He twisted desperately around, straining his eyes, demanding that they find her. When he looked back up to the men, their gazes fell away, then shifted one by one to the smoldering wreckage.
"She is not in there." His voice sounded sure and calm. "She escaped. You must check the yard, the—"
"We've searched the grounds, sir. We found Mrs. Smythe in the rear yard. But Mrs. Kern . . . the other rooms were farther from the door. Did you know her, sir?"
Hart didn't bother answering, instead he picked up Bess's hand and felt for a pulse. "She needs a doctor. Have you—"
"We've already sent for Doctor Jersey, sir."
"Lark!" Hart shouted as he pushed to his feet. His driver and footman rushed forward. "We need to search every inch of these grounds. Out to the cliff and back as far as you can see. Lady . .. that is, Mrs. Kern is here somewhere."
His driver sprang into action. They searched for a full hour, walking over every inch of grass, searching every rocky crevice, every thorny bush. He refused to think of anything but finding her, refused to consider any other possibility, until he finally found himself standing only a foot from the edge of the blackened wood. The wind shifted, blowing smoke and heat into Hart's eyes, but his tears quickly washed them clear.
The house had been reduced to a tangle of pitch-black sticks and chunks of charcoal covered with pale soot. And Emma was in there, charred like the rest of it, her precious body indistinguishable from lifeless bits of wood.
"Mrs. Smythe is resting in your carriage as you requested, Your Grace." The doctor's nasal drone infuriated Hart. Why was this man alive and speaking and Emma dead?
"There's nothing more I can do for the woman, though I believe she'll wake. May I leave now? I've patients to attend. A woman close to childbirth—"
"Go."
Time passed. The sun slanted lower, glaring into his eyes from the west. Hart kept his vigil. And sometime . . . at some point as he stared into Emma's temporary grave, Hart remembered. For no reason at all, he remembered. That memory that had nagged at his mind for weeks . . . Emma's taunting words .. .
I saw you there.
That part had been the truth. She had seen him. He could picture her now. A little girl a bit younger than his sister. She'd startled the hell out of him, tiptoeing past in the dark in a place she should never have been. Eyes wide with fear, twin braids swaying against her back.
Oh, God, he remembered now. Someone has come to my room, she'd whispered, as if sharing secrets with a friend. And Hart, young and arrogant and so damn sure of himself, what had he done to help her? He'd flayed her father with a few choice words, threatened him with dire consequences if the girl came to harm, and then. . .
And then he'd left. And forgotten all about her.
A stray spark caught a wisp of air and danced up from the smoke, weaving a slow pattern in front of him before it rose and disappeared into the sky.
I saw you there.
She'd seen him, had watched him with gratitude in her child's eyes. That was true. And perhaps the rest of her words had been true as well. Perhaps in the end she had hated him, been disgusted by him and everything he represented.
But he could have changed her mind. With time, he could have shown her.
The sure knowledge that any time with her was lost forever rocked Hart to his knees. Cool damp soaked through the thin fabric of his trousers and reminded him of the dirt beneath the grass. The dark earth that would keep her from him forever.
She'd been so strong. Fighting him, fighting herself. She'd carved her way through her world with reckless bravery and doubtful morals, and she'd delighted a duke's numbed heart.
Now he was left with this living, beating, feeling heart and no Emma to bring it joy.
Another spark shook free of the wreckage and danced its slow, winding way higher. Hart watched it fly up, pretty and free, as the world closed in around him. The air, sharp with smoke, pressed in, a weight on his chest.
Hart tried to draw a breath and couldn't. Tried again, but the air fought him, struggling against his throat until he threw his head back and gasped in a great breath that wheezed into his lungs. His throat had opened, but
he'd freed up the tears too.
He had no idea how to cry, was frightened by it. So he knelt there, gasping, and stared up at the smoky sky and waited for it to be done.
"Your Grace?"
He dropped his head.
"Your Grace, the woman, Mrs. Smythe, is stirring."