her waist.

  ‘We must become better acquainted, Charlotte. I am a generous man, a …’

  Charlotte pushed his chest violently, sending him falling backwards against the chaise longue as she sprang to her feet.

  ‘I want none of your generosity, Prince Yakovlev! I want only that which is due to me … My salary!’

  Her skirts whipped around her ankles as she marched across the room and pulled open the drawer of the desk. The Princess’s leather-bound account book was in its accustomed place. She seized it, flicking through the pages with a trembling hand.

  ‘Here!’ She held out the open book. ‘Here is the amount owed to me in the Princess’s own handwriting. I ask that you honour that amount now, Prince Yakovlev!’

  Prince Yakovlev was not a man accustomed to having his dignity insulted. Or to having his attentions spurned by those of lesser birth. A button had sprung from his jacket. A thin lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. He rose to his feet, breathing harshly, his face suffused an ugly dark red.

  Viciously he snatched the book from her hand. Instinctively she stepped back.

  ‘That for your demands,’ he said, ripping the page from the book, screwing it into a ball and throwing it into the waste basket.

  ‘But you cannot!’ Charlotte’s eyes were horrified.

  ‘I can.’ There was sweat on his brow and an ugly tic had appeared in the lid of one eye. ‘Until you come to me with an apology, Mademoiselle, you will not receive one penny. An apology and compliance!’

  Charlotte pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle her choked cry. Blindly she rushed from the salon. Reaching her own room she turned the key in the lock, leaning her head back against the door, her fingers splayed against the wood, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  In the space of twenty-four hours her world had turned into nightmare. Count Sandor Karolyi had treated her as a woman of loose virtue. Comte Justin de Valmy had assumed she would be only too happy to live as his mistress, and, now, Prince Victor Yakovlev was demanding physical favours from her before he would pay her the salary owing to her. The salary that stood between herself and destitution.

  She had no one to turn to. No friends—no family. She could not remain at the Villa Ondine. Despair engulfed her. Slowly she moved from the door and sat down on the bed. It was not true that she had no friends. Louise de Remy had declared herself her friend: and so had the great Sarah Bernhardt. She already knew what Louise’s answer would be to her problems. She would go to Sarah. Perhaps Sarah would intercede on her behalf and speak to Prince Yakovlev.

  Sandor strode across his vast, white-carpeted room and watched as Charlotte hurtled from the villa, running heedlessly down between banks of roses and magnolia.

  Where the devil was the Yakovlev carriage? Charlotte continued to run, down between Beausoleil’s flower-banked driveway and out through the gate. Tersely he rang for a footman.

  ‘Was a carriage waiting for the young lady at the gate?’

  ‘I think not, Count Karolyi.’

  ‘Then find out.’

  The footman hastened to do as he was bid.

  Sandor remained at the window, already knowing the answer. With Princess Yakovleva dead, Miss Charlotte Grainger would not think it proper to continue using Yakovlev equipages. She had walked the tiring distance from the Villa Ondine to Beausoleil. Not for the reason he had so foolishly assumed, but because her innate code of etiquette demanded that she did so. She had come to thank him and he had barely listened to her. Now, painfully, her words came back.

  ‘… your kindness … much appreciated.’

  He smashed a fist hard into the carved wood that surrounded the window. The wood splintered. Blood spurted.

  God’s teeth! How could he ever have been such a fool as to imagine she would offer her body in exchange for shelter? He staunched the blood with a handkerchief and continued to stare broodingly at the road that led through orange and lemon groves towards Monte Carlo.

&nb
sp; The footman knocked and was admitted.

  ‘There was no carriage. Count Karolyi. The young lady arrived on foot.’

  ‘Then send one after her!’

  ‘Yes, Count Karolyi.’

  It would come back unused. Savagely he turned from the window and with his uninjured hand poured himself a glass of brandy. What would happen to her now Natalya was dead? She obviously had no financial resources of her own, so what other employment would she find? He thought of the cocottes who flaunted themselves so provocatively every evening in the Salle Mauresque. The brandy seared his throat. Charlotte Grainger would not become a cocotte. She would starve first. Nor a mistress. The decanter clinked against his glass as he poured more brandy. De Valmy’s bed would not be warmed by Charlotte.

  He rang for his secretary. A young gentleman entered, noticed the bloodstained handkerchief that was wrapped around his employer’s hand and discreetly ignored it.

  ‘I want to know the financial position of Mademoiselle Charlotte Grainger, companion to the late Princess Yakovleva,’ Sandor said curtly. ‘ I want to know her movements, her future plans, you understand?’

  François nodded dutifully. Count Karolyi’s barely controlled rage was evident. Yet rage at what? The English girl had arrived at Beausoleil uninvited and of her own volition. Surely she had expected nothing else but an amorous advance from a man with his employer’s reputation. Yet she had fled in obvious distress and Count Karolyi’s knuckles were clenched white, his winged brows meeting in a satanic frown. Why? Surely a rejection of his advances by an insignificant English girl could not have disturbed him so deeply? True, it would be the first time any woman had been known to do so, but pride was not one of Count Karolyi’s besetting sins.

  He collected goatskin gloves and a cane and summoned the carriage that Count Karolyi had placed at his disposal. An English girl. He shook his head in despair. In Monte Carlo Count Karolyi was surrounded by the most beautiful Frenchwomen in the country and he had allowed an English girl to consume his thoughts. It was beyond the Frenchman’s understanding.

  Stoically Charlotte set out on yet another tiring walk. This time to the Hotel de Paris. The sun was losing its heat and a gentle breeze fanned her face. The beauty of the flowers, the lushness of the orange groves and the amethyst blue of the sea soothed her nerves. Her spirit was not one that inclined naturally towards despair. Prince Yakovlev had assumed she could be easily taken advantage of: that she had no one to speak in her defence. He had been wrong. Tomorrow, thanks to Count Karolyi’s intervention, the Princess would be buried in Monte Carlo. The day after, suitably remunerated, she would begin her long journey to England.

  Bright red geraniums crowded the window boxes of the first of the houses in the pretty, tree-lined avenue. A monkey-puzzle tree cast its shadow across her path. Clumps of wild orchids grew lushly.

  Even if Prince Yakovlev refused to honour his mother’s debt, she would not be defeated. English ladies were constantly travelling from England to Monte Carlo. She would approach each and every one of them until she found one in need of a companion and so work her way back home.

  Comte Justin de Valmy had intended no offence in expressing his desire that she become his mistress. Therefore she would take none. He was a pleasant young man who had misjudged her.

  Prince Yakovlev had misjudged her too, but she could feel no tolerance for his behaviour. It had been unforgivable. Her brow puckered. No wonder the Princess had had such little contact with her son. A shiver of distaste ran down her spine at the memory of his sweetly cloying cologne, his hot, avid hands. It would be a long time before she would be able to forget the hideous scene in the sun-filled salon of the Villa Ondine.

  As for Count Sandor Karolyi … Warmth spread through her like a fire. His every touch, his every glance, aroused in her a desire that was shameless. A desire she would never capitulate to: never allow him to be aware of. Desire that seemed to ignite even further when compounded with the furious anger his actions aroused. To have twice treated her as a harlot! And for her twice to have responded as one!

  Her eyes stung. There would not be a third occasion. She would not see Count Karolyi again and she would not feel grief at the prospect. Head held high, she stepped smartly into the lobby of the Hotel de Paris and asked for Mademoiselle Bernhardt to be informed of her presence.

  The staff were apologetic. Mademoiselle Bernhardt could not be disturbed. Charlotte fought her fatigue and declared her intention of waiting until Mademoiselle Bernhardt could be disturbed.

  The Hotel de Paris’ manager was summoned from his office, a rosebud in his buttonhole, a silk cravat exquisitely tied.

  ‘Mademoiselle Grainger, I am afraid it is not possible.’

  ‘It is of the utmost urgency, Monsieur. If Mademoiselle Bernhardt is resting then I shall wait …’

  The manager saw the determined tilt of her chin, the flash of her eyes, and sighed. The English—always so stubborn.

  ‘Mademoiselle Bernhardt is entertaining a guest. Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Then I shall wait,’ Charlotte reiterated, ignoring the painful throb of her feet.

  ‘Mademoiselle Grainger,’ the Frenchman lowered his voice to an intimate whisper, leaning towards her so that she could hear. ‘I am afraid it is not so simple. The guest is a gentleman …’ He spread his hands out, palms uppermost, expressively.

  Charlotte was beyond shock. She simply said once again, ‘I shall wait in the lobby, Monsieur. I cannot possibly make my journey a second time today and it is of urgency.’

  The manager sighed. With any other lady he would have been stern and curt, but the child the English girl had saved the previous day had been the child of his chef. A debt of gratitude was owed. Seeing the determination in Charlotte’s eyes he knew that only the truth would suffice.

  ‘Mademoiselle Grainger,’ he said in a voice little more than a whisper. ‘ Mademoiselle Bernhardt’s guest is Baron Renshaw!’

  Clearly Charlotte was meant to be impressed. She was not. She had not heard of the gentleman.

  ‘If I could just sit a while, Monsieur …’

  The Frenchman raised his eyes to heaven. Why were the English so unsubtle? Gently he took her arm.

  ‘Mademoiselle Grainger. “Baron Renshaw” is the pseudonym of the Prince of Wales.’

  Charlotte stared at him transfixed. The hotel manager gave a Gallic shrug.

  ‘The Prince would not be pleased if he knew I had allowed someone to wait while … while …’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  Charlotte struggled to collect her scattered wits. Clearly she could not speak to Sarah today. Tomorrow, no doubt, Sarah would attend the Princess’s funeral. Perhaps then she would have the opportunity to ask for an appointment to see her. She swayed slightly and the Frenchman saw the lines of fatigue on her delicately boned face, the blue shadows darkening her eyes.

  ‘I think, Mademoiselle Grainger, you need rest and refreshment before returning to the Villa Ondine. Jacques!’ He snapped his fingers commandingly. ‘Timbales de sole Grimaldi for Mademoiselle Grainger, followed by mousse Monte Carlo and a bottle of Hiesdeck Monopole.’

  Weakly Charlotte allowed herself to be led into the dining room, deserted in the hours between afternoon tea and dinner. Only when the Sole Grimaldi was placed in from of her did she realise how hungry she was. How long ago had been her last meal.

  The fillets of sole were served with truffles and small crayfish topped with butter and cream and cheese and wrapped in a deliciously light pastry case.

  The mousse Monte Carlo was a meringue and Chantilly cream mould sprinkled with crystallised violets and tasting delicious. Though she protested that she never drank champagne, neither Jacques nor Monsieur Fleury would hear of serving lemonade to their guest and she found the Hiesdeck Monopole restored and revived her.

  When she had finished her meal, the hotel manager said kindly, ‘And now, Mademoiselle, a barouche for your return journey.’

  For a fleeting moment C
harlotte wondered if she dared reveal her predicament to the kind Frenchman. Perhaps he would allow her to remain beneath the Hotel de Paris’ roof? The thought of returning to the Villa Ondine filled her with horror. She stifled the impulse. The hotel manager had been more than kind. She could not impose on him any further. Besides, this one last night it was her duty to remain at the villa with Princess Natalya’s body.

  She entered the villa quietly, fearful of encountering the Prince. Maria hastened towards her and Charlotte pressed a finger against her lips.

  ‘Hush, Maria. I have no desire for Prince Yakovlev to know of my presence.’

  Maria’s pretty face was bitter. ‘There is no fear of that, Mademoiselle. The Prince.’ the words were spat viciously, ‘is occupying himself with a putain.’ The adjective for a lady of the streets was the most vile Maria was capable of.

  ‘Then you and I will sit vigil by Princess Natalya tonight,’ Charlotte said, beyond shock or distress.

  ‘And then, Mademoiselle? You will leave?’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘Yes, Maria. I will leave and return to England.’

  ‘And I,’ Maria flashed with venom, ‘will return to Nice. I will not stay one more day in the household of that … that animal!’

  Charlotte was grateful for the night’s vigil. The room was full of peace and serenity. The candles flickered at the head and foot of the catafalque. Maria’s rosary beads slipped rhythmically between her fingers. Charlotte, intermittently opened the pages of her Bible and sought comfort from the words she had often heard her father quote.

  In the morning Prince Victor’s eyes met Charlotte’s in frustrated, vindictive fury. Her rejection of him had only inflamed his lust. Damnation, but he would have her. She would not receive a single franc until he did so.

  A crucifix was placed in the Princess’s marble-white hands. Charlotte, in a borrowed black dress of Maria’s, felt suitably attired. The pall-bearers arrived. Every church in Monte Carlo tolled its bells as the cortege moved from the Villa Ondine, first to the Church and a Requiem Mass, and then for the long funeral procession to the cemetery.