The hearse led the mourners at a slow pace, the horses’ black plumes swaying gently. Edward, Prince of Wales, would have preferred his second day in Monte Carlo to have been spent in a more entertaining pursuit than attending a funeral, but etiquette demanded that he did so. Besides, he had enjoyed the Princess’s sharp wit on many occasions. He was flanked by a gallery of Romanovs. By Polish nobility. By French. Lady Pethelbridge was swathed in black tulle. The Countess of Bexhall in black sable despite the sun.
Sarah was draped in a dress of black brocade, a black chiffon ribbon, its wide ends floating loose, tied a bunch of white lilac to her breast. Her long, slender neck emerged from the high lace collar à la Marie Stuart, her turbulent hair veiled in fine black silk.
Count Sandor Karolyi was clearly discernible, standing head and shoulders above those around him, his dark eyes brooding, his handsome face forbidding.
Charlotte, following the titled mourners at a distance with Maria and other members of the household staff, averted her eyes from him, painfully aware of his presence.
Prince Victor, to all outward appearances, was a man bowed down by grief. Charlotte wondered where the putain of the previous night now was.
A large assortment of carriages waited to take the mourners away from the graveside and back to their respective hotels and villas. Charlotte began to make her way towards Sarah and then faltered. A broad shouldered figure was at Sarah’s side. Sarah was leaning prettily against him.
The King of Belgium and the King of Serbia departed. The Prince of Wales entered his carriage. Grand dukes and grand duchesses dispersed. Sandor was assisting Sarah into her barouche and followed her, sitting beside her. Charlotte stood by helplessly. Her chance was lost. She would have to make another visit to the Hotel de Paris. The hotel manager would lose patience with her and, far worse, by so doing she would very likely come face to face with Sandor Karolyi once again.
Justin de Valmy saw her standing on the fringe of the cemetery, surrounded by household servants and curious Monégasques. Her dress was of cheap, black cotton; the dress of a peasant. She looked indescribably lovely and utterly alone. He excused himself from his companions and began to walk purposefully across to her.
The Bernhardt carriage followed the long line of those with royal emblems. Sandor Karolyi saw Justin de Valmy halt; saw Charlotte stare up at him with eloquent eyes; saw them turn together as de Valmy ushered her into his carriage.
A wave of jealousy surged through him. She was in need of help and by his own actions he had ensured that he was the last person on earth to whom she would turn. His mouth set in a grim line and even Sarah dared not intrude on his thoughts.
Chapter Five
‘My condolences and my apologies,’ Justin said, removing his gleaming silk top hat and bowing. ‘My carriage is at your disposal, Charlotte. I promise there will be no repetition of the previous incident when you consented to ride with me.’
His eyes were sincere, concerned. She was unbelievably tired. The all-night vigil by Princess Natalya’s side had taken its toll. As had the long, hot walk to the cemetery.
‘Thank you, Comte de Valmy. I should be most grateful to ride with you back to Monte Carlo.’
A slight smile touched Justin’s lips as he took her arm and escorted her to his landau.
‘As we are now friends, and no longer mere acquaintances, I would be grateful if you would address me as “Justin”. To be addressed always as “Comte” is too reminiscent of my creditors.’
The long line of carriages before them moved off at a suitable sedate pace. The Princess was left behind. Her final resting place, high above the town she had loved so passionately. It was even possible to see the distant twin domes of the casino. Charlotte’s mouth softened. The Princess would have been pleased. Perhaps she had known of the view when she had so firmly stipulated where she was to be buried.
‘It is the first time I have had the pleasure of seeing your future sovereign. He looks like a man who knows how to enjoy life.’
‘I am sure that he does, Monsieur le Comte … Justin. And that he is also diligent in his duties.’
Justin’s eyes sparkled. It was obvious Charlotte knew nothing of her future sovereign’s private life; of the beguiling Mrs Edward Langtry who had succeeded in becoming Edward’s mistress, acknowledged not only by his long-suffering wife, but even by Queen Victoria.
Not, Justin reflected as the carriage began to pick up speed, that the Jersey Lily was much in evidence in Monte Carlo. The Prince of Wales’s nature was not one of faithfulness, be it to wife or mistress. When in France he sought fresh diversions. No doubt he had visited Paris before journeying to Monte Carlo and he had certainly wasted no time in securing the company of the magical Sarah.
As the carriages in front of them wound their way down to elegant villas and hotels, the sun gleamed on the polished harnesses of the horses, on the glazed hats of the cochers, their florid faces sweating beneath the weight of their tiers of capes.
Monte Carlo lay golden in the sun. Madame Blanc’s beds of exotic flowers were a riot of colour surrounding the casino. In the Port the white sails of yachts were brilliant against the azure blue of the sky. The air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers and the hum of bees. All too soon the stone lions flanking the gates of the Villa Ondine were discernible between the trees.
Justin leant forward, about to ask his coachman to halt the horses.
‘No!’ The word sprang to her lips instinctively.
Justin paused, looking at her strangely.
She tried to cover her confusion. She could not confide her difficulties to the Comte de Valmy. His solution would be to renew his attentions. To try and persuade her to leave Monte Carlo and live with him as his mistress.
‘I … I am not returning to the Villa Ondine. Not for the moment.’
Justin leaned back and surveyed her with curiosity. ‘Then where would you like to be taken, Charlotte?’
‘To the Hotel de Paris, if you please.’ Her eyes shied away from his. What would she say if he asked her what her mission at the hotel was? She had never been able to lie. She could not begin now.
Justin did not query her explanation. To him it meant only that he would have her company for an extra quarter of an hour.
‘The Crown Prince of Germany is expected in Monte Carlo shortly. I believe he is not over-fond of his uncle.’
‘His uncle?’ Charlotte’s thoughts were far away from those of society.
‘The Prince of Wales.’
‘Oh.’ Charlotte lapsed into silence. She knew nothing about the relationships between the members of the royal houses of Europe. Her thoughts were taken up with far more mundane matters. On how to return to England and fresh employment; on the necessity of living from one day to the next.
As the landau halted at the hotel’s main entrance and Justin alighted to assist her from the carriage, his hand held hers too long for necessity.
‘If you should need me, Charlotte, I shall be only too happy to be of assistance.’
She hesitated, but only momentarily. To seek assistance from Justin, Comte de Valmy, would be to lose her honour—and to a man she did not love.
The commissionaire’s eyebrows rose. Mademoiselle Grainger’s visits to the hotel were becoming increasingly regular. At the desk Charlotte asked charmingly that Mademoiselle Bernhardt be informed of her presence. The staff were apologetic. The shy-mannered English girl with the gentle, soft smile had won all their hearts. But they could not help her.
Mademoiselle Bernhardt had arrived only minutes ago. She had changed hastily from mourning into attire more suitable to that of a companion to a Prince, and had speedily left in a cloud of perfume and furs on the arm of Charlotte’s future sovereign.
Charlotte refused to be defeated. It was becoming increasingly obvious that while Edward, Prince of Wales, was in Monte Carlo, it was going to be virtually impossible to speak to Sarah. Therefore she must fall back on her second plan. She would approach L
ady Pethelbridge and ask if she might accompany her as a companion back to England.
Lady Pethelbridge had stared at her footman in astonishment at being informed that Miss Charlotte Grainger wished to speak with her. The funeral had tired her exceedingly. She hated funerals and only attended because etiquette demanded it. Vaguely she remembered that Miss Grainger had been companion to Princess Yakovleva and that she had behaved extraordinarily in throwing herself beneath the hoofs of a horse. To what purpose Lady Pethelbridge could no longer remember.
‘Send her in,’ she commanded bad-temperedly, adjusting her lorgnette.
‘It is most gracious of you to see me, Lady Pethelbridge, especially today.’
Lady Pethelbridge wasn’t quite sure why the day was different from any other and then remembered the funeral.
‘Yes,’ she demanded impatiently. ‘What is it you require?’
Charlotte remembered the smile Lady Pethelbridge had bestowed on her in the casino when Sarah had proclaimed to the world Charlotte’s bravery. It was sadly absent now. Charlotte doubted if Lady Pethelbridge even remembered her identity.
‘Since the princess died my position has become … precarious,’ she began.
Lady Pethelbridge was fast losing interest. She had hoped the girl was bringing her a memento that perhaps Princess Natalya had bequeathed to her.
Charlotte continued undeflected.
‘Prince Yakovlev is unwilling to pay the salary owing to me, and so I have no means of returning to England. I wondered if perhaps … If it would be possible …’ She took a deep breath. ‘I wondered if I could accompany your ladyship as companion when you return to England.’
Lady Pethelbridge stared at her in astonishment. ‘Are you asking me for employment, young woman?’
Charlotte’s voice was low but firm. ‘Yes, your ladyship.’
Lady Pethelbridge rose indignantly. ‘When I require staff I employ them! I do not expect them to solicit me!’
‘No, your ladyship, but the circumstances …’
Lady Pethelbridge was uncaring of the circumstances. She rang the silver bell at her side.
‘Miss Grainger is leaving,’ she said to the footman who entered.
The interview was at an end. Charlotte’s eyes held Lady Pethelbridge’s for a long second and her ladyship felt inexplicably uncomfortable. Then, head held high, her back straight, Charlotte left the room.
Princess Helena was no kinder. She was indifferent as to Charlotte’s circumstances. And she needed no companion.
‘A maid?’ Charlotte asked desperately.
The princess required no further maids.
The young Frenchman in reception, on being asked by Charlotte what other English ladies were in residence in Monte Carlo, informed her that a lady of no rank but enormous wealth was residing at the Villa Grimaldi. That the Countess of Bexhall was in residence at the hotel. That a marchioness was the guest of Prince Charles of Monaco.
The Countess was uncaring of Charlotte’s plight and had no intention of returning to England—ever. The lady of no rank was elderly and helped herself generously to Vichy pastilles from a jewel-encrusted candy box as Charlotte stated her case, and then informed her she had no need of her service.
Entry to the palace and the marchioness proved impossible.
It was late afternoon. She had not slept; not eaten. She had no alternative but to return to the Villa Ondine and once more face the detestable Prince Yakovlev.
She was footsore and weary. Fashionable carriages passed her without a second glance. To the occupants she was indistinguishable from the peasants in her cheap black dress of mourning.
Charlotte recognised many ladies who had, only hours previously, been dressed in the deepest of mourning for the Princess’s funeral. The mourning had been quickly discarded. The funeral had been only another social occasion. The Princess was not a relative. Black was not becoming.
It was late afternoon, the customary time for carriage rides along the boulevard. Charlotte observed the leisurely salutes from carriage to carriage of the ladies, their huge hats shading their eyes. Men lifted their gleaming silk toppers with one dove-grey gloved hand, and adjusted their monocles with the other.
What did they know of a life without financial means? Of a struggle for respectability without employment or family?
A debonair phaeton drawn by a pair of high-steppers with pink roses in their bridles passed her so closely she had to step hurriedly out of their way. Driving them was a queen of the demi-monde. A deliciously wicked creature dressed in matching shades of pink from her buckled shoes to her feather boa.
She, too, could drive a carriage of her own, be dressed as exquisitely, if she became Justin de Valmy’s mistress. She sighed and continued her walk. Love was too precious to be given in exchange for a carriage and Paris gowns.
A peasant girl in sabots hurried noisily past her. Two worlds, rich and poor, living side by side and never meeting. For a time, thanks to Princess Natalya, she had been a spectator to the life of the rich. Now she must return to reality.
She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple and continued her walk, oblivious of the landau some distance behind her. The horses’ bridle chains were of silver; the driver and footmen wore gold embroidered liveries. The occupant was a curious Frenchman who had watched her ever since she had entered the Hotel de Paris, who had followed at a discreet distance as she walked to the Villa Grimaldi; to the gates of the palace.
François regarded Charlotte’s back with growing admiration. Her appeal, her beauty, was undeniable. His only regret was that she was not French.
As Charlotte approached the Villa Ondine he ordered the driver to halt the horses. Then, after a suitable length of time, he approached on foot and asked for Maria, handing her a handsome sum of money and returning to the carriage. His vigil, for the moment, was over. The maid would inform him of whatever took place inside the Villa Ondine’s ochre coloured walls. He wondered if he had time to make a visit to one of the ladies of the town, but decided against it. Count Karolyi’s temper was extremely volatile, no more so than at the present moment.
Victor Yakovlev had had plenty of time to smart under Charlotte’s refusal of his advances. He had seen her at the funeral, standing at a suitable distance with the other servants, dressed in a cheap black dress that should have destroyed her beauty but did nothing but enhance it. Charlotte Grainger’s allure was not dependent upon fancy clothes and jewels. It was an innate part of her nature. In the way she held herself; in the long, lovely line of her throat, the unknowing sensuousness of her smile, the lustre of her thick-lashed eyes. She possessed a radiance that seemed to illuminate her. A radiance he wanted to possess.
Feverishly he had waited for her to return to the villa and she had not. His disappointment had been so acute that he had felt physically ill. Where had she gone? And with whom? When he heard her voice greeting Maria in the mosaic-tiled hall, he fumblingly lit a cigar, his hand shaking, so great was his relief.
Returning to her room Charlotte changed from the dress she had borrowed from Maria and into a lavender silk gown. Slowly she began to collect her personal possessions and lay them on the bed. A simple locket on a slim gold chain that had been her mother’s. The Bible her father had carried everywhere. A tortoise-shell-backed brush and mirror. A slim volume of poetry. The dresses and shoes and parasols that the Princess had given her she left in the giant mahogany wardrobe. They had been for her to wear in the Princess’s service. She would take nothing, save the dress on her back, that she had not arrived with.
Her pathetically few possessions were soon gathered. She would eat, sleep, and then she would go. Her head ached. Where? How? She still did not know, but one thing was clear. She could not remain at the Villa Ondine.
Maria knocked on the door and entered. ‘ Prince Victor wishes to see you, Charlotte.’
Charlotte felt herself tremble. ‘Thank you, Maria.’
This was her last chance. She had to make Prince Yakovle
v aware of his obligations. To her unspeakable relief the Prince’s attitude seemed to have altered when she entered the main salon. He greeted her with civility.
‘I fear that last evening my intentions were perhaps … misunderstood.’
Charlotte remained silent. She had misunderstood nothing. The Prince had made improper advances to her and had been rejected. And he had categorically refused to pay her the salary owing to her.
The Prince took out a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his perspiring brow.
‘I had not understood then how … devoted … you had been to my mother.’
Charlotte waited, her heart pounding. He had reconsidered. He was going to reimburse her after all.
‘I have studied my mother’s accounts and you are quite correct in that there is money owing to you.’
Charlotte put a hand out to a nearby table to steady herself.
‘I think that, by tomorrow morning, my secretary will be able to settle your account.’
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ She felt dizzy with relief. There had been no scene. No angry words.
‘In the meantime,’ Prince Victor’s paunch strained at the buttons of his waistcoat as he paced from the desk to the window and back again, ‘I would be most grateful if you would accompany me to the casino this evening.’
Carlotte stared at him, her eyes rounding. The casino! On the very day he had buried his mother!
‘There is no need to appear so shocked,’ the Prince said hurriedly, reading her mind. ‘My mother lived and practically died in the casino. She would certainly not take such a visit this evening as a mark of disrespect.’
What he said was true, but Charlotte had no intention of accompanying the Prince anywhere. ‘ I am afraid I shall not be able to do as you ask, Your Highness.’
The Prince halted in his pacing, his pale blue eyes hot and fevered. ‘Why, I have already explained to you that …’
‘Yes, Your Highness. It is just that it would be impossible for me to accompany you to the casino at any time.’ She strove for the right words. She must not antagonise him. He had still not given her the money. He could change his mind at a moment’s notice. She forced a small smile. ‘I was merely companion to the Princess, and …’
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