The next morning Charlotte woke with a sense of disquiet. She lay for a few moments, gazing at the sun-bright ceiling. The Comte was calling for her at eleven. The little French maid who did tasks too menial for Maria, came in with a cup of morning chocolate. She sipped it, wondering yet again why the Princess had countenanced such an expedition. She achieved no answer. The Comte had made his request, been accepted, and now she had no alternative but to make herself ready for his arrival.
The Princess was still asleep and would be until long after the Comte had called for her. Reluctantly she dressed in a gown of watered green silk that emphasised the colour of her eyes. The neckline was demurely high, small pearl buttons running from the base of her throat to her tiny waist. Her nonsense of a hat, with a wisp of veiling and a feather was perched on the top of her abundantly waving hair, the ringlets tamed into a smooth, upsweeping chignon. White net gloves covered her hands. Her parasol was edged with lace. She gazed at herself in the mirror and knew that anyone seeing her would assume her to be a lady of quality. A slight smile curved her lips. If the Comte de Valmy had seen her before she had entered the Princess’s employ, he would certainly not have asked for her company. The memory of serviceable dimity gowns in lack-lustre colours made her run her fingers appreciatively over the fullness of her silk skirts. The Princess had been kinder to her than anyone save for her beloved parents.
The sound of hoofs and the rattle of a landau permeated her thoughts. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her parasol. He had come. Never in her life had she driven alone with a gentleman. What was she to say to him? What did he expect of her?
‘There is a gentleman for you,’ Maria said, disapproval registering in her velvet brown eyes.
Panic seized Charlotte. The whole affair was improper. Cocottes rode alone with their gentleman friends. Married ladies, too, saw no reason to be accompanied by anyone other than a footman or a maid when indulging in a promenade or a carriage ride with gentlemen other than their husbands. But they were accustomed to the laxity of Monte Carlo society. Charlotte was not. She had been brought up quietly and with reserve. She enjoyed being a spectator to the dazzling, glamorous pageant surrounding her, but it had never occurred to her that she might be a participant. Her position had precluded any such aspirations: until last night.
A flare of anger sparked her eyes. She was only suffering thus because of Sandor Karolyi. If he had not goaded her, she would never have accepted the Comte’s invitation. ‘Damnable man,’ she said aloud, giving vent to her feelings in a way that would have shocked her father inexpressibly. Then, head high, she marched across the room to face Justin, Comte de Valmy.
If Justin had entertained any doubts as to the wisdom of escorting a paid companion in public, they vanished the moment Charlotte stepped towards him.
Her beauty was stunning and effortless, arousing his protective instincts as well as his admiration. Within hours, news of his morning’s outing would have reached the Countess’s ears, but he was uncaring. He would teach her that he was not a plaything to be taken up and discarded at will.
‘You look very beautiful,’ he said, deep blue eyes holding hers unnervingly.
Charlotte blushed. She was unaccustomed to such attention and it was occurring to her that the eligible young man assisting her into the landau was doing more than flirting with her. It was almost as if he was embarking on a courtship.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and lowered her eyes as the coachman flicked his whip and the horses began to trot out through the Villa Ondine’s open gates and up and away from the casino and the villas huddling the Port.
‘Have you been long with Princess Yakovleva?’ he asked, determined to do what so far he had only considered doing. He would make the sweet-faced English girl his mistress for the summer. She would accompany him to Paris and then to his château in Brittany. Unfortunately, from September, the liaison would have to be conducted more discreetly. In September he was to marry.
‘Six months.’
‘And are you happy in her employ?’
His ease of manner had relaxed her. ‘ Exceedingly,’ she smiled, and the effect was like warm sunlight.
He was sitting opposite her, elegant in the uniform of an officer of the Chasseurs à Cheval. His jacket was of light blue, decorated lavishly with silver braid. His tight fitting trousers scarlet; his boots polished to mirrored brilliance.
‘But not so happy as you would be outside it.’
Her expression was one of puzzlement.
He laughed, reaching out and taking her hand.
Dismayed, she withdrew it hastily, noting that they were already a disturbing distance from the villa. The vine-clad hillside fell steeply to the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean, clouded in mimosa and the purple haze of jasmine.
He laughed, bewitched by the shyness he was about to overcome.
‘You must surely guess the reason for my seeking to speak to you in private, Charlotte.’ His voice was caressing. Heat smouldered at the back of his eyes.
‘I am afraid that I gave it no thought, Monsieur,’ she said in confusion.
Was he going to make a proposal of marriage to her? The idea was stupefying. They had only met the previous evening. He was wealthy and titled. It was beyond belief that such a man could have fallen instantly in love with her. Yet his eyes told her differently. They were warm and flattering.
‘Charlotte.’ He reached once more for her hand and this time she did not withdraw it. ‘It cannot have escaped your attention that I am most deeply attracted to you …’
He was going to propose. Her heart began to beat light and fast.
He was young, no more than twenty-five, undeniably handsome with his sleek fair hair and startling blue eyes. She would be a Comtesse. She would no longer have to live in fear of the future. She would have a home of her own. Children. The prospect was intoxicating; impossible. She was not in love with the Comte. The touch of his hand sent no reverberations down her spine. The prospect of his kiss aroused no desire in her. Sadly she sought the words to refuse him without hurting his feelings.
‘I am leaving Monte Carlo within days for Paris. Come with me, Charlotte.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently.
She stared at him. ‘I am afraid that I do not understand. I …’
As the landau rocked gently along the dusty track his arm circled her waist and he pressed feverish kisses on her neck.
‘You shall have everything your heart desires, my love …’
She shrank away from him, comprehension flooding her shocked eyes. ‘Are you asking that I … that I become your cherie amour?’ she asked, the words strangling in her throat.
He laughed, the heat in his eyes hotter. ‘But of course. It will be a whole new world for you, Charlotte. You will have a maid of your own: Paris gowns, jewels …’
‘Tell the coachman to stop! Instantly!’ She was shaking, overcome with mortification.
He did as he was bid, imagining she wanted to enter his arms and enjoy his embrace without the diverting motion of the carriage.
The second the horses were reined to a halt, she leapt to her feet and opened the carriage door.
‘Charlotte! What is the matter? Where are you going?’
He sprang to his feet, starting after her. The carriage door slammed sharply on his hand and he screamed in pain. Charlotte was uncaring. Tears stung her eyes and choked her throat. Twice in the space of a few hours she had been treated as a lady of loose virtue. She began to run, heedless of Justin and his shouts. Never before had she felt so lonely; so isolated. She fitted in nowhere. Not with the society the Princess kept, nor with the pleasure-loving cocottes. Yet if she left Monte Carlo and the Princess’s employ, where could she go? Her heart beat rapidly as she ran down the dusty track. Her haste was unnecessary. No carriage tried to overtake her. Justin, furious at the damage done to his hand and the insult of her reaction to his proposal, had bad-temperedly ordered his coachman to continue on his way. The girl was foolish and deserved to live and die at the beck and call of cantankerous elderly females.
Fearfully Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. There was no one in pursuit. Gasping for breath she reduced her pace to a walk, wondering what to say when Princess Natalya enquired about her morning’s outing. She would tell the Princess nothing of the Comte de Valmy’s shameful behaviour. It would only arouse the Princess’s wrath and the thought of being the centre of attention of another scene was almost more than she could bear.
Hot and tired she stumbled down another incline and entered the Villa Ondine’s exotic gardens. The Princess was still in her room and Charlotte escaped thankfully to her own, sponging her face and drinking a calming glass of iced water. By the time the Princess summoned her for her afternoon promenade, she had regained her composure. The Comte would not trouble her again. He had made an error of judgment, as had she in consenting to drive with him. The incident was over: past. She even permitted herself a wry smile at the thought that she had believed his intentions were honourable and that she had been on the verge of receiving a proposal of marriage. Albeit one she had no intention of accepting.
The Princess still felt uncommonly fatigued and did not enquire after Charlotte’s carriage ride with the Comte. She had a pain in her right arm and a tightness in her chest that occupied all her attention. Seeing that she was unwell, Charlotte suggested that they remain at the villa, but the Princess tapped her cane impatiently, insisting that she had never in her life missed her daily walk and that she had no intention of beginning now.
The Yakovlev carriage which transported them from the villa to the boulevard overlooking the Port was summoned. The Princess entered it with difficulty, her breath rasping. A worried frown puckered Charlotte’s brow. The Princess’s exact age was a well-kept secret but she was almost certainly an octogenarian. The ruby collar she wore only emphasised her pallor. For once she was disinclined to talk. Charlotte quietly asked the driver to take extra care and to ensure that the horses did no more than walk at a sedate pace.
White lilies nodded their heads gracefully as the carriage passed. The twin-domed towers of the casino could be seen in the distance, golden in the sunshine. A yacht, flying the red ensign, was making for the harbour, waves creaming around its prow.
‘Are you sure you feel well enough to walk?’ Charlotte asked anxiously as the coachman stopped at his accustomed place.
‘Of course I am,’ the Princess snapped irritably. ‘A little breathlessness never hurt anyone.’ Another twinge of pain shot up her arm and she clenched her teeth. She couldn’t be ill now. Not until she had returned to St Petersburg and put her affairs in order.
She dismissed the coachman, sending him on to the Hotel de Paris with a message for Mademoiselle Bernhardt.
The palm-shaded boulevard was a favourite walking place of many of Monte Carlo’s rich and royal visitors. Today it was sparsely populated. Two ladies, delicately frilled parasols disguising their identity, strolled leisurely some distance away. An elderly gentleman puffed wreaths of cigar smoke into the air and studied the amethyst sea with contentment.
‘I think,’ the Princess said heavily, ‘it is about time that I saw Victor again.’
Victor was the Princess’s son: a gentleman rarely mentioned.
‘I am sure that is a very good idea,’ Charlotte said. She hated to see divisions in families and was sure the Prince was not as boorish as the Princess had led her to believe.
The Princess paused and stared unseeingly at the sea. ‘He is not so far away. He winters in Nice and this year has remained there.’
Charlotte felt a stab of shock. Nice was only a carriage ride away and yet the Prince had not once visited the Villa Ondine.
‘Perhaps tomorrow, when I feel stronger, I will make the journey and see him.’
‘If you really feel so unwell, Your Highness, could not a message be sent …?’
The Princess lurched heavily against her. Charlotte cried out, taking her weight.
‘Charlotte …’ The breath rasped in the Princess’s throat. She was no longer able to stand unaided. A wizened hand clawed at the collar of rubies, as if trying to wrest them from her throat. ‘Charlotte… I …’ Her knees buckled and Charlotte was no longer able to hold her upright. She pitched forward, black silk billowing around her frail figure.
With a moan of horror, Charlotte knelt at her side, removing the necklace with trembling, fevered fingers, loosening the bodice of the Princess’s gown at the throat, gazing frantically around for help. The two ladies were no longer discernible: the gentleman had gone.
‘Charlotte …’ The raisin-black eyes in their whitened mask held Charlotte’s.
‘Charlotte … Thank you …’ The breath gurgled in her throat. She choked, tried to speak once more, and then her head fell back against Charlotte’s arm and she was silent.
Help. She must get help. Tenderly she lowered the Princess’s head on to the unrelenting ground, and scrambled to her feet. It could be an age before the Yakovlev carriage returned. There had to be someone, somewhere, who could take the unconscious Princess speedily to a doctor.
She began to run along the boulevard in the direction of the Port. The white stallions trotted towards her, resplendent in scarlet harness, a spanking landau bowling in their wake. She almost sobbed in relief. Frenziedly she ran towards them.
‘Stop! Oh, please stop!’
There was a startled oath and then a command. The coachman reined in obediently.
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ The horses snorted and pawed the ground. Gasping, she almost fell against their sides.
A lithe figure leapt from the coach and seized hold of her shoulders. ‘What the devil is the matter?’
Once more Count Karolyi’s face was only inches from hers. ‘The Princess,’ she panted. ‘She has collapsed …’
In the heat haze, on the ground, the black silk shimmered. ‘Into the carriage,’ Sandor said tersely. ‘Quickly, Alphonse.’
His coachman did not need to be told twice. He flicked the reins and within seconds Sandor was kneeling at the side of the inert Princess.
‘We must get her to a doctor!’ Charlotte’s eyes were large and bright.
Without speaking, Sandor scooped the pathetically small figure into his arms and strode back to his landau.
‘Doctor Deslys,’ he ordered. ‘Fast!’
Charlotte leaned back against scarlet leather upholstery, feeling as if she were in the grip of a nightmare. The Princess’s head lolled against Sandor’s arm grotesquely. The landau sped heedlessly over the cobbles, between narrow lanes of golden-stoned houses, their balconies thick with bougainvillaea, their walls covered in jasmine. A brass plate decorated the residence of Dr Deslys.
Alphonse rapped on the door.
‘For God’s sake, man. Walk straight in,’ Sandor commanded tersely, a frightening expression on his face.
Alphonse did as he was bid. A maid hastened towards them and was brushed aside. An elderly, bespectacled gentleman hurried from his study and at the sight of Sandor with the Princess in his arms, opened his surgery door wide so that they might enter.
Sandor laid Princess Yakovleva on the doctor’s leather examination couch. Charlotte remained by the door, terrified of getting in the way her hands pressed tightly against her chest, a prayer on her lips.
The doctor felt the Princess’s pulse, opened the lid of one closed eye and sighed heavily. Almost without haste he adjusted his stethoscope and listened intently to her heart. Then he raised his head and shook it.
Fear drowned Charlotte. ‘What is it? A heart attack? A stroke? She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’
‘I am afraid, mademoiselle, that the lady is dead.’
Charlotte gazed disbelievingly from him to Sandor and then back to the lifeless figure on the couch.
‘No!’ The word was torn from her throat. ‘No! She can’t be dead!’
‘A brandy for mademoiselle,’ the doctor was saying. Sandor was moving towards her but she was uncaring. Her eyes were riveted on the ethereally calm features of Princess Yakovleva.
‘No! There must be a mistake!’ She stumbled forward and felt a strong hand support her arm. ‘Princess … Your Highness …’ The ruby ringed hand she took in hers was still and already cold. She sank to her knees, pressing it against her cheek, weeping unrestrainedly.
The brandy was proffered and ignored. Through a sea of grief she heard Dr Deslys ask Sandor if the deceased had been her mother. A serviceable masculine handkerchief was thrust into her hand. Gently, strong hands raised her to her feet.
‘There is nothing more you can do for her, Charlotte.’ He was looking down at her compassionately.
‘I loved her,’ Charlotte said helplessly, her eyes bright with pain.
His arm circled her shoulders. ‘I know, and the Princess knew. It is all that matters.’
Her head was cradled against the frilled linen of his shirt. Incredibly, she was content to let it stay there, crying in a way she had not cried since the death of her parents.
His strength seemed to surround and protect her. His arms were a haven she had no desire to leave. She could hear the strong beat of his heart and was aware that he was holding her with astounding tenderness.
She leaned against him, grateful for the comfort of his presence as he led her away from the surgery. The door was closed on the dead Princess. Maria, brought swiftly from the Villa Ondine by Sandor’s coachman, was standing in the hallway, ashen faced.
‘Oh, mademoiselle,’ she cried and Charlotte left Sandor’s arms and grasped Maria’s outstretched hands.
She remembered very little of the journey back to the villa. She had lost the person dearest to her in the whole world. There would be no more acid-tongued conversations; no more kindnesses; no more laughter. She was once more alone in the world. Penniless in an environment where paupers had no place. Where respectable employment was almost impossible to find. Only hours ago she had been offered the only financial safety a girl without family could hope to find in Monte Carlo. She had refused it then and she would refuse it now. Whatever happened, she would not abandon her honour and become a cocotte. She would return to England. Find employment in a respectable house. The prospect sank like lead on her heart. Respectable employment as a governess or companion in England was worlds away from the sun and the society to which she had grown accustomed in Monte Carlo. Her dazzling, brilliant world would have to be abandoned. There would be no more evenings in the glittering Salle Mauresque; no more hours of excitement as fortunes were staked in the Salon Privé.
She rose bleakly to her feet. A return to England would cost money. She had travelled to Monte Carlo at the Princess’s expense. Her gowns had been generously paid for by the Princess, as had every other item she owned. She had had no need of her salary and the Princess had retained it for safekeeping. Now there was no one she could approach who had the authority to pay her what was due. Her head ached. What would happen to the Princess’s body? Where would it be buried; and by whom?
Maria stepped out on to the darkened terrace.
‘Count Karolyi wishes to speak with you, mademoiselle.’
Charlotte turned to enter the lamplit room but he was already striding towards her.
In the moonlight his black hair had a blue sheen. The firm jaw and finely chiselled mouth were strangely comforting.
‘I have sent word of the Princess’s death to Prince Victor in Nice. I have also seen to it that the newspapers in London, Paris and St Petersburg are informed.’
‘Thank you.’
She looked up at him with sad, vulnerable eyes and he felt a surge of pity for her.
‘I have also arranged that the Princess’s body be brought to the villa to lie in state. The Princess expressed a wish many times to be buried in Monte Carlo and I am assuming that Prince Victor will accede to her request. Therefore I shall go ahead with the necessary arrangements.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ There was so much she wanted to say and could not for the tears that choked her throat.
‘You need rest,’ he said abruptly, the darkness hiding the concern in his eyes.
‘Yes.’
She had determined never to speak to him again but that had been before his kindness in Dr Deslys’ surgery. Now he was being kind again, offering to take the burden of the Princess’s death from her shoulders.
‘Goodnight.’ He could stay no longer. If he did so he would be unable to maintain his cool politeness. There was something at once innocent and paganly beautiful about her. She needed loving and cherishing and the temptation to undertake the task almost overcame him.
The abrasive lines of his mouth were bitter as he restrained himself. The imprint of her fingers had taken a long time to fade from his cheek and he had no desire to add to her distress by pressing on her attentions that were so patently unwelcome; attentions that could lead to nothing but disillusion.
Abruptly he took his leave of her, wondering as he did so what had taken place on her carriage ride with the Comte de Valmy. A deep frown furrowed his brow as he stepped into his carriage. Damn it to hell. It was none of his affair.
‘Madame Santillinos’,’ he rasped.
‘Yes sir.’ Obediently the coachman flicked the reins and the carriage pulled away from the Villa Ondine to Monte Carlo’s most notorious brothel.
Hours later, as dawn broke, he emerged from Madame Santillinos’ opulent and luxurious house of pleasure, his white frilled shirt open at the neck, his hair tousled, his eyes bleak. Dear God in heaven. Did the future hold nothing more for him? Was he condemned to spend the rest of his life seeking transitory affection from women who cared only for the gold in his pocket?
‘Faster!’ he urged the driver as the carriage sped along the perilous coast road. ‘Faster!’
The sins of the fathers are visited on the children, but it was not his unknown father’s sin that weighed so heavily on his heart and mind. It was the sin of his gay, foolish mother. The sin of the wife of Count Istvan Karolyi. He groaned, leaning back, eyes closed as the horses galloped at a suicidal pace. Istvan Karolyi had loved his erring wife. Had refused to let her endure the world’s censure. Instead he had accepted his wife’s bastard son as his own, and, with all the generosity of his great heart, had come to love him as if he were a son of his flesh. But not Sandor’s sister. Zara. Zara had been handed to the childless Prince and Princess Katzinsky and brother and sister had been parted for all their childhood.
On her deathbed his mother had been overcome by guilt and remorse. Not until then had he been aware that he had a twin sister: that he was not Count Karolyi’s son but the son of a handsome, flashing eyed, wandering gypsy. His agony had been terrible. Even to think of it caused beads of perspiration to dampen his forehead. To know he was not the son of the man he loved. A man he had called father from his youngest day. Not the rightful heir to Karolyi land, to the magnificent castle overlooking the carp-filled lake. He had thought he would die of grief and shame. Instead, his pretty, heedless mother had died and it was by her deathbed that he met his sister, Zara.
Her bewilderment, her anguish, was as deep as his and, drawn by bonds of love and circumstance, they had clung together and in her dependence on him he had gained strength.
Zara. She had kept her secret as he had kept his. She had married and lived in fear that her husband would discover the truth of her parentage. Within days she would be in Monte Carlo: the one person in the world who knew him for what he was. Her love was the bed-rock of his life.
Pebbles flew as the beating hoofs raced perilously along the barely discernible track. The carriage rocked on its springs. Sandor was uncaring.
He had pleaded with Count Karolyi to be allowed to forsake the name that was not rightfully his. Istvan Karolyi had adamantly refused. He had no sons—Sandor had become his son. He had taught him to ride, to fish to shoot. His lands would pass to Sandor. The alternative was unthinkable.
All through his youth Sandor had determined that, when the moment came he would do the honourable thing. He would disclose to Istvan Karolyi’s next of kin, Count Povzervslay, that he was the true heir to the Karolyi lands. Only with maturity had he realised why the noble-hearted man who had reared him had desired otherwise.
Jozsef Povzervslay was a debaucher and a sadist of the worst kind. His thousands of tenants lived in fear of him. Blood flowed freely on his land. Emperor Franz Josef refused to receive him at court. Countess Povzervslay committed suicide. His daughters lived in abject fear, pale and dull-eyed.
Povzervslay blood had been tainted for generations. His father had displayed the same perverted vices and Istvan Karolyi had been well aware that the son had followed in the father’s footsteps. It was his dying wish that Karolyi land and tenants would never come under the stewardship of such a man. Sandor had promised. Istvan Karolyi had died and Sandor, son of an unknown gypsy, had inherited his title and his wealth.
The lathered horses clattered into the drive of the Villa Beausoleil. Sandor flung himself from the carriage, throwing his cloak at the footman who hurried deferentially forward, striding into the lamplit salon and pouring himself a large brandy.
There had been a time when he believed he could live with the secret. That he could marry, raise sons of his own, exercise just stewardship over his tenants. Those dreams had faded as he had embarked on his first love affaire and realised that, though such a secret could be kept from the world, it could not be kept from the woman who would share his heart, his life, his bed. And never yet, among the princesses, countesses and cocottes had he met a woman he had known would love him just as passionately when she knew that the object of her affections was not the son of Count Istvan Karolyi, but the bastard child of a nameless gypsy. That if Jozsef Povzervslay’s son grew up without the tainted blood of his father, the vast Karolyi estates would be handed over to him when his father died. That, marrying a man of wealth and title, their days could be concluded married to a man stripped of his name and bereft of his wealth. Such a woman did not exist and Sandor had long since abandoned the search for her. At thirty-two he indulged only in countless affaires with ladies safely married.
He drained his glass, lifting the decanter again, pouring generously. Irina, Vicomtesse de Salbris, had not been married. She had been a pretty young widow and before he had been aware of it she had fallen in love with him – and died.
He hurled the still-full glass across the room, shattering it against a mirror, golden droplets drenching the carpet.
God in heaven. He had had no option but to break off the affaire. And he could not indulge in another, especially with an English girl with lustrous lashed green eyes and a mouth made to be kissed.
He roared for his valet to pull off his boots. Why the devil he had kissed her in the first place he did not know. Nor why, once kissing her, he had wanted to continue more than anything else he had wanted in his life. His eyes glittered. Princess Yakovleva’s affection for Mademoiselle Grainger had not been misplaced. Charlotte’s grief at the death of her elderly and often querulous employer had been genuine and deep. She was a young lady of many commendable qualities. Not only was she undeniably beautiful, she was courageous, and her heart was warm and loving. As no doubt Justin de Valmy had already discovered.
He dismissed the valet irritably and sank into a leather winged chair, staring moodily through the window at the dark shapes of pines. He was still there when the night sky pearled to dawn and the sea began to take on the first warm hints of day.
When the Count left, Charlotte walked back into the villa and shivered. The rooms were empty and desolate. She felt like an intruder, yet she could not leave. Not until the Princess was buried and not until she had been paid the money owing to her. How long would it take Prince Victor to arrive from Nice? One day? Two? Heavy hearted she went to bed and lay for long hours, open-eyed in the darkness.