Despite his fatigue, Adam was wakeful. He’d had enough sleep, and he would much rather savor the feel of his wife in his arms. She had fallen asleep immediately with her head on his shoulder, tired by her long night and difficult interview with that dolt Burke. Thank God Adam had been able to summon enough energy to protect her.
Most of her luminous blond hair was pinned back demurely, but the strands that had escaped were silky to his touch. The memory of her glowing in the lamplight when he woke the night before was enough to make him wish he was strong enough to be a proper husband.
It would be a great waste if his memory didn’t return. He wanted to recall every detail of how they met. Their first kiss. Their wedding night.
He even wanted to remember the pain of having to leave her. For that matter, where had he been and why had he left?
He released his breath in a sigh. All in good time. He bent and kissed the top of her head. If his memory never returned, they would just have to make new memories.
Chapter Six
Glasgow
Randall gazed out the post chaise window as they rattled through the dense and teeming city. “I didn’t know Glasgow was so large.”
“It’s not so big as London, but the city is home to some of the greatest merchants and manufacturers in Britain,” Kirkland said. “And busier than a hive of hungry bees.”
“Your accent is sliding toward Scottishness,” Masterson said with interest.
“’Tis only natural,” Kirkland said with deliberate broadness. “But if you think I sound Scottish, wait till you hear the average Glaswegian. You won’t even know they’re speaking English.”
Randall smiled a little at the byplay between his friends. On the whole, it had been a silent trip up from London. They’d hired the post chaise and set off to Scotland at the fastest speed possible. Though being cooped up in the carriage with minimal halts had been hell on his wounded leg, they’d made good time. But if it hadn’t been for the wound, he would be back on the Peninsula now and he would have learned of Ashton’s death weeks after the fact.
He had lost friends on campaign, both in battle and to vicious fevers like the one that had brought Will Masterson home to recover. But friends who were back in England were supposed to be safe. They weren’t supposed to be getting themselves blown up in bloody bedamned steam-powered ships.
As they rumbled over the Clyde River on a vast, crowded bridge, he thought what a relief it was to finally be here so they could do something. “Do we know where Ashton’s shipyard is?”
“Somewhere in Port Glasgow, west of the city proper,” Kirkland replied. “It won’t be hard to find the right yard. Glasgow has more than its share of engineers, and projects like Ashton’s would be discussed at every tavern and coffee-house in the city.”
Masterson remarked, “You seem to know Glasgow well.”
Kirkland shrugged. “I spent a fair amount of time here as a boy. My unfortunate fondness for my mercantile relations helped get me sentenced to the Westerfield Academy. For which I am eternally grateful.”
Masterson chuckled. “I should love to know all the reasons that students ended up in Lady Agnes’s hands.”
“The ways a boy can deviate from civilized standards are legion,” Randall said dryly. “And we discovered most of them. How long until we get to Port Glasgow?”
“At least an hour.” Kirkland studied Randall narrowly. “It will be near dinnertime by then. I suggest we book rooms at an inn and get a good night’s rest before we start searching for information about Ashton and the Enterprise.”
Randall nodded. His impatient mind wanted to start investigating immediately, but his abused body needed a rest. The time wouldn’t be wasted. If he knew Kirkland, a master of intelligence gathering, by morning they’d know where to start their search.
Randall’s guess was right. When he met his friends in the taproom of the Crown and Sail to break their fast the next morning, Kirkland had the address of the chief engineer of the Enterprise. Archibald Mactavish lived in a pleasant house on a quiet street not far from the bustling waterfront. The men were admitted by a shy little maid who took their cards, then whisked off to tell the mistress of the house that a trio of gentlemen were calling.
Mrs. Mactavish was a tired-looking young woman with a toddler in tow, and she was not pleased to have three hulking gentlemen in her sitting room. “I’ve no time for entertaining,” she said bluntly. “Are you here to see my husband?”
“If we can,” Kirkland spoke, a Scottish lilt clear in his speech. “We’re friends of the Duke of Ashton, and we’d like to learn more about the accident that took his life.”
“It wasn’t Mactavish’s fault!” she said vehemently.
Masterson, ever tactful, said, “We are not looking to cast blame, Mrs. Mactavish, only to understand what happened. We all went to school with Ashton, and he was very dear to us. We’d like to know more, if your husband is well enough to talk.”
“Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll see if he’s willing.”
She left the room with the child, returning alone several minutes later. “He’ll speak with you. But mind you don’t tire him. He was lucky to survive.”
She led the way upstairs to a bedroom that looked out over the waters of the Clyde. Mactavish was a lean man in early middle age with thinning red hair, a large collection of bruises and bandages, and an expression of deep misery. His wife propped him to a sitting position with pillows, then consulted the visitors’ cards. “Your visitors are Kirkland, Masterson, and Randall. I’m not sure which is which.”
Kirkland, taking the lead again, said, “I’m Kirkland.” He stepped forward to offer his hand, then stopped. Mactavish’s right arm ended in a bandaged stump.
The other man’s mouth twisted bitterly as he raised the stump. “Aye, ’tis not much of an engineer I am now. What do you want to know?”
“How and where Ashton died,” Randall said before the silence could get too awkward. “We’re hoping that if we can determine the site of the explosion, we might find his body to take him home for burial.”
Mactavish’s expression softened. “That’s what friends do, though the sea might not cooperate. He was a good man, Ashton. Ye would hardly know he was a duke.”
“He will be missed,” Masterson said quietly. “Do you know what caused the explosion? Steam engines are tricky brutes, but in his letters, Ashton indicated that the project was going well.”
“Aye, it was.” Mactavish made a fist of his left hand and struck the bed angrily. “We had a good long run all the way down into the Firth of Clyde. The engine was singing like a nightingale.”
“That’s quite a distance,” Kirkland said, startled.
“It was indeed. With enough fuel, we could have sailed her all the way to Liverpool. We had just turned back when the boiler exploded. It was like being struck by lightning.”
“Could that have happened?” Masterson asked. “If there was a storm…”
The engineer shook his head. “It was a bit misty, but there were no storms.”
“Where was Ashton when the boiler went up?” This time Kirkland asked the question. “Were you with him?”
“I was up on the deck trying to reckon how far we’d come. I had just decided we were near Arran Island when the boiler blew. I was thrown into the water.” Mactavish looked at the ugly stump. “I don’t even remember how my hand was crushed. Lucky for me, Davy, the pilot, is an ace swimmer. He caught hold and got me to shore on Arran, which wasn’t far.”
“Did