Murder Most Royal

Her grandson’s general air of bonhomie reminded her somewhat of herself when one of Philip’s letters arrived after the war. It was cheering to see him so happy. She had never doubted the essential, transformative effect of love.

Rozie was woken by the alarm at 7 a.m. Heavy curtains blocked out the sky, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She needed a pee and a drink of water. She needed to be elsewhere. She probably shouldn’t have brought that second bottle of champagne up to the room last night.

As she sat up slowly to examine the extent of her hangover, a heavy arm threw itself across her from the other side of the bed.

‘I have to,’ she said, remembering the late-night text she had received from Sir Simon. ‘You, do too. You’re the one who set the alarm, remember?’

‘Yes, but it’s so comfortable.’ The owner of the arm had the same peevish stubbornness of her sister when Rozie used to try and wake her up to go running in the mornings.

‘Prince Philip’ll be expecting you.’

‘I can dress very fast. I’m sure we’ve got twenty minutes to spare.’

‘I can dress fast too, but I’ve got to get back to my room, remember?’

‘Borrow something of mine,’ he grumbled. ‘We’re the same kind of size.’ He nuzzled her shoulder, but she wouldn’t be persuaded.

It was tempting, though. Henry Marshal-Ward was a captain in the Coldstream Guards, fit in every sense, with a cushy staff job as a temporary equerry to the Queen.

Rozie didn’t have time for a full-on boyfriend and Henry didn’t come with strings attached, so occasional hook-ups suited them both. Especially here, where he had a room inside the main house, within drunken staggering distance of the servants’ hall last night, while she was billeted in the overflow accommodation on the estate, half a mile down the road. However, royal shoot attire was very strict, even for observers like her, and it didn’t include black lace bodycon party dresses or a boyfriend’s borrowed tracksuit. She needed to go and change.

Sir Simon’s drunken text from the night before suggested that he, too, would be nursing a hangover this morning. He’d been talking to one of the ghillies in Balmoral, who had heard on the grapevine that the Sandringham shoot would contain some friends and neighbours of the family, to make up for missing royals:

Rozie reached over to switch on the light.