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A review by tracey_stewart
What Angels Fear by C.S. Harris
4.0
What Angels Fear opens with the murder of a young woman who turns out to be an actress-cum-prostitute (Cyprian - I'd forgotten about that term). At the scene of the crime is found a dueling pistol with the name "St. Cyr" engraved on it - which obviously incriminates Sebastian St. Cyr, young nobleman and rake, who has been a sore disappointment to his father. But Sebastian (SSC) didn't do it, and when the officious twits of the London police force come to arrest him, he is rather indignant, especially when the Beau Brummel-wannabe sergeant mouths off to him. SSC puts the latter in his place, which may have been a bit of a tactical error given the circumstances - and given that the sergeant has a knife and a temper. In the end, the second constable stumbles onto the knife, the sergeant yells that SSC has killed him, and SSC runs for it. At that point his choices are: turn himself in and hope for the best (although the case is strong against him, and whoever else could or would have stabbed the constable?); find a ship to smuggle him to America or somewhere; or stay hidden and try to find the real killer. SSC being SSC, he has no real choice - he has to try to clear his name.
In working to do so, SSC must turn to the woman who broke his heart several years ago, Kat Boleyn, and a doctor friend who provides valuable forensic information; he is also joined by a young boy who starts off trying to pick his pocket and, in the grand tradition of Regency and Victorian novels, becomes his ally. (And of course he's much cleverer than SSC was expecting; I swear I'm tempted to write a book about a street urchin being taken under someone's wing, someone who realizes the boy is at least as intelligent as anyone in society, and educating him and training him to "pass" - and maybe end up in Parliament. I'll call it "My Fair Laddie.") I don't want it to sound like it's Just Another Regency; it has some rather standard plot turns, and I admit I saw the end coming a ways off, but I was enjoying myself so much that didn't care. And I did think the killer was someone else; there were some lovely red herrings.
There was political intrigue - the French, of course, and the mess surrounding the Madness of King George - which usually annoys me, but this was quite well done and well integrated into the plot: it's integral, and more cloak-and-dagger than oh-lord-not-another-worldwide-conspiracy. There was some truly wonderful period detail. And I loved the characters. The supporting cast could easily have been a cast of cliches, but Harris provided enough twists and quirks that those who peopled this novel came quite close to living and breathing. Sebastian St. Cyr is not Mr. Darcy, nor Julian Kestrel, nor William Monk, nor yet Sherlock Holmes, or any of the other dandies or detectives (or both) of gaslit fame; he is himself, damaged by childhood tragedies, a cold father, and heartbreak and war horrors as an adult. I have to admit, I was still in Fantasy mode when I started this, and still thinking it was by the author of supernatural mysteries, so when the narrative started talking about how he could see almost perfectly well in the dark and hear what no one else could I kept expecting a paragraph along the lines of "He caught the scent of blood on the constable's coat, and turned his face away. He had learned to manage his unholy hungers, but since the night he was bitten he lived in constant fear of losing control"... Obviously I was wrong, and I'm glad of it. (It was an odd experience, though...) I loved the book; it wasn't perfect - again, there was really only one way the climactic struggle could end - but it was close enough.
In working to do so, SSC must turn to the woman who broke his heart several years ago, Kat Boleyn, and a doctor friend who provides valuable forensic information; he is also joined by a young boy who starts off trying to pick his pocket and, in the grand tradition of Regency and Victorian novels, becomes his ally. (And of course he's much cleverer than SSC was expecting; I swear I'm tempted to write a book about a street urchin being taken under someone's wing, someone who realizes the boy is at least as intelligent as anyone in society, and educating him and training him to "pass" - and maybe end up in Parliament. I'll call it "My Fair Laddie.") I don't want it to sound like it's Just Another Regency; it has some rather standard plot turns, and I admit I saw the end coming a ways off, but I was enjoying myself so much that didn't care. And I did think the killer was someone else; there were some lovely red herrings.
There was political intrigue - the French, of course, and the mess surrounding the Madness of King George - which usually annoys me, but this was quite well done and well integrated into the plot: it's integral, and more cloak-and-dagger than oh-lord-not-another-worldwide-conspiracy. There was some truly wonderful period detail. And I loved the characters. The supporting cast could easily have been a cast of cliches, but Harris provided enough twists and quirks that those who peopled this novel came quite close to living and breathing. Sebastian St. Cyr is not Mr. Darcy, nor Julian Kestrel, nor William Monk, nor yet Sherlock Holmes, or any of the other dandies or detectives (or both) of gaslit fame; he is himself, damaged by childhood tragedies, a cold father, and heartbreak and war horrors as an adult. I have to admit, I was still in Fantasy mode when I started this, and still thinking it was by the author of supernatural mysteries, so when the narrative started talking about how he could see almost perfectly well in the dark and hear what no one else could I kept expecting a paragraph along the lines of "He caught the scent of blood on the constable's coat, and turned his face away. He had learned to manage his unholy hungers, but since the night he was bitten he lived in constant fear of losing control"... Obviously I was wrong, and I'm glad of it. (It was an odd experience, though...) I loved the book; it wasn't perfect - again, there was really only one way the climactic struggle could end - but it was close enough.