Philip and Mike have barely finished their martinis when there is a stir at the door. They look up and Mike’s jaw drops. Philip rather suspects he looks equally dazzled. A woman of a certain age is standing there, accepting the attention as her due. She is striking rather than beautiful, svelte and superbly elegant in a tight-waisted pale blue suit and a chic hat set at precisely the right angle. She has a presence that cannot be ignored: having cast a dazzling smile around the room, she gives a gracious nod of acknowledgement and her gaze settles on Philip who without thinking gets to his feet. The smile warms and she glides over to their table.

‘Oh, how like your father you are, dear boy,’ she greets him in a husky voice. ‘I would have known you anywhere.’

‘Comtesse …’

‘No, no, you must call me Andrée,’ she insists. ‘We are practically family, are we not?’ Her gaze turns to Mike, who actually blushes. ‘And who is this handsome fellow?’

Before Philip quite knows what has happened, she has settled them on either side of her, summoned a waiter without appearing to lift so much as an eyebrow and ordered a bottle of champagne.

‘Because your papa would want us to celebrate meeting at last. There will be time to be sad later.’

Her charm was a tangible thing. It was impossible not to like her. Philip was mesmerised by the husky laugh, the humorous lilt in her voice. She was beautiful, he decided. In her fifties, perhaps, but aging so gracefully that the faint lines only added to the character of her face.

After joining them in a glass of champagne, Mike made his excuses and discreetly left them to it.

‘What a good friend he is,’ the comtesse comments before she turns back to Philip. ‘But I confess, I am glad to be alone with you so we can get to know each other properly. I have heard so much of you from Andrea. He was so very proud of you.’

Halfway through the bottle, she and Philip are getting on like the proverbial house on fire, and Philip is feeling decidedly tipsy. ‘I understand now why my father was so happy to stay here in Monte Carlo,’ he says. He has a feeling he might be looking a bit owlish but doesn’t care. ‘If he had you for company, Comtesse, he must have been a happy man.’

‘Ah, Philip …’ She pats his cheek. ‘You have his charm! But you know, your father was not a happy man.’

‘I remember him as happy,’ Philip says stubbornly. ‘He was always joking and making everyone laugh. He had a real ability to see the funny side of life.’

‘That, yes.’ The comtesse shrugs in the way only a Frenchwoman can. ‘But he wasn’t happy. He was in exile. How could he be completely happy when he could not go home?’

‘But it had been years since he was in Greece!’

‘It was still his home, and no one can be truly happy if they cannot go home.’

‘That rather depends on whether you have a home to go to, doesn’t it?’ Philip asks and she looks at him closely.

‘Where is home to you?’

‘I don’t have one,’ he says. ‘I haven’t had a home since my parents fled Crete and I was barely more than a baby.’

The Comtesse shakes her head. ‘Then you must find a home, Philip. Find a place you can belong and be happy.’

Later, she takes him to the villa where she is staying and shows him into a room where his father’s effects are laid out on a bed. ‘I will leave you alone,’ she says with a glance at his face.

Philip walks over to the bed. Andrea’s gold signet ring is there. He slides it onto his little finger where it sits, a cool, unfamiliar weight, a part of his father that is now a part of him.

There is an ivory shaving brush, some books, some pictures. Clothes, mostly motheaten and heavily darned. It is not much to show for a life, let alone for a life as the son of a king. Philip’s chest aches as he touches the items gently and remembers his father, the chuckle in his voice, the kindness and the genial charm.

Had he been unhappy? Now that the Comtesse has pointed it out, Philip knows it was true. Andrea had had a wife, admittedly eccentric, and a large and happy family, but they were never enough. Oh, he had loved them, but perhaps none of them could make up for the loss of his home.

You must find a home, Philip. Find a place you can belong and be happy.

Andrea had loved his son, but the truth was that he had handed over responsibility to the Mountbattens, Georgie and Dickie. Could he do any better as a father? Philip wonders.

What would that be like, to have a son? To have a family of his own? A home?

If he marries Elizabeth, he could have all of that.

His son, if he has one, could be King of England.

He has to ask Elizabeth to marry him first.

Enough drifting, Philip decides abruptly. His sisters are getting on with their lives. It is time he knuckles down and does the same.

Chapter 24

Buckingham Palace, May 1946

‘We haven’t seen much of Philip lately.’ The Queen pours another cup of coffee and glances with studied casualness at Elizabeth who is gazing abstractedly out of the window.

Sunshine is pouring into the breakfast room, striping the mahogany table and making the silver lids on the jam pots flash. Outside, the sky is a soft clear blue. After a disappointingly cool start to spring, the air has warmed over the past few days and the last leaves on the trees in the palace garden have unfurled in a fresh flourish of green. Elizabeth is wishing that she were at Windsor. It is a perfect day for a ride.

Or to spend with Philip. He might drive her down to Coppins where Marina is always so relaxed and welcoming and you’re allowed to curl up on a sofa with your feet tucked up beneath you. Elizabeth likes being there, with Philip lounging in an armchair and the dogs’ paws twitching as they sleep. It feels as if that is what a home should be like.

But Philip isn’t here.

‘Lilibet.’ Margaret nudges her beneath the table with her foot. ‘You’re daydreaming again.’

‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Elizabeth picks up her knife and resumes buttering her toast. ‘What was that, Mummy?’

‘I was just saying that Philip hasn’t been around as much.’

Elizabeth doesn’t miss the hopeful note in the Queen’s voice. Her parents would like it if she lost interest in Philip.

‘He’s in France at the moment.’

Philip has written to her about his visit to his sisters in Germany, but Elizabeth decides not to share that with her mother. His German relatives are a sore point with the Queen. He has told her about his meeting with the Comtesse de la Bigne, too, and the villa where his father died. He described the bougainvillaea scrambling over the terrace and the heady smell of mimosa. He has told her that Prince Andrea left debts of over £17,000, seven-tenths of which is mine, he added wryly. I am afraid it is not much of an inheritance.

Elizabeth does not care about his inheritance, but she understands that Philip might. Niggling at the back of her mind is the fear that he might use his poverty as an excuse to back away.

‘Still?’ The Queen sniffs. ‘It can’t take that long to sort out his father’s affairs, surely? It’s not as if Andrea had anything to leave.’

‘Yes, still,’ Elizabeth says shortly. ‘Margaret, please could you pass the marmalade?’