Arthur Edwards still remembers the exact moment the sky betrayed a shy teenager. He had been a royal photographer for only a handful of days when he set out to find the quiet nursery-school teacher everyone in the newsroom was whispering about. Armed with a single camera and more curiosity than experience, he knocked on doors across Pimlico until he landed in front of a pastel-painted preschool and a headmistress willing to help. Diana—nineteen, plaid skirt, soft-spoken—agreed to walk two toddlers to the local park so he could take “a few nice pictures for the papers.” Nice, however, turned into notorious the instant the sun climbed above the trees and lit her cotton skirt like a photographer’s softbox, outlining legs she never intended to display. Edwards pressed the shutter once, twice, then felt the little click that would echo for decades.
