‘Peter! What a lovely offer. We are going to the station, if you could drop us there?’

‘Duchess’s orders. She told me to take you all the way home.’

‘The Duchess? But we live in Dunfermline – it’s a very long drive.’

‘The Duchess insisted. I am not allowed to take no for an answer.’

Her parents were watching closely. Maggie seemed in awe, but Robert was immediately suspicious.

‘Young man, I am Marion’s stepfather.’

Peter stood taller. ‘Sir, I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Jackson. If you’d care to follow me to the car, I can get you home toot sweet.’

Maggie was uncharacteristically agog with silence.

Peter gave Maggie a smart neck bow. ‘And this lady must be your sister.’

‘Get away with you,’ she whispered.

Marion smiled. ‘Mother, meet Peter Jackson. Peter, this is my mother, Maggie.’

‘Your mum? Never.’ He opened the back door. ‘I am at your service,’ he said, helping a bemused Maggie into the car and pulling a tartan blanket over her knees. ‘Her Majesty has a rug for her knees, so why shouldn’t you, ma’am?’

Maggie gasped. ‘And you know my daughter?’

‘Know her? She’s like a sister to me. I drive her and the little ’uns forwards and backwards between London and Windsor, all the time.’

Maggie pursed her lips. ‘She never tells me anything.’

Jackson tapped his nose. ‘That’s the way the family like it.’ He turned to Robert. ‘Now, sir, would you like to sit up front with me? While the ladies watch the world go by, you and me can have a chat.’

Robert agreed readily. ‘An Austin, eh? How does she handle?’

‘We have got eighty-odd miles to put her through her paces.’ Jackson grinned. ‘Ask me anything you like as we go.’

Watching from an open edge of the beer tent was the man Marion had asked to let her through the crowd.

He’d heard Princess Elizabeth call out her name – Crawfie, was it? What a strange name – and he’d seen the Duchess’s subtle acknowledgement of her.

He had examined her closely after that.

She was not a great beauty, perhaps, but there was something about her face that caught his attention.

And whoever she was, she warranted a royal car. Interesting.

He finished his whisky, wiped his moustache and lit a cigarette. Who the hell was she? Maybe he’d ask around.

Picking up his hat, he turned to the bar man dismantling the makeshift pub. ‘I’ll be off now, David.’

‘Take it easy, Major Buthlay,’ came the reply.

Chapter Ten

145 Piccadilly, February 1934

‘Come on, Crawfie. You must stamp and paw the ground while you are waiting for me to make a delivery.’ Princess Elizabeth was playing her favourite game. ‘Now, you be a good horse while I drop this parcel off for old Mr Buggins.’

Crawfie stamped a foot obligingly and whinnied. The air so cold that the streams of breath from her nostrils were exactly like a delivery horse’s.