When Gods Die

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 Highness 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.