Regency England. The age of Napoleon and Jane Austen, of Beau Brummel and Lord Byron. A master of disguises. Sebastian moves easily from the ballrooms of Mayfair to the rookeries of St. Giles, from the exclusive men's clubs of St. James's to the dangerous docks of the Thames. Think Mr. Darcy with a James Bond edge...
WHAT ANGELS FEAR (2005)The year is 1811. As old King George III sinks deeper into madness and the threat of social unrest and revolution haunts the privileged classes, a beautiful young woman is found raped and savagely murdered on the altar steps of an ancient parish church not far from Westminster Abbey. An ornate dueling pistol discovered tangled in the blood-soaked folds of Rachel York's cloak and the damning testimony of a witness both point to one man, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, a brilliant young nobleman shattered by his experiences in the Napoleonic Wars. When a vicious attack during his arrest leaves a constable near death, Sebastian must run for his life. Now a fugitive, Sebastian calls upon his experience as an agent during the war to embark on a desperate quest to catch a brutal killer and prove his own innocence.
Tuesday, 29 January 1811
She blamed the fog. She wasn't normally this nervous. This afraid.
It was such a foul, creeping thing, the yellow fog of London. Even without the fog it would have been dark at this hour. Dark, and January-cold. But the murky vapor made it worse, wrapping around her lantern in wraithlike drifts that had Rachel stumbling as she cut across the churchyard.
A loose stone rolled beneath the delicate sole of one kid half-boot, the clatter sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night. Pausing, Rachel threw a quick glance over her shoulder, her gaze raking the faint, mist-shrouded outlines of the graveyard's scattered monuments and tombstones. From the distance came the clacking rattle and fog-muffled voice of the charley, calling out the time. Rachel drew a deep breath of frosty air tinged with the scent of wet earth and leaves and a stale, musty hint of old death, and hurried on.
The heavy stone bulk of St. Matthew of the Fields loomed before her. Rachel clutched the satin-lined velvet folds of her evening cloak more closely about her. She should have told him to meet her at half past eight, she decided. Nine at the latest. It was the usual time, half past eight.
Only, this wasn't a usual transaction.
She hadn't expected to so edgy. It was a sensation she didn't like. Being nervous made her feel like a victim, and Rachel York refused to play the role of victim. Never again. It was a promise she'd made to herself at the age of fifteen, and in the three years that had passed since that fateful night when she'd seized control of her own life, it was a promise she'd never broken. She wasn't about to break it now.
At the steps leading up to the north transept door, she paused again. Beneath the deep round arch of the side portal, the darkness was nearly complete. Lifting the lantern high, she let the narrowed beam of light play over the door's weathered old oak. Through the thin kid of her gloves the iron key felt cold and heavy in her hand. To her annoyance, her fingers shook when she thrust the toothed end into the lock.
With one twist, the mechanism clicked smoothly and the door swung silently inward before her on oiled hinges. The Reverend McDermott was careful about such things. But then, he needed to be.
Rachel pushed the door open wider, one artfully curled lock of golden hair fluttering against her cheek in the sudden outward gush of air. Familiar church smells engulfed her, the scent of beeswax and damp stone and ancient wood. She whisked herself inside, carefully closing the door behind her. She did not lock it.
She dropped the key into her reticule, felt its weight heavy and solid against her thigh as she crossed the transept. The cold silence of the church closed around her, the light from her lantern wavering over candle-blackened stone walls and the scattered, recumbent figures of entombed ladies and long-dead knights lying still and cold in the empty hush.
They said it was close on to eight hundred years old, St. Matthew of the Fields, with molded sandstone arches that sprang from thick, cylindrical piers, and small high windows that now showed only blackness beyond. Rachel's father had been interested in such things. Once, he had taken her to see the cathedral in Worchester and talked to her for hours about arcades and triforiums and rood screens. But her father was long dead; Rachel shut her mind against the memory, unsure what had brought such at thought to her now.
The Lady Chapel lay at the far end of the apse, a tiny fourteenth-century jewel of white marble and slender columns and delicately carved screenwork. Rachel set her lantern on the steps before the altar. She was early; he would not be here for another twenty minutes or more. The emptiness of the ancient church seemed to press in upon her, cold and dark. She found her gaze returning, again and again, to the blessed candles clustered together on the snowy linen of the altar cloth. For a moment longer, she hesitated. Then, kindling a taper, she began to light the candles, one after the other, their golden flames leaping up warm and bright until they seemed to merge into one comforting glow.
Rachel gazed up at the massive canvas that hung above the altar, a darkly swirled depiction of the Virgin Mother ascending gloriously into the heavens against a background of triumphant angels. Once, Rachel might have murmured a soft prayer.
Not now.
She didn't hear the transept door open and close, only the faint echo of stealthy footsteps along the choir. He was early. She hadn't expected it of him.
Turning, she shoved back the hood of her cloak and forced her lips into a practiced smile, ready to play her role.
She could see him now, a faint shadow, the outline of his greatcoat and top hat just visible through the Lady Chapel's intricately carved stone screen.
Then he moved into the candlelight.
She took a quick step back. "You," she whispered, and knew she'd made a terrible mistake.
WHEN GODS DIE (2006)Excerpt:June, 1811. On a summer's evening at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, the beautiful young wife of an aging Marquis is found dead in the arms of the Prince Regent himself. From her back protrudes a jeweled dagger that once belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Around her neck lies an ancient bluestone and silver necklace said to have been worn by the Druid priestesses of Wales. Legend credited the necklace with mysterious powers—until it was lost at sea with its last owner, the mother of Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin. Still shadowed by rumors of his own dark past, Sebastian is lured into a dangerous investigation of both the Marchioness's death and his own mother's uncertain fate. He soon discovers that the idle, profligate Prince is not as innocent as his court handlers would have the public believe.
The Royal Pavilion, Brighton, England. Wednesday, 12 June 1811
He 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, Madam? 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?"
He took a step toward her only to stagger, one plump hand flinging out to grasp the curving back of a nearby chair. It was his ankle, of course. The thing was always giving way beneath him like this. He could hold his wine. Better than most men half his age. Everyone said so.
The candles in the gilded wall sconces flared golden bright, then dimmed. He didn't remember sitting down. But when he opened his eyes he found himself slumped in the chair beside the fire, his chin sunk deep into the elaborate white folds of his cravat. He could feel a line of spittle trickling from one corner of his mouth. Swiping the back of his hand across his jaw, George raised his head.
She lay as before, one bare foot dangling off the edge of the settee's yellow velvet cushion, the shimmering emerald green of her gown sliding seductively from naked shoulders. But she was staring at him with wide, curiously blank eyes.
She was such a beautiful woman, Guinevere Anglessey, the gently molded curves of her half exposed breasts as white as Devonshire cream, her hair shining blue-black in the candlelight. George slid from the chair to his knees, his voice catching on a sob as he took her cold hand in his. "My lady?"
George knew a tingle of alarm. He hated scenes, and if she'd had some sort of fit there would be a hideous scene. Slipping his hands beneath her bare shoulders, he drew her up to give her a gentle shake. "Are you—oh my goodness, are you ill?" This new and even more horrifying possibility sent a shudder coursing through him. He was very susceptible to infections. "Shall I call Dr. Heberden?"
He wanted to move away from her immediately, but she lay at such an awkward angle, half on her side, that he had a hard time maneuvering her. "Here, let me make you more comfortable and I'll have someone send for—"
He broke off, his head jerking around as the double doors to the salon were thrown open. A woman's gay voice said, "Perhaps the Prince is hiding in here."
Caught with the Marquis of Anglessey's beautiful, insensible young wife clasped clumsily in his arms, George froze. Hideously conscious of his ludicrous pose, he licked his suddenly dry lips,. "She's fainted, I daresay."
Lady Jersey stood with one hand clenched around the doorknob, her cheeks going white beneath their rouge, her eyes wide and staring. "Oh my God," she said with a gasp.
The doorway filled with shrieking women and stern-faced men. He recognized his cousin, Jarvis, and Lord Hendon's murderous son, Viscount Devlin. They were all staring. It was a moment before George realized they were staring not at him but at the jeweled hilt of a dagger protruding from the Marchioness of Anglessey's bare back.
George screamed, a high-pitched, feminine scream that echoed strangely as the candles dimmed again and went out.
WHY MERMAIDS SING (2007)
Excerpt:It's September 1811, and someone is killing the wealthy young sons of London's most prominent families. Partially butchered, with strange objects stuffed into their mouths, their bodies are found dumped in public places at dawn. When the grisly remains of Alfred, Lord Stanton's eldest son are discovered in the Old Palace Yard beside the House of Lords, the local magistrate turns to Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, for help. Ranging from the gritty world of Thames-side docks to the luxurious drawing rooms of Mayfair, Sebastian finds himself confronting his most puzzling--and disturbing--case yet. With the help of his trusted allies--young servant Tom, Irish doctor Paul Gibson, and his lover Kat Boleyn--Sebastian struggles to decipher a cryptic set of clues that link the scion of a banking family to the son of a humble Kentish vicar. For as one killing follows another, Sebastian discovers he is confronting a murderer with both a method and a purpose to his ritualized killings, and that the key to it all may lie in the enigmatic stanzas of a haunting poem...and in a secret so dangerous that men are willing to sacrifice their own children to keep the truth from becoming known.
Saturday, 14 September 1811, On the Road between Merton Abbey and London
Fear twisted Dominic Stanton's stomach, compressed his chest until his breath came shallow and quick.
He told himself he was being a fool. A fool and a coward. He was a Stanton, for Christ's sake. In less then two months he would be nineteen years old. Men his age—younger, much younger—went off to war. Yet here he was just a few miles outside London and he was acting like some silly girl from the village, about to pee his pants with fear every time the thunder rumbled or the rising wind rustled the oak leaves overhead.
A copse of mingled oak and chestnut closed around him. Dominic kneed his mare into a canter. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, but the heavy cloud cover and the thickness of the grove created their own eerie air of twilight. Over the keening of the wind he could hear the faint clip clop of a horse's hooves coming from somewhere behind him. He wasn't imagining it again, was he? He glanced over his shoulder at the empty road curving away out of sight. "Jesus," he whispered.
It was his mother's fault, he decided. She's the one who'd insisted he make it home in time for her stupid dinner party. If it weren't for her he'd still be back at the pub with Charlie and Burlington and the rest, calling for another round and talking over each blow and rally of the prizefight they'd all ridden down to Merton Abey to watch. Instead, here he was riding back to London alone at dusk with a storm about to break.
Telling himself he was hurrying because he was going to be late, Dominic urged his mare on faster...and felt his saddle begin to slip.
Shit. Stupid ostler, forgetting to tighten the girth. Dominic reined in, his face slick with cold sweat. Casting another quick glance around, he hopped down from the saddle. His fingers were shaky, clumsy. Throwing the stirrup leather out of the way, he fumbled for the buckle and heard the rattle of harness, the clatter of wheels coming up behind.
He whirled around, his mare tossing her head and sidestepping nervously away from him. A horse and carriage loomed out of the darkness. "Oh my God," whispered Dominic as the driver drew up.
WHERE SERPENTS SLEEP (2008)
London, 1812. The brutal slaughter of eight young prostitutes in a house of refuge near Covent Garden leaves only one survivor—and one witness: Hero Jarvis, reform-minded daughter of the Prince Regent's cousin, Lord Jarvis. When the Machiavellian power broker squashes any official inquiry that might reveal his daughter's unorthodox presence, Hero launches an investigation of her own and turns to Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, for help. Still struggling to come to terms with a personal loss, and the resultant estrangement from his father, Sebastian is at first reluctant to agree. But the callous violence of the murders—combined with the opportunity to provoke his archenemy, Jarvis—prompts him to act.
Excerpt:
Monday, 4 May 1812
The girl stared out the window, one hand sliding up and down her shawl-covered arm in a ceaseless, uneasy motion. Outside, a thick fog leached the light from the dying day and muffled the sounds of the surrounding city.
"You don't like the fog, do you?" Hero Jarvis asked, watching her.
They sat together in a pool of golden light thrown by the lamp on the plain tea table where Hero had laid out her notebook, pen and ink, and the standard list of questions she'd drawn up to ask. The girl jerked her gaze back to Hero's face. This one was older than some of the other prostitutes Hero had interviewed, but still young, her face still smooth, her skin clear, her green eyes sharp with intelligence. She said her name was Anne Jones, although in Hero's experience women in this business seldom gave their true names.
"Who does like fog?" said Anne Jones. "You can never tell what's out there."
The girl's accent was disconcerting: pure Mayfair, without a trace of Cockney or any country inflection. Studying the girl's fine bone structure and graceful bearing, Hero knew a flicker of interest mingled with something both more personal and less admirable that she didn't care to examine too closely. How had this girl—surely no more than eighteen or nineteen years old and so obviously gently born and bred—ended up here, at the Magdalene House, a refuge run by the Society of Friends for women who wished to leave prostitution?
Reaching for her pen, Hero dipped the tip into her inkwell and asked, "How long have you been in the business?"
A bitter smile touched Anne Jones's lips. "You mean, how long have I been a whore? Less than a year."
It was said to shock. But Hero Jarvis was not the kind of woman who shocked easily. At twenty-five years of age, she considered herself immune to the excesses of sensibility that afflicted so many of her sex. She simply nodded and went on to her next question. "What sort of work did you do before?"
"Before? I didn't do anything before."
"You lived with your family?"
Anne Jones tipped her head to one side, her gaze assessing Hero in a way she did not like. "Why are you here, asking us these questions?"
Hero cleared her throat. "I'm researching a theory."
"What theory?"
"It is my belief that most women enter prostitution not because of some innate moral weakness but out of economic necessity."
A quiver of emotion crossed Anne's face, her voice coming out harsh. "What do you know about it? A woman like you?"
Hero set aside her pen and met Anne's gaze without flinching. "Are we so different?"
Anne Jones didn't answer. In the silence that followed, Hero could hear the voices of the other women drifting up from downstairs, the clink of cutlery, a quick burst of laughter. It grew late; soon Hero's carriage would return to take her back to Berkeley Square, to the safety and comfort of her privileged world. Perhaps Anne Jones was right, in a sense. Perhaps-
The sound of a fist pounding on the front door below reverberated through the house. Hero heard a woman's startled exclamation, mingled with a man's throaty growl. A cry of outrage turned suddenly to a scream of terror.
Anne leapt from her chair, her eyes wild. "Oh, God. They've found me."
Hero pushed to her feet. "What do you mean? What's happening?"
She could hear the voices of more men now, the crash of overturned furniture, the smashing of crockery. Women shrieked. Someone pleaded, tearful, her voice trailing off into a whimper that ended abruptly.
"They're here to kill me." Anne Jones whirled around, her gaze sweeping the room to fix on an old walnut cupboard that took up most of the near wall. "We must hide."
From below came the sound of running feet and a woman's scream transformed, hideously, into a throaty gurgle. Anne yanked open the cupboard door. Hero reached out a hand, stopping her. "No, not the cupboard. That's the first place they'll look."
Crossing the room, Hero threw open the casement window that overlooked the mist-swirled alley below. The window opened onto the sloping roof of what was probably the kitchen or a washroom. "This way," said Hero. She sucked in a quick breath, the coal smoke tinged damp air biting her lungs as she threw one leg over the low sill and ducked her head through the frame.
Covered with moss and condensation and soot, the slate roof tiles felt treacherously slippery beneath the smooth leather soles of Hero's kid half-boots. She moved cautiously, one hand braced against the rough brick of the house wall as she turned to help Anne Jones through the narrow opening.
As she eased the window closed behind them, Hero heard a man shout from inside the house, "She's not here."
Another man answered, his voice lower pitched, his footsteps already heavy on the staircase. "She's here. She must be upstairs."
"They're coming," Hero whispered, and felt Anne's hand tighten around her upper arm in warning.
Following the direction of the girl's shaky, pointing finger, Hero discerned the figure of a man looming out of the fog below. A guard, stationed at the backdoor to make certain none of the women in the house escaped to the alley.
Hunkering low, Hero crab walked down the slippery slope of the roof to its edge. She watched the man below pace back and forth, his hat pulled over his eyes, his shoulders hunched against the dampness.
Moving as silently as she could, Hero swung her feet over the edge, her stalkinged legs showing creamy white against the white of the mist as the hem of her fine blue alpaca walking dress caught on the edge of the tiles and hiked up. She waited until the guard paused just below her. Then she pushed off from the eaves to drop straight down on him.
The force of the impact knocked him to his knees with a grunt and threw Hero to one side. She landed on her hip in the mud, hard enough to bring a small cry to her lips, but she scrambled quickly to her feet. The man was still on his hands and knees when Hero's heel caught him hard on the side of his head and sent him staggering back against the house wall to land in a slumped heap. He lay still.
Anne Jones slid over the edge of the roof to come down in a rush of tearing petticoats and scraped skin. "Good heavens. Where did you learn to do that?"
"I used to play with my brother."
The sound of the upstairs window being thrown open brought both their heads up. A man's voice cut through the fog. "Drummond? You there?"
Anne Jones grabbed Hero's hand and they ran.
The alleyway was a sea of mud and ancient, half-buried cobbles hemmed in by soaring walls of soot-blackened brick. Breathing hard, her fingers gripping the other woman's hand tightly, Hero sprinted toward the square patch of white at the alley's mouth where the silhouette of a carriage appeared out of the mist. They had almost reached the footpath when Hero heard the boom of a gun behind them. Beside her, Anne Jones faltered.
Turning, Hero caught the girl as she began to crumple. The bullet had torn a gaping, oozing hole through her chest.
"Oh, no. No," Hero whispered.
Anne's lips parted, spilling dark red blood down her chin. Hero could feel the girl's blood running warm and wet over her hands, see the light in Anne's eyes ebb, dim.
"No!"
The boom of a second shot echoed up the alleyway. Hero imagined she could feel its passing like the whisper of a ghost beside her cheek.
"I'm sorry," she said, sobbing slightly as she eased Anne down into the mud and ran on.
WHAT REMAINS OF HEAVEN (November 2009)
About the Author:
C.S. Harris holds a degree in the Classics and a Ph.D. in European history. After years of living all over the world, she has settled in New Orleans with her husband and two daughters. Her website can be found at http://csharris.net/.
Bookeemonster rating: 5 out of 5. I love the Regency era; this series has taken a couple interesting twists that I like. I am very looking forward to book five.
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