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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?”
    â€œSomewhere 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.”
    â€œThe 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?”
    â€œAt 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.
    Â 
    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?”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œVery 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