‘What a morning!’ Miranda began. ‘I have a new boss. Do you know a Mr Villiers?’
‘Villiers, eh?’ A smirk crept over Caroline’s face. ‘He’s one of the royal aides – not the most reliable man in court.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Let’s just say he’s not very keen on hard work. He’s friends with Philip’s equerry and knows how to provide the kind of good time they used to have in the navy – you know, excessive drinking, feasting, debauching, half-naked girls on tap, that kind of thing.’
Miranda recalled his lingering glances over her body. ‘Nauseating!’
‘Absolutely. But better to have him as a boss than working for one of the sticklers.’
‘Sticklers?’
‘Sticklers for rules and tradition. They’re the men trying to impress the chief stickler of them all, the queen’s private secretary, Mr Lascelles.’ She pronounced the name to rhyme withtassels,like he was a feathery ornament and not a curmudgeon who drove fear into every crevice of palace life. ‘He controls everything behind the scenes, like a glowering puppet master. He advised the old king, and together withChurchill and the Queen Mother, he aims for total control over the young queen.’
‘I heard that Elizabeth didn’t even have a say in her own coronation gown.’ Miranda carefully manoeuvred the conversation. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘I’m there at every fitting, and I have to say that it’s magnificent!’
‘What colour is it? What kind of fabric?’
Caroline lowered her voice. ‘It’s pure white silk – the Queen Mother wants all the women to be in white, you see. There’s more than a dozen ladies involved, if you include the maids of honour, the canopy bearers, and the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret.’ Caroline frowned, suddenly uncertain. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? It’s supposed to be completely secret.’
‘Of course not,’ Miranda quickly assured her.
Then she said the one thing Miranda had been dreading. ‘There’s a rumour one of the staff is talking to the press. One of the American papers is reporting all kinds of things.’
Controlling a fluster of nerves, Miranda pasted a look of shock on her face. ‘How awful! I can’t imagine who would do that.’ She put on her nicest smile. ‘But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m the soul of discretion.’
For a moment, Caroline seemed to think about it, but then she glanced at Betty, holding court at the other end of the table, and leaned forward to whisper, ‘There’ll be a fitting next week. I’ll see if I can sneak you in.’
Miranda could hardly believe her ears! Tempering her enthusiasm, she replied, ‘That’ll be wonderful, just the thing to get me away from my dismal office and the procession.’
‘Talking of which,’ Caroline said, ‘there’s a carriage rehearsal in Hyde Park on Saturday, if you’d like to come along with me and my daughter. You can get to see the carriages close up before the big day.’
Eager to please, Miranda replied, ‘What a lovely idea!’
What better way to secure Caroline’s offer for her to get a peek at the most-talked-about gown in the world.
BACK AT HER DESKand fuelled by her progress with seeing the gown, Miranda decided to tackle O’Hara’s other requests: a security map of the coronation route and a list of groups who could potentially sabotage the coronation. From Hilda, she’d discovered that these were kept in a large cabinet in the minister’s boardroom – too risky to sneak inside, as the room was busy with meetings.
Which is why Miranda decided that there was nothing for it but to work late. Once everyone had left, she’d only have to bypass the cleaners to get inside. Another job would be completed, and just think how she could make O’Hara eat his words.
But she had to tread carefully.
She’d overheard the men in her office talking about an infiltrator. Somehow the British press had picked up on J. Marshall’s article in theNew York Gazette,and Miranda’s next article about the queen’s daily routine was bound to up the search for the perpetrator.
She hadn’t realized quite how quickly the pressure would begin.
As evening fell, the main office began to empty, and Miranda waited for the last of the men to leave before slowly putting her files away.
It should be easy. If the minister’s door was locked, well, every self-respecting journalist in Manhattan knew how to pick a lock, Miranda included. The maids cleaned the offices in the evening, but they’d be easy to avoid, wouldn’t they?
Just as she got up, a sound came from the door, and there was Sinclair, looking smart in a black evening suit.
That was all she needed.
‘Miss Miller?’ He stopped abruptly as he saw her. ‘What are you doing here?’
