‘Of course.’ Philip steps back. ‘I’ll see you later, I hope?’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth stretches into an artificial smile. ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it.’

Chapter 4

Uncle Dickie must have got it wrong, Philip thinks as Elizabeth turns away. He’s seen little evidence that the princess is ‘very taken’ with him. She strikes him as stiff and serious … and yet … and yet, he is sure that he caught an intriguing flash or two of warmth and humour, quickly buttoned down.

It might be pleasing to try and coax out that side of her, he muses as he strides along the dark, frigid corridors.

Elizabeth has grown up, that is for sure, but she is still very young. She isn’t a beauty like Osla, Philip thinks, but she has a curvaceous figure, wonderful skin and her eyes are extraordinary – a clear, true blue. And when she was on stage, her smile lit up the Waterloo Chamber. Philip finds himself hoping he can make her smile like that again.

He stops at the end of the corridor. Left or right? The corridors in this part of the castle seem to go on forever, firmly closed doors on either side. Windsor Castle is subject to blackout regulations as much as anyone else and there is only the occasional, dim bulb to light his way after he has brushed aside the offer of an elderly footman to carry his bag.

‘I’ve got a pair of hands,’ he said shortly.

The footman looked offended, but he must have been over seventy by Philip’s reckoning. Is he supposed to walk empty-handed along miles of corridors while an old man struggles with his bag?

Only sheer stiff-necked pride prevents Philip retracing his steps to ask the footman for help after all.

When he eventually finds his room – HRH Prince Philip of Greece is printed by the door – he unpacks his bag and lays his meagre wardrobe out on the bed. Thank God for uniform, he thinks, picking up his much-darned socks with a grimace and tossing them onto the chest of drawers with his underwear. His dinner jacket is shiny with age and the trousers patched. Whichever footman has the dubious pleasure of looking after him will not be impressed.

Shifting the clothes aside, he throws himself down onto the bed and lights a cigarette.

Well, the country is at war, he reasons as he blows a circle of smoke into the chilly air. They can’t expect him to turn up in an immaculate outfit. There is no way he can afford new clothes even if he could get the clothing coupons. The royal family will have to take him as he is.

It’s not as if Windsor Castle is the lap of luxury either. It might be imposing from the outside but its thick stone walls make it unforgivingly cold inside and with its treasures in storage it feels more like a grim fortress than a royal palace. The chandeliers have been taken down along with the great paintings. The state rooms are shrouded in dustsheets or converted into offices. No fires are allowed in the castle bedrooms, he’s been told, and all he has for light is a single, flickering electric lightbulb. Between the blackout and rationing and the need to set an example of sharing the country’s misery, the conditions are far less comfortable than at the Mountbattens’ flat.