‘Exactly what you wanted him to think, in fact,’ Elizabeth says.

Philip sends her a glimmering smile. ‘Quite. We were lucky he fell for it. We lived to fight another day.’

‘T-thanks to you,’ says the King, whose stammer still surfaces occasionally even when he is relaxed.

Philip holds up a self-deprecating hand. ‘You don’t want to listen to Uncle Dickie, sir. You know yourself how it works on a ship. It’s never just one man’s idea, especially not under circumstances like that. You don’t have time to think, just to act.’

‘Well, we’re very grateful to you for doing both. What’s next for you, Philip?’

‘I’m heading up to Newcastle, of all places, I believe. They’re commissioning a new destroyer, Whelp, and I’m to oversee the finishing touches before she’s ready for active service. After that, I hope I’ll see some action again.’

Chapter 8

Philip’s footsteps echo along the stone corridors as he gropes his way back to his room later that night. Kicking off his shoes, he yawns hugely and wrenches at his collar so he can fall backwards onto the bed. Whatever other changes the war has foisted on Windsor Castle, it hasn’t affected the excellent wine cellar.

The evening has gone off quite well, he decides, pleased. The King seems disposed to like him, although he may have to put in a bit more effort with the Queen, just as Uncle Dickie warned.

More importantly, he has made some progress with Elizabeth. He didn’t miss the admiring way she looked at him when he was talking about that nerve-wracking night on Wallace. Uncle Dickie will be pleased with him.

Best not to push it, Philip muses. He will go back to London tomorrow. There are still a few days to go until Christmas and he doesn’t fancy spending them on his best behaviour at Windsor. He and his cousin, David Milford Haven, are invited for Christmas itself, so they can come back together on Christmas Eve. In the meantime, there will be parties and maybe a chance to catch up with Osla, although he senses a certain cooling there.

He will need to go carefully with Elizabeth. Isolated at Windsor, she is unlikely to pick up on any gossip, but still it behoves him to be discreet, Philip realises. He has seen how quickly she withdraws, like a snail shrinking into its shell at the slightest brush of familiarity, but he is sure he can coax her out, given time.

Philip thinks about the fur slipping down her arm, the blood running warm beneath her skin. How tempting it had been to reach out and adjust the stole for her, to take the opportunity to trail his fingers over her shoulder.

Just as well he hadn’t tried it, he reflects wryly. She might be disposed to admire him, but she would need to feel a lot more than that before he would be allowed any closer.

Courting Elizabeth may turn out to be harder task than Philip thought, but then, he has always liked a challenge.

***

‘It’s bloody freezing,’ Philip tells David, raising his voice above the sound of the engine. They’re in his beloved MG, heading back to Windsor Castle. It’s Christmas Eve and a hard frost has left the countryside edged in glittering white. Philip settles his sunglasses one-handed on his nose. The sky is a thin, washed blue, the light low and glaring.

‘Everywhere’s bloody freezing at the moment,’ David grumbles. His cousin likes his comforts.

‘But Windsor Castle takes cold to a whole new level. It’s probably freezing in a heatwave. Something to do with all that stone.’

In spite of his complaints about the cold, Philip is in a cheerful mood. The last few days have been fun: plenty of socialising, plenty of drinking and solitude when he needs it at Chester Street, where he sleeps happily on a camp bed in the dining room and Mrs Cable, the rough-tongued cook, spoils him.

The Mountbattens’ home is a haven, and so much more comfortable than staying in Kensington Palace with his cousin and their grandmother, the formidable Dowager Duchess of Milford Haven, who is grand enough not to care what anyone else thinks but has plenty to say about what she thinks of her grandsons. She has ears like a bat, David claims, and no matter how quietly they try to tiptoe past her apartment, she always calls them in with her harsh smoker’s voice to berate them for their lateness or lack of consideration while the ash trembles on the end of her inevitable cigarette only to fall onto her skirts and be brushed impatiently away.

‘I don’t care how cold it is, anywhere would be better than staying with Grandmama,’ says David, following his own train of thought. ‘I tried to sneak Robyn in the other night. I thought there was no way Grandmama would be awake, but I swear she took up the carpets deliberately to listen out for that creaking floorboard.’

‘You should know where it is by now.’

‘I ended up shoving poor old Robyn into the broom cupboard.’ David sighs. ‘I wish we could get Lynden Manor back. You wouldn’t catch Mama making a fuss about bringing a girl home.’

Philip gives a crack of laughter. David’s mother, Nada Milford Haven, is notorious for her affairs with men and women. She is exotically beautiful and glamorous and generous, one of the most interesting and intriguing people Philip knows. It was Nada and her husband, his uncle George, who first gave him a home when he was a small boy in need of one and Philip adores her.

Lynden Manor has been requisitioned like so many other stately homes for the duration of the war, but at least David will be able to claim it again when the war is over. Philip will have nowhere to go home to.

‘Then you should enjoy Windsor Castle. The wine is good too.’

‘And what about the company?’ David swivels in the passenger seat to study Philip’s profile. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Who?’ As if he doesn’t know who David means.

‘Elizabeth. She was just a little girl the last time I saw her. All tweedy skirts and sensible shoes with socks. Has she grown up?’

Philip changes down a gear as they come up to a sharp bend. ‘She has,’ he confirms with a sidelong grin.

‘And?’

‘And … she’s nice.’

‘Nice?’ David scoffs. ‘I didn’t think you liked nice girls.’

‘I like Elizabeth. I do,’ he insists when his cousin rolls his eyes. ‘She’s not like other girls. She’s serious. She holds herself back. I don’t think she lets many people close.’

‘Should be a good match for you then,’ says David with a wry look.

‘Quite.’ A long, straight stretch of road comes up and Philip puts his food down, enjoying the feel of the little car beneath his hands. The hedgerows flicker past and the road is striped by the low winter sun. ‘She’s still very young, though.’

‘Is she a looker? It’s hard to tell in photographs.’

‘She is when she smiles. She’s got lovely skin. A nice figure. Very blue eyes.’

‘Sounds promising. I might have a crack at her myself. Cut you out.’

‘Ha! You wouldn’t stand a chance, David,’ says Philip, grinning.

‘Why not, pray? I have plenty of charm and address when I choose to use it.’ Which was, of course, all too true.

‘Forget it. You’re not a prince.’

‘I would be if George V hadn’t made my grandfather renounce his royal title.’ David settles back into his seat, unfazed by the speed at which they were travelling. ‘What a fuss that must have caused, the transformation of the princes of Battenberg into mere Mountbattens. No wonder Grandmama never got over it. Mind you, I’m damned glad not to be saddled with a Jerry name now we’re at war again.’