Devil's Palace (12 page)

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 Lady 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 Yakovlev 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 …'

‘Damn what you were employed as,' the Prince exploded, testily. ‘You accompanied my mother to the casino every evening. You will accompany me.'

Charlotte stared at him helplessly. If she did not he would almost certainly alter his instructions to his secretary. And if she did, he could not possibly behave improperly. They would be surrounded by too many people.

‘Yes, Your Highness,' she said at last, unhappily.

The Prince mopped his brow once again. For one hideous moment he had thought she was going to refuse.

‘And now if you will excuse me, Prince Yakovlev.'

The Prince excused her, hardly able to contain his rising excitement. The English girl had only entered the casino as companion to his irascible mother. She had never known the headiness of playing the tables, of feeling gold slip through her fingers, of the intoxication of champagne. Once she had experienced such pleasures she would be unable to turn her back on them. Especially when he made it clear that such pleasures could be hers for the asking. Already he had arranged that a small, private, upstairs room was put at his disposal. By the time they had arrived at the Devil's Palace that evening, champagne would be chilling. He would indulge her at the tables in the Salle Mauresque and then take her upstairs for dinner
à deux;
for more champagne, for caviar—for the delight of seduction.