His last act was to walk his pet and it took authorities several days to figure out who the old bachelor really was.
It's a touching story of a man who could have pulled rank, even pursued an easy life riding on the coat-tails of his royal lineage but instead he opted to enjoy life his way and never bored his mates to death by disclosing his true identity.
Old Nick had apparently made his way to Australia from Europe in 1967 and worked in Sydney until he retired seven years ago.
As many Australian Grey Nomads do he then hitched up his wagon, in Old Nick's case a camper van and went bush.
In Katherine the camper van had mechanical troubles so, he cashed it in for a car and stayed put.
Once the authorities had sifted through Old Nick's life and confirmed he was a member of the Romanov family, word went out to those in higher circles and among the 50 mourners who came to his funeral service were officials from the Danish, Russian and Northern Territory governments.
I reckon it's a fair bet Old Nick never had a regret in the world about the way he chose to live.
Unmarried, with no dependants, a faithful pooch, a pocket handkerchief home to clean and tidy and all day to do what you want.
Sounds like heaven to me, although having said that I will cover my tracks by going on record here to say I wouldn't trade my loving wife and kids, cat or home to be in the same position but if I was single ... umm, good question.
There is a streak of reclusive blood that runs through my family. My paternal grandfather was a bit of a shy dog.
He hated being photographed and could be relied on to be the one at the very back of a group with only his hat showing.
He hated going into town and when necessity forced him into socialising he would take the long way to the pub, circumventing the town centre to arrive at the pub's back door by bicycle having peddled several kilometres further than he would have done taking the most direct route.
That didn't stop him from enjoying a beer and he liked visiting the homes of close friends even though they reckon he could only talk of one thing, fruit.
He lived for his small fruit farm and the conversation on a night out consisted of three associated topics, gooseberries, raspberries and black currants.
I was told by relatives who could remember my grandfather in his heyday that he was like a bear with a sore head on rainy days. He would pace the floor, back and forth, annoyed the weather was keeping him off the land and away from the joy he felt being surrounded with his crops.
That streak of reclusiveness emerged in a somewhat watered down version in my own father, also a grower.
Dad was a bit more outgoing but loved his own company and hence lived out a reasonably long retirement happy as a lark in his garden.
My mother hardly realised he had retired to live a life inside.
She had to go find him at lunchtime to get him to wash up for a meal and when the sun was low in the sky his silhouette could be seen making its way to the house clutching a shovel or a garden fork.
Proof the reclusive streak was never far away was when I asked my dad one day who in the past he would liked to have been.
The answer was, on reflection pretty predictable.
Robinson Crusoe, he replied.
