Devil's Palace (11 page)

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 Charlotte 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.

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.

‘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.