In London, 1811, a young woman is brutally raped and murdered, her body left on the altar steps of an ancient church. The prime suspect: Sebastian St. Cyr, a brilliant young nobleman still haunted by his experiences in the Napoleonic Wars.
Showing 1-1 of the 1 most recent reviews
1 . Very Good
Posted November 24, 2009 by suzatm , City in PennsylvaniaThis author was recommended to me because I like Victoria Thompson and P B Ryan's historical mysteries. I was hooked from the first paragraph and had to remind myself to breath at the ending. This was a very good book and I couldn't put it down. I look forward to reading the other books in the series.
November 02, 2005
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from What Angels Fear by C.S. Harris
Wednesday, 30 January 1811
Sebastian could hear the tolling of the city's church bells, counting out the hour; dull echoes of sound muffled by distance and the acrid fog that, even here, hugged the open ground and shrouded the bare, reaching branches of the stand of elms that grew at the edge of the field. Dawn had come, but it brought little warmth or light. Sebastian Alistair St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, only surviving son and heir to the Earl of Hendon, propped his shoulders against the high side of his curricle, crossed his arms at his chest, and thought about his bed.
It had been a long night, a night of brandy fumes and cigar smoke, of faro and vingt-et-un and a promise made to a sad-eyed woman ' a promise that he would not kill, however much the man he had come here to meet might deserve killing. Sebastian tipped back his head and closed his eyes. He could hear the sweet call of a lark at the far end of the field and, nearer, the steady swish, swish of wet grass as his second, Sir Christopher Farrell, paced back and forth in the roadside's verge. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.
"Maybe he won't show," said Sir Christopher.
Sebastian kept his eyes closed. "He'll show."
The pacing resumed. Back and forth, boot heels squelching in the damp earth.
"If you're not careful," said Sebastian, "you're going to get mud on your boots."
"To hell with my boots. Are you certain Talbot is bringing a doctor How good of a doctor Maybe we should have brought our own doctor."
Sebastian lowered his head and opened his eyes. "I don't intend to get shot."
Sir Christopher swung about, his fair hair curling wildly in the damp mist, his normally soft gray eyes dilated. "Right. Well, that's reassuring. Doubtless Lord Firth had every intention of not getting shot when he stood up against Maynard last month. Pity, of course, that the bullet went through his neck."
"I'm delighted to see I'm amusing you. This is another of those advantages of having gone to war, is it Staring with calm disdain into the face of death Ranks right up there with being rendered irresistibly fascinating to members of the fair sex."
Sebastian laughed out loud.
Christopher smiled himself, then resumed his silent pacing, a slim, flawlessly tailored figure in buckskins and high-gloss top boots and well-laundered linen. After another moment, he said, "I still don't understand why you didn't choose swords. Less chance of someone accidentally getting killed with swords." Lifting his left arm in a fencer's pose, he pantomimed a quick thrust against the cold, misty air. "A neat little pink through the shoulder, a bloody scratch on the arm, and honor is satisfied."