Author Biography

C. S. Harris has written more than twenty novels. Why Kings Confess is the ninth book in the Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery series, following What Darkness Brings, When Maidens Mourn, and Where Shadows Dance. Harris is also the author of the C. S. Graham thriller series coauthored with former intelligence officer Steven Harris, including The Babylonian Codex, The Solomon Effect, and The Archangel Project, and, writing as Candice Proctor, is the author of seven award-winning historical romances, including Beyond Sunrise and Midnight Confessions. A respected scholar of nineteenth-century Europe, she is also the author of a nonfiction historical study of the French Revolution entitled Women, Equality, and the French Revolution. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and has two daughters.

Review

"Best historical thriller writer in the business!"—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

Praise for Why Kings Confess

"Harris's best Regency whodunit yet...[She] melds mystery and history as seamlessly as she integrates developments in her lead's personal life into the plot."—Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)
 
"Harris's novel shows an intimate knowledge of both the political and social history of Regency England.…The history, characters, mystery, and atmosphere all draw the reader in and don't let go."—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

Review Quote

"Best historical thriller writer in the business!"- New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner Praise for Why Kings Confess "Harris's best Regency whodunit yet...[She] melds mystery and history as seamlessly as she integrates developments in her lead's personal life into the plot."- Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) "Harris's novel shows an intimate knowledge of both the political and social history of Regency England.…The history, characters, mystery, and atmosphere all draw the reader in and don't let go."- RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

Excerpt from Book

Chapter 1 St. Katharine''s, East London Thursday, 21 January 1813 Paul Gibson lurched down the dark, narrow lane, his face raw from the cold, his fingers numb. There were times when he wandered these alleyways lost in brightly hued reveries of opium-induced euphoria. But not tonight. Tonight, Gibson clenched his jaw and tried to focus on the tap-tap of his wooden leg on the icy cobbles, the reedy wail of a babe carried on the night wind--anything that might distract his mind from the restless, hungering need that drenched his thin frame with sweat and tormented him with ghosts of what could be. When he first noticed the woman, he thought her an apparition, a mirage of gray wool and velvet lying crumpled beside the entrance to a fetid passageway. But as he drew nearer, he saw pale flesh and the gleaming dark wetness of blood and knew she was only too real. He drew up sharply, the dank, briny air of the nearby Thames rasping in his throat. Cat''s Hole, they called this narrow lane, a refuge for thieves, prostitutes, and all the desperate dispossessed of England and beyond. He could feel his heart pounding; the stars glittered like shards of broken glass in the thin slice of cold black sky visible between the looming rooftops above. He hesitated perhaps longer than he should have. But he was a surgeon, his life dedicated to the care of others. He pushed himself forward again. She lay curled half on her side, one hand flung out palm up, eyes closed. He hunkered down awkwardly beside her, fingertips searching for a pulse in her slim neck. Her face was delicately boned and framed by a riot of long, flame red hair, her lashes dark and thick against the pale flesh of her smooth cheeks, her lips purple-blue with cold. Or death. But at his touch, her eyelids fluttered open, her chest jerking on a sob and a broken, whispered prayer. "Sainte Marie, M

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