Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

  The door opened and a powerfully built, broad-shouldered man with an expansive face and a short, fair beard entered. His bearing was one of supreme ease and the cut of his navy blue serge suit was faultless. A rich silk handkerchief protruded slightly from one pocket of his jacket. He carried a gold-knobbed malacca cane under one arm. The pale grey fedora which he doffed had been worn rakishly a little to the side of his head. The gloves he dispensed with were yellow suede sewn with fine black stitches. Prominent blue-grey eyes under heavy lids surveyed first Sarah and then rested appreciatively on Charlotte.

  ‘Your Royal Highness, may I present Miss Charlotte Grainger,’ Sarah said, in her silken voice and, hardly able to believe what was happening to her, Charlotte dropped gracefully into a deep curtsey before her future sovereign.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I am honoured, Miss Grainger,’ the Prince said in a deep bass voice. ‘I have heard of your bravery and applaud it.’

  Charlotte felt hot colour flood her cheeks. Had he also heard of the exhibition that had taken place only hours ago in the Salle Mauresque? Her heart was beating so fast and light she could hardly breathe. He could not have: otherwise he would not have treated her so.

  ‘You are a fortunate man, Karolyi.’ The barely disguised amusement in the deep voice shattered her hopes.

  The Prince did know of the circumstances that had occasioned her to be Count Sandor Karolyi’s companion, and was uncaring.

  Her chin lifted imperceptibly. No doubt the whole of Monte Carlo was now very well aware that Miss Charlotte Grainger, erstwhile companion to Princess Yakovleva, was now little more than a cocotte, lost like a chattel at a hand of cards.

  Sandor, seeing the flash in her eyes and the proud uplifting of her head felt his heart twist with the tenderness and the protectiveness that he could not show. In her innocence she had expected to be shunned by society, not taken up by it. She had still a lot to learn about the ways of the world, and especially about the ways of Monte Carlo.

  Aware of his gaze, Charlotte began to tremble and was furiously angry at herself. Because of his behaviour she was being introduced everywhere as if she were his mistress. Even her future king believed her to be a lady of loose virtue. Their eyes met, hers no longer full of laughter but stormy with indignation, his dark with the torment he could no longer hide. Once trapped by his gaze she could not free herself.

  Why did he look at her in such a way? Why did he want her company and no more? Why was he so careless of what people thought? The little dressmaker had believed that she was his mistress and he had not enlightened her. And now Sarah did, as did the Prince of Wales. She craved an answer and received none. The Prince was speaking again: Sarah was laughing enchantingly. Sandor was obliged to return his attention to the Prince.

  ‘We should be delighted to join your party this evening, Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Good, good. Your play at the table should liven up the evening enormously.’ He chuckled appreciatively as he seated himself at Sarah’s side. ‘ Devil take it, but I wish I’d been there when you trounced Yakovlev. What did the cur do? Slink out of the casino with his tail between his legs?’

  ‘No!’ Sarah sprang exuberantly to her feet. ‘He stormed out, so—’ She stalked across the room, every line of her body a parody of Prince Yakovlev.

  The Prince of Wales slapped his thigh and laughed so uproariously that he had to mop his eyes with his oversize silk handkerchief. Charlotte watched aghast. It had not occurred to her that Sarah had been a witness to her humiliation. Why hadn’t she spoken out in protest? Unable to help herself, her eyes slid past Sarah and rested on Sandor.

  She had her answer. It would not have occurred to Sarah that any woman would not desire to be won by such a man. Or, having been won, would not be ecstatically happy. But Sarah did not know the other side of Sandor Karolyi. The complex, brooding side of his personality that was so different from the abrasive charm he exercised in public.

  Sarah flung her head high, her posture changing, no longer Prince Yakovlev but herself. ‘ Champagne,’ she commanded in her lovely silken voice. ‘ Champagne to celebrate Sandor’s gallantry.’

  For a heart-stopping second Charlotte wondered if Sarah knew the truth. That Sandor had won her at cards in order only to offer her his protection. That his action had been prompted by kindness and not desire.

  Sarah sat gracefully on the sofa beside the Prince, reclining languidly in a cloud of lace, her features a vision of perfection under a shower of sun-gold hair. Her eyes as they met Charlotte’s held a wicked gleam. No, Sarah had not guessed the truth. Her idea of gallantry was that Sandor should have won her publicly as his cherie amour.

  Gracefully Sarah tugged the bell-pull. Two footmen dressed in royal livery entered. The first carried a bottle of champagne already chilling and two glasses. The second a bottle of Dewar’s Black Ball whisky and Appolinaris water. As the champagne was poured into the first glass a faint frown furrowed Charlotte’s brow. She did not dislike champagne but neither was she accustomed to it, especially so early in the day. A footman prepared to pour champagne into the second glass.

  ‘Lemonade, if you please,’ a rich-timbred voice said easily. The footman nodded, replaced the champagne in the silver bucket of crushed ice and returned speedily with a sparkling glass of chilled lemonade.

  Charlotte took the glass and, despite her better intentions, glanced gratefully across at Sandor. He was watching her as she knew he would be. Since they had entered the room his gaze had rarely left her. The unfathomable expression that had been in his eyes and that had so disconcerted her was now absent. He looked merely amused. Incredibly, as she raised the glass to her lips, she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. The answering smile that played about his lips sent her blood racing and she hastily looked away. The Prince of Wales was addressing her, his manner indulgent.

  ‘I understand that you are the talk of Monte Carlo, Miss Grainger.’

  It was meant as a compliment, and it had come from the man who would one day be her king. Charlotte held his gaze firmly and said with barely a tremor in her voice.

  ‘No doubt that is true, Your Royal Highness. However, I sincerely wish it were not, and I take no pleasure in the fact.’

  There was a hair’s breadth of stunned silence and then Edward’s eyes began to gleam and a low chuckle started deep in his chest, erupting in jovial laughter. ‘God’s truth, Miss Grainger. I’m not surprised Yakovlev took your loss so hard.’

  ‘I was not Prince Yakovlev’s to lose, Your Royal Highness.’ Charlotte said with dignity.

  The rumbling laughter ceased. Charlotte’s heart hammered as protruding blue-grey eyes held hers intently.

  After what seemed an eternity, the Prince nodded his head as if satisfied. ‘I believe you, Miss Grainger. You are a young lady of rare quality. However, I hope whatever misunderstanding you have had to endure does not mean you will be abandoning Monte Carlo before we have been able to enjoy your company.’

  Relief flooded through Charlotte. ‘No, Your Royal Highness, I am remaining in Monte Carlo until Lord and Lady Beston arrive.’

  Royal brows moved upwards.

  ‘I anticipate becoming Lady Beston’s companion on her journey back to England.’

  ‘Do you, indeed? Then we can only envy the lucky Lady Beston,’ Edward said, humour returning to his voice.

  A royal footman entered again, this time with a silver tray bearing a plate of Beluga caviar and plovers’eggs which the Prince proceeded to eat with relish as the conversation turned to people and places Charlotte was unacquainted with.

  Mr William C. Vanderbilt and the merits of his new yacht; Mr Frederick Johnstone, in whose villa, it appeared, the king was residing; the Emperor Franz Josef and the pleasures of hunting in Hungarian forests as opposed to the Scottish Highlands.

  The Prince was adamant that shooting among heather and bracken was preferable and Sandor remained unmoved in his opinion that it was a poor substitute for the kind
of sport available on his own vast estate. The matter was settled amicably with Edward inviting himself to Valeni in the autumn.

  Valeni. Was that the name of Sandor Karolyi’s home? Curiosity engulfed her. The expression in his voice when he had spoken of it had been one almost of reverence. Charlotte regarded him curiously while his attention was taken by the Prince. He had never mentioned Valeni to her. She had never thought of him as a man with a home and roots. Yet obviously Valeni was where his heart was. How much more was there about him that she did not know? Why, despite his wealth and devastating good looks and the numerous people constantly surrounding him, did he remain so unutterably alone?

  Sandor was rising to his feet. Their visit was at an end.

  ‘Until this evening, Miss Grainger,’ the Prince said, taking her hand and brushing it with his lips, his gruff voice full of kindness.

  ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness.’ Charlotte dropped a curtsey and then, feeling that in the most unlikely of places she had made a true friend, she smiled.

  The Prince chuckled, heartily regretted her obvious virtue and, as the door closed behind her, returned his full attention to the delightful Sarah.

  ‘Was the Prince of Wales as you had expected him to be?’ Sandor asked as he handed her into the carriage.

  Charlotte kept her eyes lowered for a few moments, unnecessarily busy adjusting her skirts. His touch had scorched her skin. When she raised her head and answered, her feelings were once again under tight control.

  ‘No,’ she replied truthfully. ‘But I liked him exceedingly.’

  Sandor laughed and for a moment Charlotte wondered if she had been wrong in judging him to be a man carrying a crushing burden. His thick black hair tumbled low over his brows. His amber eyes were good humoured. He looked for a brief second of time like a man without a care in the world. And then his eyes travelled to her lips and his laughter faded. She turned her head away swiftly, aware that with only one look her whole body responded to him in a way that was shameless.

  Silence stretched between them, painful in its intensity. A gentleman, riding as escort d’honneur beside the self-driven phaeton of a pretty Parisienne, bent his head in their direction and exchanged a word of greeting with Sandor. As their victoria sped along the palm-fringed boulevard a lady approached them riding a white stallion side-saddle and Charlotte saw that the lady who had so daringly dispensed with her carriage was Louise de Remy. Her jacket was scarlet, lavishly trimmed with gold, her riding skirt was sky blue and a little Louis XV tricorn hat with black ostrich feathers was worn at a jaunty angle on top of her golden curls. The grand duke rode at her side, nodding cursorily as Louise blew a kiss in Charlotte’s direction.

  ‘You are acquainted with more people than I was aware of,’ Sandor remarked dryly as their carriage bowled past Louise and her companion.

  ‘Mademoiselle de Remy has shown me great kindness.’ Charlotte’s voice was stiff. She had no intention of apologising for her friendship with Louise.

  ‘Then you are quite right in acknowledging her in public.’

  She looked at him uncertainly, but there was no sign of mockery on his lean, handsome face. In the bright sunlight, tilburys and cabriolets rattled past them but she was unaware of them and their occupants.

  His nearness overwhelmed her. He was behaving to all outward appearances as if he were her lover. The very thought made her feel weak and light-headed. She remembered the burning glance he had given her on the darkened terrace seconds before he had kissed her, and her hands tightened in her lap. She must not continue to remember it. She must forget it as he had done. He wished for her to act the part of companion. Nothing more.

  ‘We will lunch at Beausoleil before visiting Prince Charles,’ Sandor said as the sea was left behind and the carriage headed inland towards Beausoleil.

  Charlotte stared at him with incredulity. He could not possibly be proposing that she join him for tea at the Grimaldi Palace. Even Princess Yakovleva had not been afforded that honour.

  ‘Surely it would be improper for me to accompany you?’ she protested.

  A dark brow quirked queryingly.

  ‘I have not been invited,’ she pointed out with charming simplicity.

  Sandor waved her objection aside. ‘That is of no moment.’ he said with easy confidence. ‘Prince Charles will be delighted with your company. He is an old man and receives few visitors.’

  A deep inner warmth suffused her. His self-assurance was contagious. If Sandor said Prince Charles would be delighted with her company then she believed it.

  ‘Sadly Prince Charles is blind and the scent of flowers does not agree with him, so wear no posies or perfume on our visit.’

  Charlotte was horrified. ‘But that is terrible! To be averse to flowers in Monte Carlo, where there are flowers everywhere!’

  ‘He spends very little time in Monte Carlo,’ Sandor said, his voice softening at her concern for an elderly man she had not yet met. ‘He lives mainly in his mountain retreat. The Grimaldi Palace is generally inhabited only by his son, Prince Albert.’

  Charlotte’s tender heart ached for the afflicted ruler of Monaco. ‘How said to have such a beautiful home and be forced to spend so much time away from it.’ She paused, thinking of the home Sandor so obviously loved. Of Valeni, deep in the Hungarian forests. It was a beautiful name. Was it a beautiful house? Was there a lake with swans floating serenely on dark-green water? Did geese fly overhead on their migration south? Were there horses to ride, sleek and sure-footed? And dogs waiting patiently for their master’s return?

  ‘Tell me about Valeni,’ she said shyly.

  Sandor stared at her. He never spoke about Valeni with anyone but Zara but suddenly the temptation to confide in the quietly listening girl before him was almost more than he could bear.

  He wanted to tell her of how Valeni meadows were thick with wild flowers in the spring. How wild boar made their home in the forest. He wanted to tell her of the beauty; the solitude; the peace that engulfed him whenever he was on Valeni land. And he wanted to tell her that he was legally entitled to none of it.

  The breath caught in his throat. Only to the woman he married would he disclose that terrible truth. Only then would he share his burden. Yet still the urge persisted. He shook his head violently as if to clear it. He was going mad. The idea was preposterous.

  Sea-green eyes met his, thick-lashed, honest and trusting. The loveliness of her face was breathtaking in its purity. Charlotte’s love, once given, would not depend on her suitor’s wealth or title. It would be unconditional. A constant strength: a haven and a refuge. And it would be given to a man other than himself—a man who had never taken advantage of her. Never shamed her.

  His gold-flecked eyes hardened. For a pulsebeat of time he had thought the impossible was possible. Common sense reasserted itself. Monte Carlo was far behind them. They were passing orange and lemon groves. Between the trees Beausoleil’s white walls gleamed vividly.

  ‘Valeni is my home,’ he said, and shrugged his shoulders dismissively, his voice betraying none of his inner tumult.

  Charlotte returned her attention to her clasped hands as the carriage bowled through Beausoleil’s magnificent gateway. Had there been a rebuff in his voice? Had she offended him by her question?

  The carriage halted. He alighted and held out his hand for her. She took it, acutely aware of the warmth of his grasp, of the sense of power under restraint emanating from his tall, broad-shouldered figure. All too soon his hand released hers and they were walking into Beausoleil. Georges greeted them at the door with a broad smile.

  ‘Lunch is served, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Georges.’

  Through an open doorway Charlotte could see a table laid with white napery, silver and cut glass. Lobster rested on a bed of salad. Champagne was chilling.

  A maid relieved her of her gloves and parasol and she was aware that her new dress and long rope of pearls was being much admired by Beausoleil’s staff.

  She
touched the pearls lovingly. They were beautiful. The most beautiful things she had ever worn. Her hand fell. She must not become too attached to them. When she left for England with Lady Beston the pearls would have to be left behind, along with the other finery Sandor had purchased for her. To be worn by … whom?

  Her heart contracted. She must not allow thoughts of the future to spoil the present. Sandor was looking down at her curiously and she forced a smile. She would be happy every minute she was in his company. Desolation and despair could be indulged in later.

  ‘Are you troubled, Charlotte?’ He was so near. She longed to rest her head on the snowy-white of his shirt front. To feel the strength of his arms around her. To raise her face for his kiss.

  ‘No,’ she lied and prayed fervently that Lady Beston should be long delayed before arriving in Monte Carlo.

  The French windows leading on to the terrace and gardens were open and a soft breeze filled the room.

  ‘Lemonade?’ Sandor asked, sitting opposite her as he had at breakfast.

  ‘No.’ Charlotte replied daringly, ‘ I would like some champagne please.’

  Sandor grinned and as the champagne cork popped and Georges poured the bubbling liquid into their glasses, said,

  ‘And will you also gamble at the tables tonight?’

  She was momentarily disconcerted, not knowing whether he was making fun of her or not. The dancing lights in his black eyes were reassuring. He was amused but not in any way at which she could take offence. Laughter suited him. His eyes crinkled pleasingly at the corners. His mouth was no longer a harsh, impatient line but a teasing curve.

  ‘I would like to,’ she admitted.

  White teeth flashed as he laughed delightedly. Outside the room Georges and Jeanne raised their eyebrows.