‘That’s Villiers for you.’ He laughed. ‘He’ll do anything to get ahead, not to mention the money.’
‘Money? He acts as if he’s lord of the manor.’
‘His family are gentry but broke. He married money, but his wife’s father won’t let him near the family fortune. She owns a country estate and a London flat, and he’s allowed to live there, but he has to make his own living. As a result, he’s become a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the royal world.’
‘And I’ve been landed with him.’ Miranda huffed.
‘What have you done to your hand?’ Sinclair peered down at her paper cut, which had reopened, a trickle of blood coming down her wrist. He took out a clean, ironed handkerchief. ‘Let me have a look. I’m pretty good with first aid.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’ll be fine,’ she snapped, but he insisted, pulling up her hand, wrapping the handkerchief around it.
‘That’ll stop the bleeding.’ He tied a very efficient-looking knot and held it up in the air. ‘Keep it above your head for a few minutes.’
‘You’re quite the nurse. Where did you learn first aid?’
‘Another thing I picked up in the war.’
Again, his mysterious war work.
‘What did you do?’ she asked, but he swerved around the subject, explaining how he’d once performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on an old man in a Viennese café.
‘So you were dropped behind enemy lines – a spy, perhaps, with allyour languages?’ Her eyes narrowed on him. ‘How much more interesting you are than you appear, Sinclair.’
He neither agreed nor disagreed, just mumbled something about going where he had to, doing his bit for the war. How boringly modest of him. She’d like him far more if he’d give her racy tales of poisoning Nazis’ drinks and smuggling Allied airmen across occupied Europe.
Outside, the city became the suburbs, London’s mass barely dwindling into countryside before they entered the cobbled lanes of Windsor, heading up to the great castle.
As they got out of the car in the central quadrangle, she gazed at the grey medieval fortress. ‘This place looks like it was built hundreds of years ago.’
‘More like a thousand.’ Sinclair led her to the great double doors. ‘The Normans built it after they invaded in 1066.’
Gothic, square-topped towers were capped with battlements and lookout points. Around the central green, arched leaded windows lined the lengthy walls, above them a series of long horizontal openings.
‘What are they for?’ Miranda asked.
‘Archers,’ he said simply. ‘Shall we go in?’
Inside was a vaulted vestibule. Dark beams held up a ceiling painted with cherubs among the clouds; the walls were covered with red silk, dotted with portraits of kings and queens from eras long past.
‘Don’t you think it’s all a bit ridiculous?’ Miranda mused. ‘Someone wears a crown and has all this power?’
He shrugged, grimacing at a particularly grumpy Tudor. ‘It makes more sense if you’ve grown up with it. These days, the royals are largely ceremonial. The monarchy gives us an extra person to do all the woolly stuff, you know, entertaining foreign royals, visiting charities and factories, patting people on the back. I gather they’re also very good with Americans.’ He gave her a sidelong grin.
Chuckling, they walked on through various dark, richly decorated rooms into a large hallway, and Sinclair led the way up a grand staircase.
When they reached the upper part of the stairs, voices could be heard, and as they turned onto the great landing, a group of three or four people headed towards them.
And the woman in the centre was the queen.
Miranda felt herself jerk to a halt.
But Sinclair gently took her arm and guided her to the side of the corridor.
Smaller than she appeared on the television, Elizabeth was dressed in a moss-green jacket and matching skirt, fitted perfectly. Over one forearm, she carried a well-made handbag.
Yet there seemed a lot more to her than just that. She was pretty – beautiful even. In this courtly setting, away from the informality that Miranda had seen in the dressing room, the queen had a sense of gravity: careful, contained, confident.
And then, to Miranda’s utter surprise, she stopped right in front of them. ‘It’s Mr Sinclair, isn’t it?’
