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Authors: C. S. Harris

When Gods Die

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When Gods Die

T
HE
S
EBASTIAN
S
T
. C
YR
M
YSTERY
S
ERIES

      

 

C. S. H
ARRIS

 

New American Library

Published by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

(a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,

Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre,

Panchsheel Park, New Delhi -aa 110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,

Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

Copyright © The Two Talers, LLC, 2006

All rights reserved

 

  
REGISTERED TRADEMARK

MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

 

Harris, C. S.

When gods die: a Sebastian St. Cyr mystery/C. S. Harris.
    p. cm.
ISBN 1-4295-0223-1
1. Great Britain—History—George III, 1760–1820—Fiction. 2. Nobility—Crimes against—Fiction.
3. London (England)—Fiction. 4. Regency fiction. gsafd I. Title.
PS3566.R5877W475 2006
813'.6—dc22    2006011779

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

 

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

 

For Jon Stebbins, with thanks

 

Acknowledgments

 

A
WRITER ALWAYS HAS MANY PEOPLE TO THANK
, and this is especially true for me with this book, which wound its way to publication in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina’s destruction of my New Orleans–area home. I am especially grateful to:

My editor, Ellen Edwards, who has been incredibly understanding and cooperative in working with me through all the disruptions of hurricane, evacuation, and rebuilding, as well as providing me, as always, with her wise and thoughtful suggestions. This book would have been less without your input. Thank you.

My daughter Samantha, who handled with aplomb the descent of three generations of family members and five cats upon her tiny Baton Rouge student apartment, and my daughter Danielle, who spent weeks sleeping on a wooden bench and rarely complained. You’re both troopers.

My mother, Bernadine Wegmann Proctor, who allowed us to take over her unflooded Metairie bungalow for what began to seem like forever, and my sister, Penelope Williamson, who was there for us when she was so desperately needed. Thank you.

Emily and Bruce Toth (and Beauregard and Mr. Fussy), who generously opened their Baton Rouge home to various members of my family and two of our cats, and my agent, Helen Breitwiezer, friends Ed and Lynn Lindahl, and Paula and Adriel Woodman, who offered us temporary houses from Beverly Hills to Arizona to Alabama. Your generosity overwhelms me. Thank you.

All the friends and relatives who contacted me in the dark and crazy days after the deluge and offered their friendship and support. Thanks especially to old friends Tom Hudson, Nick Fielder, and Tony Lutfi; my Aussie friends Virginia Taylor, Trish Mullin, and Gill Cooper; and my cousin Greg Whitlock. You helped more than you’ll ever know.

Ben Woodman, who gave up part of his Christmas vacation to rip out moldy insulation and two-by-fours, and Jon Stebbins, who not only devoted his free time week after week to helping gut and rebuild our house, but also provided a cheerful boost to our morale when we needed it the most. Friends such as these are rare.

The Monday Night Wordsmiths, Kathleen Davis, Elora Fink, Charles Gramlich, Laura Joh Rowland, and Emily Toth, who kept meeting, even if at first it was only by e-mail. Your friendship, conversation, and support have never been more appreciated. Thank you.

And finally, my husband, Steve Harris, who is not only a great plotting partner, but a whiz with power tools. I couldn’t have made it through Katrina or this long, terrible aftermath without you at my side. Thank you.

Contents

 
Cover

When Gods Die

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Author’s Note

When Gods Die

Chapter 1

 

T
HE
R
OYAL
P
AVILION
, B
RIGHTON
, E
NGLAND
.
W
EDNESDAY
, 12 J
UNE 1811.

 

H
e knew she’d come to him. They always did.

His Royal Highness George, Prince of Wales and for some four months now Regent of Great Britain and Ireland, closed the cabinet door behind him and let his gaze rove over the swelling curves and exposed flesh of the woman before him. “So you’ve had a change of heart, have you, madame? A reappraisal of your hasty rejection of my offer of friendship?”

She said nothing, the flickering candlelight throwing the features of her face into shadow so that he couldn’t read her expression. She lay with one pale wrist curling provocatively over the gilded carving of the settee beside the fire. Most people complained about the warm temperatures at which George habitually kept his rooms, even on such a mild summer night. But this woman seemed to relish the heat, her gown slipping artfully from her shoulders, her feet bare and seductive. George licked his lips.

From the far side of the closed doors came the strains of a Bach concerto mingling with the murmur of his numerous guests’ well-bred voices and, from somewhere in the distance, the faint trill of a woman’s high-pitched laughter. At the sound of the laughter, George felt his stomach twist with a spasm of uncertainty.

Tonight’s reception had held a special lure, for the guest of honor was none other than the dethroned French King Louis XVIII. But they came here every night, all the snide, contemptuous ladies and gentlemen of the ton. They drank his wine and ate his food and listened to his music, but he knew what they really thought of him. They were always laughing at him, calling him a buffoon. Whispering that he was as mad as his father. They thought he didn’t know, but he knew. Just as he knew how they would laugh if he allowed this woman to make a fool of him again.

Why wasn’t she saying anything?

Warily, George drew himself up tall, his chest swelling. “What is this, madame? Have you lured me here simply to toy with me? To try to play me for a fool?”

BOOK: When Gods Die
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