{"product_id":"where-the-dead-lie-isbn-9780451471208","title":"Where the Dead Lie","description":"\u003cb\u003e“The entire series is simply elegant.”—Lisa Gardner, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this historical mystery from the national bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWho Slays the Wicked\u003c\/i\u003e, the abduction and murder of a young boy takes Sebastian St. Cyr from the gritty streets of London to the glittering pleasure haunts of the aristocracy...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLondon, 1813\u003c\/i\u003e. One of the city's many homeless children, Benji Thatcher was abducted and murdered—and his younger sister is still missing. Few in authority care about a street urchin's fate, but Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, refuses to let this killer go unpunished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUncovering a disturbing pattern of missing children, Sebastian is drawn into a shadowy, sadistic world. As he follows a grim trail that leads from the writings of the debauched Marquis de Sade to the city's most notorious brothels, he comes to a horrifying realization: Someone from society's upper echelon is preying upon the city's most vulnerable. And though dark, powerful forces are moving against him, Sebastian will risk his reputation and his life to keep more innocents from harm...\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eWhere the Dead Lie\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “C.S. Harris really is a master of storytelling. Each book in the Sebastian St. Cyr series is a tense, tightly plotted and atmospherically executed read. Full of period correct detail and fascinating, complex characters, there is never a dull moment or wasted word...This is definitely one of my best reads of the year.”—Open Book Society\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Fantastic...Her attention to detail richly evokes the feel of the time period but is never overdone. Harris' characters are lushly drawn in all their glorious complexity...a satisfying historical mystery that is engrossing 'til the last page is turned.”—Fresh Fiction\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A winner!...Atmospheric and immediately engaging...A wonderful read capable of being enjoyed as a stand-alone.”—Historical Novel Society\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Exceeds even the previous novels in psychological depth...relentless pacing...a gripping read.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Moving depictions of life on London's mean streets are the best parts of Harris's 12th Regency-era mystery featuring dashing Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin...Harris is better than most in investing even minor characters with sometimes heartbreaking humanity.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This latest installment in Harris's well-researched historical series features a charismatic lead who's unafraid of exposing the inner workings of a controlling authority when it turns against its own people.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for the Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery Series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This riveting historical tale of tragedy and triumph, with its sly nods to Jane Austen and her characters, will enthrall you.”—Sabrina Jeffries, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Sebastian St. Cyr is everything you could want in a Regency-era nobleman-turned–death investigator: uncannily clever, unwaveringly reserved, and irresistibly sexy. The entire series is simply elegant.”—Lisa Gardner, #1\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Thoroughly enjoyable . . . Moody and atmospheric, exposing the dark underside of Regency London.”—Deanna Raybourn, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cb\u003eC. S. Harris\u003c\/b\u003e is the national bestselling author of more than twenty novels, including the Sebastian St. Cyr Mysteries, featuring \u003ci\u003eWhen Falcons Fall\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWho Buries the Dead\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWhy Kings Confess\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eWhat Darkness Brings\u003c\/i\u003e; as C. S. Graham, a thriller series coauthored by former intelligence officer Steven Harris; and seven award-winning historical romances written under the name Candice Proctor.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Monday, 13 September 1813, the hours before dawn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e T       he boy hated this part. Hated the eerie way the pale, waxen faces      of the dead seemed to glow in the faintest moonlight. Hated being      left alone with a stiffening body while he dug its grave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He kicked the shovel deep into the ground and felt his heart leap      painfully in his chest when the scrape of dirt against metal      sounded dangerously loud in the stillness of the night. He sucked      in a quick breath, the musty smell of damp earth thick in his      nostrils, his fingers tightening on the smooth wooden handle as he      paused to cast a panicked glance over one shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A mist was drifted up from the Fleet to curl around the base of      the nearby shot tower and creep along the crumbling brick walls of      the abandoned warehouses beyond it. He heard a dog bark somewhere      in the distance and, nearer, a soft thump.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What was that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The boy waited, his mouth dry, his body tense and trembling. But      the sound was not repeated. He swiped a ragged sleeve across his      sweaty face, swallowed hard, and bent into his work. He was      uncomfortably aware of the cloaked gentleman watching from the      seat of the cart that waited at the edge of the field. The      gentleman had helped drag Benji's body over to the looming shot      tower. But he never helped dig. Gentlemen didn't dig graves,      although they could and did kill with a vicious delight that made      the boy shiver as he threw another shovelful of dirt onto the      growing pile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The hole was beginning to take shape. Another six inches or so        and he'd-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hey!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The boy's head snapped around, and he froze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A ragged, skeletally thin figure lurched from the gaping doorway      of one of the tumbledown warehouses. \"Wot ye doin' there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The shovel hit the ground with a clatter as the boy bolted. He      fell into the newly dug grave and went down, floundering in the      loose dirt. Feet flailing, he reared up on splayed hands, found      solid ground, and pushed off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oye!\" shouted the ghostly specter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The boy tore across the uneven field, his breath soughing in and      out, his feet pounding. He saw the gentleman in the cart jerk, saw      him gather the reins and spank them hard against his horse's rump.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Wait for me!\" screamed the boy as the cart lurched forward, its      iron-rimmed wheels rattling over the rutted lane. \"Stop!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The gentleman urged the horse into a wild canter. He did not look      back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The boy leapt a low, broken stretch of the stone wall that edged      the field. \"Come back!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The cart careened around the corner and out of sight, but the boy      tore after it anyway. Surely the gentleman would stop for him? He      wouldn't simply leave him, would he?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Would he?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The boy was sobbing now, his nose running, his chest aching as he      fought to draw air into his lungs. It wasn't until he reached the      corner himself that he dared risk a frantic look back and realized      the skeletal figure wasn't following him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man-for the boy saw now that it was a man and not some hideous      apparition-had paused beside the raw, unfinished grave. And he was      staring down at what was left of Benji Thatcher.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tuesday, 14 September\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e S       ebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, braced his hands against the      bedroom windowsill, his gaze on the misty scene below. In the      faint light of dawn, Brook Street lay empty except for a kitchen      maid scrubbing the area steps of the house next door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He could not explain what had driven him from his bed. His dreams      were often disturbed by visions of the past, as if he were      condemned to relive certain moments over and over in a      never-ending spiral of repentance and atonement. But for the      second morning in a row he'd awakened abruptly with no tortured      memories, only a vague sense of disquiet as inexplicable as it was      disturbing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He heard a shifting of covers and turned as Hero came to stand      beside him. \"Did I wake you?\" he asked, sliding an arm around his      wife's warm body to draw her closer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I needed to get up anyway.\" She rested her head on his shoulder,      her fine brown hair sliding softly across his bare flesh. She was      a tall woman, nearly as tall as he, with strong features and eyes      of such piercing intelligence that she frightened a good portion      of their contemporaries. \"I promised my mother I'd come meet a      cousin she has visiting, but first I want to read through my      article one more time before I turn it in to my editor.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ah. So what's your next project?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I haven't decided yet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was writing a series of articles on the poor of London, an      endeavor that greatly irritated her powerful father, Charles, Lord      Jarvis. But Hero was not the kind of woman to allow anyone's      opinions to dissuade her from what she believed to be the right      course of action.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sebastian ran his hand up and down her back and nuzzled her neck.      \"Who's the cousin?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A Mrs. Victoria Hart-Davis. I believe she's the granddaughter of      one of my mother's uncles, but I could have that wrong. She was      raised in India, so I've never met her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And she's staying with your mother?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mmm. For weeks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jarvis must be thrilled.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hero gave a soft chuckle. Jarvis's low opinion of most females was      notorious. \"Fortunately he's so busy plotting how to rearrange      Europe after NapolŽon's defeat that I doubt he'll be around enough      to be overly annoyed by her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bit premature, isn't it?\" NapolŽon was in retreat, but he was      still far from defeated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You know Jarvis; he's always been confident of victory. After      all, with both God and the irrepressible sweep of history on our      side, how can England fail? Such a brazen upstart must be wiped      from the face of the earth.\" Her smile faded as she searched      Sebastian's face, and he wondered what she saw there. \"So what      woke you? Troublesome dreams?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He shook his head, unwilling to put his thoughts into words. Yet      the sense of restless foreboding remained. And when a patter of      rapid footsteps broke the silence of the deserted street and a boy      appeared out of the mist, he somehow knew the lad would turn to      run up their front steps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hero glanced at the ormolu clock on the bedroom mantel. \"A      messenger arriving at this hour of the morning can't be bringing      good news.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No,\" agreed Sebastian, and turned from the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e P       aul Gibson dropped the wet cloth he'd been using into the basin of      water and straightened, his arms wrapping across his chest, his      gaze on the pallid face of the half-washed corpse laid out on the      stone slab before him. The boy had been just fifteen years old,      painfully underfed and small for his age, his features delicate,      his flaxen hair curling softly away from his face as it dried.      What had been done to the lad's emaciated body twisted at      something deep inside Gibson, something the surgeon had thought      deadened long ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was a man in his mid-thirties, Irish by birth, his black hair      already heavily intermixed with silver, the lines on his face dug      deep by the twin ravages of pain and an opium addiction he knew      was slowly killing him. There was a time not so long ago when he'd      been a regimental surgeon. He'd seen soldiers blown into      unidentifiable bloody shreds by cannon fire and hideously maimed      by sword and shot. He'd helped bury more butchered, mutilated      women and children than he could bear to remember. But he'd never      been confronted with something quite like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not here, in London.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reaching out, he tried to close the boy's wide, staring blue eyes,      but the rigor still held them fast. He turned, his peg leg tapping      on the flagged floor as he limped over to stand in the open      doorway and draw the clean, damp morning air deep into his lungs.      He used this small, high-windowed outbuilding behind his Tower      Hill surgery for both official autopsies and the surreptitious,      covert dissections he performed on cadavers filched from London's      teeming churchyards. From here he could look across the yard to      the ancient stone house he shared with Alexi, the vaguely      mysterious Frenchwoman who'd come into his life some months before      and stayed for reasons he'd never quite understood. The sun had      burned off the last of the mist, but the morning air was still      pleasantly cool and tinged with the smell of the smoke rising from      his kitchen chimney.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As he watched, the rickety gate that led to the narrow passage      running along the side of the house opened, and the man Gibson had      been waiting for entered the yard. Tall, lean, and dark haired,      Devlin was younger than Gibson, but only by a few years. Together      the two men had fought George III's wars from Italy and the      Peninsula to the West Indies. The experiences they'd shared had      forged an unusual but powerful bond between the Irish surgeon and      the son and heir of one of the grandest noblemen in the land. Now      they sometimes worked together on murders the authorities      couldn't-or wouldn't-solve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I received your message,\" said Devlin, pausing some feet shy of      the building's entrance. His fine-boned face was taut and      unsmiling, his strange, amber-colored eyes already narrowed as if      in preparation for what he was about to see. \"How bad is it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bad.\" Turning, Gibson led the way back into the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin hesitated a moment, then stepped into the cold, dank      building. At the sight of the battered body laid out on Gibson's      stone slab, he sucked in his breath with a hiss. \"My God.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So far, Gibson had managed to wash the dirt and blood only from      the front of the boy's body. But against the pale, waxy flesh, the      welts and cuts that covered the cadaver's arms, legs, and torso      stood out stark and purple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What the hell happened to him?\" said Devlin after a moment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Someone took a whip to him. Repeatedly. And cut him. With a      small, very sharp knife.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He was found like this? Naked?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A muscle jumped along Devlin's set jaw as his gaze focused on the      wide purple ligature mark around the boy's neck. \"I take it that's      what killed him?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gibson nodded. \"Probably strangled with a leather belt or strap of      some sort.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Any idea who he was?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Actually, yes. His name was Benji Thatcher. According to the      constable who brought him here, his mother was transported to      Botany Bay some three years ago. He's been living on the streets      of Clerkenwell ever since-he and a younger sister.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin let his gaze drift, again, over the boy's thin, tortured      body. \"This was all done before he died?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Most of it, yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bloody hell.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin went to stand in the open doorway as Gibson had done, his      hands on his hips, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in hard.      \"Who's the magistrate dealing with this?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It should be Sir Arthur Ellsworth, of the Hatton Garden Public      Office. The problem is, he's already closed the investigation.      Seems Sir Arthur has better things to do with his public office's      time than worry about the death of some young pickpocket. They      held a cursory inquest yesterday afternoon and then released the      body to the parish authorities for burial in the local poor hole.      He's only here because that didn't sit well with one of the      constables-a man by the name of Mott Gowan. So he brought the      lad's body to me instead.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was a long way from Clerkenwell and Hatton Garden to Tower      Hill, and Gibson heard the puzzlement in Devlin's voice when he      said, \"Why here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gibson hesitated, then said, \"I know Gowan through Alexi. He's      married to a Frenchwoman.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin's jaw hardened, but all he said was, \"Ah.\" The enmity      between Alexi and Devlin was both long-standing and intense. \"You      say the boy was a thief?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sometimes, yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin turned to stare again at the small, battered corpse. And      there was something about the expression that flickered across his      features that made Gibson suspect his friend was thinking about      his own infant son, safe at home. He said, \"Over how many days was      this done to him?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Two, maybe three. Some of the wheals were already beginning to      heal, although most of the slashes and shallow stab wounds were      probably done either right before he was killed or as he was      dying.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin's gaze focused on the raw wounds circling the boy's wrists.      He'd obviously struggled frantically against his bonds. \"Rope, you      think?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I found hemp fibers embedded in the flesh, although there are      signs he was also shackled at some point. He was gagged too; you      can see the chafing at the corners of his mouth.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So no one would hear him scream,\" said Devlin softly, letting his      gaze drift, again, over the boy's pitiful, tortured body. \"Where      was he found?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"On the grounds of the old Rutherford Shot Factory, off Brook      Lane, just outside Clerkenwell. Some ex-soldier sleeping in one of      the abandoned warehouses awoke and heard what sounded like      digging. He listened to it for a while, then finally got up to      investigate.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"And what he'd heard was someone digging a grave?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes. The digger ran off when the soldier shouted at him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Was this soldier able to provide your Constable Gowan with a      description of the killer?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Not much of one, I'm afraid. He claims there were actually two      men-one doing the digging and another fellow who stayed with the      horse and cart.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin's gaze met Gibson's. The thought of even one person capable      of committing such an abomination was troubling enough; the      existence of two such men seemed incomprehensible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Devlin said, \"You say Benji has a younger sister?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gibson nodded. \"Sybil. Constable Gowan says he's tried to find      her, to tell her about her brother. But no one's seen her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Something leapt in Devlin's eyes. \"For how long? How long has she      been missing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gibson felt a cold dread wrap around his guts and squeeze as he      realized the implications of what he was about to say. \"Three      days.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter 4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e S       ebastian left Gibson's surgery and walked toward the old stone      watering trough where his young groom, or tiger, waited with his      curricle and pair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A slight, gap-toothed lad, Tom had been Sebastian's tiger for      nearly three years now, ever since that cold, dark February when      Sebastian had found himself accused of murder and on the run. In      those days Tom had been a hungry pickpocket left behind to fend      for himself when his mother was transported to Botany Bay-just      like Benji Thatcher. And Sebastian found himself thinking about      the difference in the ultimate fates of the two boys as he watched      Tom bring the chestnuts around and draw up, his sharp-featured      face alive with curiosity.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304767344869,"sku":"NP9780451471208","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451471208.jpg?v=1767744056","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/where-the-dead-lie-isbn-9780451471208","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}