Devil's Palace

by Margaret Pemberton

  Lady Pethelbridge turned slowly in her seat and flicked her ostrich feather fan shut with a snap. The girl was shameless. Flaunting herself as if she were a lady when everyone knew she was little more than a lady’s maid. Her aristocratic features set in a tight line. Her breasts heaved indignantly over their formidable corsetry. This time Count Karolyi had gone too far. She rose majestically to her feet, stared full-face at Charlotte and then very slowly and deliberately turned her back. English nobility eyed each other uneasily. Lady Pethelbridge clearly expected her example to be followed. Yet there had been rumours…

  The source of the rumours strode curiously into the room from the concert hall, intent on discovering what had stilled the usual clamour. Cigar smoke wreathed his royal head. There was a flower in the lapel of his dinner jacket. The bottom button of his lavishly embroidered waistcoat was characteristically left undone. Sarah glided gracefully at his side, exotic and flamboyant, alight with jewels.

  Edward surveyed the scene with relish. He liked to be entertained and here was entertainment in plenty. With all the skill of a professional actor, he milked the moment for all it was worth, puffing contentedly on his cigar as Lady Pethelbridge remained standing, her back set squarely against Charlotte. The tension mounted. Charlotte remained at Sandor’s side, her back straight, her head high. The Prince of Wales grinned and stepped towards her.

  ‘I commend you, Mademoiselle Grainger. Your beauty has stilled even the gaming tables.’

  An ugly red flush stained Lady Pethelbridge’s face and neck. All around her, her social equals deserted her, milling forward, eager to become acquainted with the breathtaking English girl who had been won at a hand of cards and who was being fêted by the Prince of Wales. Lord Pethelbridge, knowing his hours of gambling were at an end, sighed regretfully and crossed to his wife’s side.

  ‘You’ve done it this time, old girl,’ he said unsympathetically, and led her, frozen-faced, from the room.

  ‘My darling Charlotte. You look absolutely ravishing,’ Sarah said, kissing her affectionately on the cheek. ‘The Hotel de Paris has insisted that I remove my cheetah from their premises and Bertie is being very English about it and very unhelpful.’ She tapped the Prince of Wales on his chest reprovingly with her forefinger and Charlotte assumed quite rightly that Bertie was Sarah’s name for the Prince.

  ‘Now I wonder if Sandor would be more understanding.’ Her feline eyes gleamed speculatively.

  ‘No,’ Sandor said emphatically. ‘I am not giving a home to your cheetah, Sarah.’

  ‘But it would only be for a little while, Sandor. And he is really very well behaved.’

  ‘No.’ Sandor was adamant.

  Sarah looked up at him from beneath her shower of gold-red hair. ‘Please, Sandor darling.’

  ‘No. Beausoleil is not a zoo.’

  Sarah pouted provocatively. ‘You are being very ungallant. Where will my poor little cheetah go?’

  ‘You could send the damned creature to my nephew,’ the Prince of Wales suggested darkly as a slightly-built gentleman with a withered arm and heavy dark moustaches entered the room, followed by a retinue of aides.

  Uncle and nephew glared at each other with dislike and then greeted each other with outward signs of cordiality. Charlotte dropped into a curtsey before the future Emperor of Germany, and was aware that not even Sarah’s gaiety could lighten the gloom that suddenly seemed to have descended.

  ‘I was not aware that you were in Monte Carlo,’ Crown Prince Wilhelm said stiffly to his British uncle.

  ‘It is a short visit,’ Edward said, with none of his usual bonhomie.

  The stilted conversation continued for a few moments while royal equerries waited patiently and Sarah raised her long cats eyes to heaven expressively.

  Etiquette satisfied, the Crown Prince took his leave of them and made his way to the Salon Privé.

  Edward tugged bad-temperedly at his short, fair beard as Sarah said undeflected, ‘ If the Hotel de Paris orders my cheetah to leave, I will leave also!’

  Edward sighed, humour returning once more to his heavy-lidded blue-grey eyes. ‘ Then I think, my dear, that Count Karolyi has no alternative.’

  Sandor was just about to say that he had every alternative, when Charlotte pressed his arm lightly with her fingers.

  ‘Please, Sandor. It will be exciting to have a cheetah at Beausoleil.’

  He looked down at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘The cheetah,’ he conceded, ‘but no wolfhounds, and definitely no monkeys.’

  Sarah threw her arms around his neck. ‘ Darling Sandor. You are too, too kind. And now I must play the tables and win a fortune in gold.’

  ‘Not at baccarat,’ the Prince of Wales said firmly. ‘ Not until my nephew has taken his leave of the Salon Privé.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘Roulette then. Look, there is Princess Helene playing two wheels at the same time!’

  The Rubenesque elderly Princess was attracting a great deal of attention. In between sips of champagne, she was placing bets on the same numbers on two tables simultaneously. Her losses were astronomical.

  Louise de Remy’s protector stepped forward and offered her a word of caution but the princess ignored him and with a hiccup and a flamboyant flourish, halved her remaining gold plaques and placed half on thirty-two on one table and the other half on thirty-two on an adjacent table. Impassive-faced, the croupiers spun the wheels. Princess Helene covered her eyes with her hands. The balls slowed and the crowds at the tables held their breaths.

  ‘Oh please,’ Charlotte found herself whispering and Sandor shot her an amused glance. She had already forgotten Princess Helene’s unkindness to her.

  A ball clattered snugly into thirty-two on one table and into thirty-two a fraction of a second later on the other. The room erupted in applause and the triumphant Princess waited patiently while the croupiers took ten minutes to count out her winnings.

  ‘That is how I want to win,’ Sarah declared, but her royal escort was unimpressed.

  ‘It wouldn’t happen again in a hundred years,’ he said good-temperedly, making no attempt to part with any of his wealth.

  ‘You are the most careful prince in Christendom, Bertie,’ Sarah remonstrated gaily, and enveloped in perfume, trailing yards of chinchilla in her wake, she clung to the arm of her chuckling escort.

  Sandor’s grip tightened on Charlotte’s arm as they seated themselves beside Edward and Sarah at a roulette table that had magically cleared in deference to the Prince.

  ‘You are going to play?’ Sandor asked, his rich dark voice holding an undertone that made her nerves throb.

  ‘In the company of the Prince?’ she asked, round-eyed.

  He laughed softly. ‘ This evening you are the Prince of Wales’ guest, Charlotte. I think it would be most discourteous if you did not enjoy yourself to the utmost.’

  Edward was beaming jovially at her, gratified at being flanked by the two most beautiful women in the room.

  ‘How do you play, Miss Grainger? Do you resort to your birthday or astronomy, or the hymn number currently on display in the local church?’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘No, Your Royal Highness. I play to a system.’

  Royal brows rose upwards. ‘Do you indeed? Then please proceed. If you win I shall ask for your secret.’

  What to Charlotte seemed an incredible number of gold plaques was placed in front of her by Sandor.

  ‘Remember, my sweet,’ he said softly, ‘ all you require is luck, courage and coolness.’

  Sarah had already begun to play with uncharacteristic caution. Time and again she lost to the table.

  ‘Bertie, cherie, being careful is no fun. I shall call on the gods for inspiration.’ And she closed her eyes, her fingers resting lightly on the table, rapt in concentration. Suddenly her eyes flew open and with the confidence of a mystic, she put a fortune on red nine.

  Edward leaned back in his seat, indolently at ease, a huge cigar clamped betw
een his teeth. Sarah’s scream as the gods decreed that black should win reverberated throughout the room. Edward guffawed with laughter. It had not been his money that had been lost.

  ‘I shall die!’ Sarah exclaimed dramatically, clutching at her chest. ‘I shall jump from the cliff and end it all!’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear Sarah. We are having supper at the Café de Paris.’ Edward said, with good-humoured practicality.

  Sarah groaned and demanded that pink champagne be brought to the table in order that she might be revitalised.

  Meanwhile Charlotte had withdrawn a small piece of paper and a pencil from her jewelled evening bag and was following Sandor’s instructions carefully. She won once, twice.

  ‘Sweet Mary,’ Sarah exclaimed devoutly. ‘ The child is playing like a professional.’

  Charlotte giggled as more gold was shovelled across the table in her direction. Then, when it seemed as if her winning streak would never come to an end, she calmly ceased to play.

  ‘But you can’t stop now,’ Sarah shrieked, aghast.

  Charlotte’s green eyes danced, ‘I wish to keep my winnings, Sarah. Not lose them to Monsieur Blanc.’

  Edward’s deep laughter rumbled explosively. Sarah flung her head back, eyes closed, as if momentarily overcome by unconsciousness at such a display of English coolness.

  ‘Congratulations, Miss Grainger,’ the Prince of Wales said as champagne was poured into her glass. ‘I hope your skill at baccarat does not exceed your luck at roulette.’

  ‘I have never played baccarat, Your Royal Highness,’ Charlotte murmured, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘Then I am relieved.’ He turned to the equerry standing at a discreet distance behind them. ‘Has the Crown Prince left the Salon Privé yet?’

  ‘I will ascertain, Your Royal Highness.’

  Sarah, revived, demanded that she be told Charlotte’s secret but on being shown Charlotte’s card and neatly written figures, declared that numbers were a mystery to her and proceeded to gamble once more, this time using the hour of her birth for inspiration.

  Charlotte gazed around the room, the recipient of eager smiles and nods as society ladies and ladies of the demi-monde sought to catch her glance and claim acquaintance.

  Louise de Remy’s grand duke was desolately alone. Charlotte’s eyes searched the room but could see no sign of the effervescent Louise. In deep dudgeon the grand duke lit his cigar with a mille note and with slumped shoulders made his way out on to the terrace.

  An ageing member of the royal house of Austria adjusted her lorgnette and studied Charlotte unnervingly, Charlotte smiled. For the first time in years withered lips attempted the semblance of a smile in return.

  A gentleman, his chest covered in medals for gallantry on the field, stood with his back to the table he was playing, unable to stand the pain of watching while the roulette wheel spun and his stakes were raked away.

  The Countess of Bexhall was playing trente-et-quarante listlessly, her eyes repeatedly leaving the table and scanning the throng. Her husband seemed unaware of her inattention, genially greeting familiar faces.

  ‘Put down your glass of champagne,’ Sandor’s deep-timbred voice ordered.

  Charlotte looked up at him, startled.

  ‘I am going to take you out on the terrace and kiss you as I have wanted to all evening.’

  The expression in his eyes sent her pulse throbbing in her temples.

  ‘You cannot,’ she protested, feeling the strength leave her legs. ‘We are in the Prince’s company.’

  ‘The Prince,’ Sandor said, his fingers caressing the nape of her neck, ‘will be perfectly understanding.’

  ‘It would cause comment,’ she protested weakly.

  ‘It would cause even more comment if I began to make love to you at the table,’ Sandor replied purposefully.

  She began to giggle. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘I would,’ and to prove it he tilted her face to his and kissed her with lingering expertise.

  Heat surged into Charlotte’s cheeks. Not even the escorts of the grande cocottes behaved in such a cavalier manner. To add to her confusion, the Prince of Wales merely surveyed them with approval and insisted that they join him at the baccarat table and that Charlotte, as a beginner, should test the legend of beginner’s luck.

  ‘Now we cannot go on to the terrace,’ she whispered to Sandor, her eyes mischievous.

  ‘In that case …’ He leant towards her again and was only halted on seeing the expression in her eyes change to one of incredulity as she looked beyond his shoulder to the couple who had just entered the room.

  Louise was drenched in jewels. A cluster of diamonds secured the ostrich plume in her hair; a collar of diamonds hugged her throat and cascaded in glittering droplets on her half-naked breasts. Armlets of sapphires circled her upper arms, bracelets of pearls her wrists. The topaz silk of her gown clung sensuously, sweeping aside in Grecian folds at a point far above her ankles into a demi-train, revealing an indecent amount of shapely leg.

  Her arm was proprietorily through that of Justin, Comte de Valmy.

  Sarah’s attention, too, was riveted on Louise and her escort.

  ‘I thought de Valmy was an officer in the Chasseurs à Cheval, not possessor of the Russian crown jewels,’ she whispered incredulously.

  Now that de Valmy was no longer a contender for Charlotte’s favours, Sandor surveyed him with equanimity:

  ‘The lady’s jewels will not have come from that source. They will be her cache from the grand duke – and his predecessors.’

  Unerringly Louise made her way to the table where her friend Charlotte sat in company with the future King of England.

  ‘Charlotte, ma cherie! How ravishing you look.’

  Charlotte took a deep breath. How was she to introduce one of France’s grande cocottes to the Prince of Wales? She need not have worried.

  Edward was in his element, well aware of Louise’s reputation and, within the walls of the casino, uncaring of it.

  ‘I have long wanted the pleasure of meeting Your Royal Highness,’ Louise purred as she curtsied charmingly, clinging silk scarcely skimming her breasts.

  ‘The pleasure, mademoiselle, is mine,’ Edward replied, determined it would be before he departed Monte Carlo.

  Justin’s gaze remained steadfastly on Charlotte. She avoided his eyes, she had not seen him since the day of the Princess’s funeral. He had behaved with kindness to her then but she could not forget the embarrassment of their carriage ride together. Or the damage that she had caused his hand when she had slammed the carriage door so violently behind her.

  ‘Your hand, was it badly hurt?’ she asked with concern.

  ‘It was and deservedly so.’

  ‘I am sorry. I …’

  ‘The apologies are mine, Charlotte. I behaved disgracefully that afternoon and I beg your forgiveness.’

  The warmth of her smile put Louise’s jewels to shame. ‘You have it, Justin. It was my fault for being so innocent as to have accepted your invitation without realising that …’ She broke off, blushing prettily.

  ‘Your innocence is worth more than gold, Charlotte. And it is a quality I think you will carry to your grave.’ His glance flicked across to Sandor who had forsaken equanimity and was glaring at him with barely controlled rage. Good sense precluded the conversation from continuing.

  ‘The terrace,’ Sandor said grimly to her, taking her arm and steering her away from the Prince and Sarah and Louise and Justin.

  ‘Sandor! Surely we need the Prince of Wales’ permission to leave his presence?’

  Sandor was uncaring, striding purposefully through the crowded room, his hand firmly gripping her elbow, forcing her to half-run in the effort to keep up with him.

  Gasping for breath Charlotte could see the Countess of Bexhall glaring malevolently across at Louise; could see the Turkish pasha dismiss his adoring companion bad-temperedly as his eye caught sight of a pretty new face, could see Floretta Rozanko, Louise’
s rival, making a flamboyant entrance, half a dozen attentive gentlemen in her wake.

  ‘Sandor, please. You are hurting my arm.’

  The brilliant chandeliers and spinning roulette wheels were left behind. They were out on the terrace, sheltered by a semi-circle of flowering shrubs.

  ‘Damn your arm,’ Sandor growled, spinning her round to face him. ‘What do you mean by flirting with de Valmy?’

  ‘I was not,’ she protested indignantly, her hand against his chest as his arms encircled her. ‘ I was merely apologising for the injury I did his hand.’

  Sandor’s frown deepened. ‘And do you mind telling me under what circumstances you managed to accomplish that admirable deed?’

  ‘No.’ She sighed rapturously. He was jealous. Beneath her fingers she could feel the fierce thudding of his heart.

  ‘You deserve spanking,’ he said, and instead kissed her with fierce passion.

  Her arms slid up and around his neck. Fireflies danced in the darkness around them as his hands moved caressingly over her body and she trembled in his arms.

  His hands cupped the softness of her breasts. He was burning with a desire he had never previously known: never believed to be possible.

  ‘Charlotte,’ he murmured hoarsely, against her hair, ‘My sweet, beautiful Charlotte.’

  She pressed herself closer and closer against him. It was as if he had a right to her body; as if she were already his wife.

  ‘My dear, no one knows who she is,’ an autocratic female voice said, unaware that the object of her conversation was only yards away, half hidden by oleanders. ‘Some say she came to Monte Carlo with a Russian Princess. Others that she arrived with a rich, young lover and instantly discarded him for Karolyi.’

  ‘She’s certainly different from the usual run of adventuresses,’ her lady companion said with less condemnation in her voice. ‘Her manner is both charming and modest.’

  ‘Really Henrietta! How can the girl be modest? She was won by Karolyi at a game of cards!’

  ‘So I have heard, but do you not think it romantic, Sophronia?’

  The ladies were rapidly approaching the bower of oleanders. Regretfully Sandor lifted his mouth from Charlotte’s.