Alex would almost believe the man an opportunist—a fraudsman out to extort money from the Brotherhood for baseless accusations.
Was the man even a pastor? Or was his clothing a lie, as well?
But . . .
Reverend Smith had known that Miss Eilidh Fyffe had been aboardThe Minerva.
That was a closely-guarded secret.
The good reverend had to have learned it from a survivor of the wreck.
Cuthie and Massey had been gone from British soil for over a year, as far as Alex knew. Were they Reverend Smith’s source of information?
Or was this mysterious man with a missing memory another survivor then? And, if so, who was the man?
For the briefest moment, Alex pondered that perhaps the person with the missing memory was Jamie herself.
But . . . no. To report such a tale, Jamie would have had to have forgotten them all . . . even Kieran.
ParticularlyKieran.
Such an idea stretched the bounds of credulity—that Jamie would remember her own identity but not that of her husband. She had loved Kieran too fiercely for that memory to have been utterly wiped from her mind.
Alex collapsed into his bed, exhausted.
But before succumbing to sleep, he managed to lift pen to paper and scribble out a letter.
Dear Andrew,
What are the chances Jamie could have forgotten about Kieran . . .
17
Fortunately, Alex did not have to wait long for Andrew’s reply. It arrived a scarce four days later:
What the bloody hell! Your tale certainly throws a spanner into the works. I cannot imagine a situation where Jamie would have forgotten about Kieran, no matter the injury. I will hire a Runner from Bow Street immediately. If this Reverend Smith is a man of God, it should be simple enough to track down his location and verify any potential ties to Cuthie or Massey. Surely, he learned of Jamie from them and is now looking to profit from the information.
In other news, how goes your appraisal of the marquisate? If your leg is healed enough to withstand travel to a coaching inn, I assume you have managed shorter journeys around the estate to see matters for yourself?
Alex nearly sighed. Those were good questions.
The journey to the coaching inn had taken a toll. He had lain in bed and moved little for two days afterward, allowing the ache in his leg to subside before even considering a larger venture. Lottie had kept him company for an afternoon of his recovery—a maid in the corner as a chaperone—reading a dry medical treatise to him and asking frighteningly intelligent questions.
Fortunately, the journey did not appear to have hampered his leg’s healing. Once the pain retreated and Alex dared to stand again, he felt no lingering twinges. In truth, the bone grew stronger and stronger with every passing day. He wore the brace obsessively—and would for at least another month—but provided he was careful, he was confident of a full recovery.
Andrew was correct, however.
Alex needed to inspect the estate for himself.
In the days following, Alex felt well enough to begin forays out to assess the estate with his own eyes. He still couldn’t ride or drive himself, but as long as the coachman drove at a sedate pace to minimize jarring, Alex fared just fine.
Unfortunately, his journeys around the estate lands did nothing to stem his concerns.
Fields needed to be modernized, their drainage improved before crop yields would increase.
Fallow land needed to be converted to pasture, and current livestock improved with heartier breeds that would bring in better revenues.
Tenanted properties showed signs of disrepair.
