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  When Gods Die

  THE SEBASTIAN ST. CYR MYSTERY SERIES

  What Angels Fear

  WHEN GODS DIE

  A Sebastian St. CyrMystery

  C. S. HARRIS

  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,

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  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  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

  Contents

  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

  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.

  When Gods Die

  Chapter 1

  THE ROYAL PAVILION, BRIGHTON, ENGLAND.

  WEDNESDAY, 12 JUNE 1811.

  He knew she’d come to him. They always did.

  His Royal Hig
hness 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?”

  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.

  Chapter 2

  A cooling breeze skimmed across the Steyne, bringing with it the salty scent of the sea. Sebastian Alistair St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, paused on the flagging outside the Pavilion and drew the sweet air deep into his lungs.

  All around him, the dark streets echoed with panicked shouts for carriages and the running feet of sedan-chair bearers as bejeweled ladies and gentlemen in evening breeches streamed from the Pavilion’s open doors into the night. A few threw Sebastian frightened, speculative glances. All gave him a conspicuously wide berth.

  “The fools,” said a harsh, angry voice from behind him. “What do they think? That you killed that woman?”

  Sebastian swung around to look into the heavy, troubled features of his father, Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon. Sebastian gave a wry smile. “Presumably they find that a more comforting explanation than the alternative, which is that their regent just stabbed a beautiful young woman in the back.”

  “Prinny’s incapable of that kind of violence, and you know it,” snapped Hendon.

  “Well, someone certainly killed her. And I, at least, know it wasn’t me.”

  “Let’s walk,” said Hendon, waving away his carriage. “I need the air.”

  They turned together toward their hotel on the Marine Parade. Neither spoke, their footsteps echoing softly in the darkness. The familiar scents of sea-bathed rocks and wet sand hung heavy in the warm night air, and the moon-flooded streets were haunted by shared memories neither father nor son cared to confront. For years now they had both avoided Brighton whenever possible. But Hendon’s position as Chancellor of the Exchequer combined with the present visit to England by the dispossessed French royal family had made the Earl’s presence here in Brighton unavoidable. Sebastian himself had driven down only for the occasion of Hendon’s sixty-sixth birthday. The Earl’s other living child, Amanda, had stayed away for reasons that were not discussed.

  “That woman…” Hendon began, only to pause, his jaw working back and forth as it did when he was thoughtful or concerned. In the faint glow of the nearby streetlamp, his face was pale, his hair a shock of white in the moonlight. He cleared his throat and tried again. “She looked oddly like Guinevere Anglessey.”

  “It was the Marchioness of Anglessey,” said Sebastian.

  “Good God.” Hendon wiped a splayed hand across his grief-slackened face. “This could be the death of Anglessey.”

  For a moment, Sebastian kept his silence. It was a common enough occurrence in their world, beautiful young women marrying wealthy and titled older men. But even amongst the ton, the forty-five year difference in age between the Marquis and his young wife was considered excessive. “I must admit,” said Sebastian, treading carefully in deference to the long-standing friendship between Hendon and Anglessey, “I wouldn’t have thought her the type to join the ranks of Prinny’s paramours.”

  Hendon’s eyes flashed. “Don’t think it for an instant. She was no easy tumble. Not Guinevere.”

  “Then what the devil was she doing in his cabinet?”

  Hendon expelled a harsh breath. “I don’t know. But this isn’t good. Not for Anglessey or for Prinny—or for you, either,” he added. “The last thing you need is to have your name linked with another murdered woman.”

  Sebastian frowned, his gaze caught by the royal crest emblazoning the panel of a carriage drawn up before their hotel. “Believe me, I have no intention of taking the fall for this one.”
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  Hendon looked at him in surprise. “What makes you even suspect such a thing?”

  Wordlessly, Sebastian lifted his chin in the direction of the liveried servant standing beside the carriage’s restless team.

  “What is this?” said Hendon.

  The footman stepped forward and bowed. His livery was unmistakable; the man, like the carriage, came from the Prince’s household. “My lord Devlin? Lord Jarvis would like a word with you, my lord. In his chambers at the Pavilion.”

  Officially, Lord Jarvis was no more than a distant cousin of the King, a wealthy nobleman with a ruthless reputation for shrewdness and a legendary omniscience that came from his wide network of private spies. But in practice, Jarvis was the royal family’s brains, a Machiavellian intriguer fiercely devoted to both England and the monarchy with which he identified it. “At this hour?” said Sebastian.