 England, summer of 1812. Lucien, Viscount Ware, a secret spy for the Crown, is asked by his grandmother to use his skills in locating a missing country girl. She had taken a governess’s position near London almost a year ago and not been heard from for months. With the Prince Regent safely in Bath and Whitehall’s attention on the war with America, Lucien has the time and agrees to make a few inquiries. The girl’s employers tell him Lucy vanished one night ten months ago with all her belongings. Convinced there is more to the story, he obtains an invitation—through his friend Lady Anne Ashburn—to a houseparty in the neighborhood in order to continue his inquiries. With the help of Lady Anne, the houseparty hosts, and others around the village of Blinkers Marsh, Lucien and his friend/fellow agent Sherbourne learn of a second missing girl, make a grisly discovery in a pond, and hear whispers of a deadly plot to unleash terror and disruption upon London. They soon realize they are all in danger, along with hundreds or thousands of London citizens, perhaps the Crown itself—and a wild race begins to unmasks the culprits and cut off the deadly plot before time runs out. Pre-order link: www.amazon.com/Dead-Cannot-Hide-J-Buck-ebook/dp/B0B6M4WK1R EXCERPT: London, July 1812 Lucien Grey, Viscount Ware, doffed his hat to a gentleman on a passing phaeton and stepped up to the front entrance of the Salcott London mansion. The time was exactly half four. The summons from his grandmother Augusta, the Dowager Countess Salcott, had arrived hours earlier, but he had put off his call until the Earl would be in session at the House of Lords. Lucien had every hope of avoiding a quarrel with his father. The viscount and Salcott had been at odds…well, all of Lucien’s life really. The less they saw of one another, the better they got on—especially now. When his father’s worst beliefs about his only surviving son had proven false last winter, Salcott’s resulting embarrassment had made him more intractable than ever. And Lucien was in no mood to be polite or tolerant. The War Office at Whitehall was in disarray, and in recent weeks, Lord Rothe had laden Lucien and his fellow intelligence agent Andrew Sherbourne with too many private, clandestine assignments—some frivolous or even foolhardy. Lucien rapped the knocker twice, keen to get out of the stifling July heat. The door opened promptly, and the elderly butler, a family retainer since Lucien’s childhood, greeted him with a smile. “Your lordship.” “Good afternoon, Jeffers. You look in the pink of health,” Lucien said, stepping inside. “I trust the gout is not giving you too much trouble?” “Not bad, my lord. Just now and again.” The butler bowed, showing proper deference overlaid with the familiarity of long acquaintance. Only in the last few years had he given up referring to the viscount as Master Lucien. Jeffers’ hair was showing significant white now, but age had neither slowed his step nor dulled the alertness in his eyes. Lucien handed him his hat. “Is the dowager countess receiving?” “She is, my lord, and will be as delighted to see you as I am. As the Smythes left not more than ten minutes ago, she is still in the drawing room.” “Excellent. I shall announce myself.” “Very good, my lord.” Lucien smoothed his hair, straightened his cuffs, and made his way across the marble hallway, hoping his grandmother’s summons wasn’t just another opportunity to lecture him. Despite her blatant manipulation to get whatever she wanted, he was quite fond of the old lady and admired her strong-minded spirit. He had no wish to offend her, but any attempt to press him regarding Salcott or his duties to the family name would sorely try his patience. Frankly, he was tired. A respite from both family and political intrigue was in order. In the six months since a French spy had been unearthed inside Whitehall, the Home Office and its War Office division had moved from one crisis to another. The war with Napoleon continued to swing back and forth, giving the populace little to cheer about. Discontent, even revolution, was whispered loudly on the streets. In the midst of it all, Prime Minister Spencer Perceval was assassinated in the very heart of Westminster by a madman, and a month later, War Secretary Jenkinson, the 2nd Earl of Liverpool, was appointed Prime Minister and his former position filled by Henry Bathurst, 3rd Earl of Bathurst. As if those events had not caused sufficient upheaval in the upper levels of British government, sixteen days ago, on June 18, America had declared war on Great Britain. Fortunately, Lord Rothe, the man Lucien reported to in Prinny’s secret spy unit, had remained unscathed by the turmoil and still enjoyed a favored position with the Prince Regent. But even that had its downside. As the prince grew less trustful of others, he had relied more often on the Marquess of Rothe and his aristocratic spies to solve the least little problem that annoyed him, including indiscreet scrapes and scandals among his friends or other members of the haute ton that were a potential threat to Prinny’s peace of mind or the smooth conduct of government. Rothe, in turn, had reached out to Lucien and Sherbourne more often than not. They had been putting out political fires way too often. Upon reaching the drawing room, Lucien found his grandmother absorbed in a book, a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, her back straight, not a white curl out of place. She was still a grand lady, aging with indomitable elegance. As he strode toward her, she looked up, hastily put her novel and glasses on the table, and held out both hands. “Lucien! I had begun to wonder if you were coming. I have waited all day, naughty boy.” Despite the scold, her eyes twinkled as he bowed and took her hands, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I beg pardon for my tardiness, Grandmama. I did not realize your request was urgent.” “Fustian. We both know why you dallied until this hour, but rest assured, I did not ask you here to box your ears. Do take a seat, my boy. You look fagged. Shall I ring for fresh tea?” “Not for me. I feel the want of something stronger.” Crossing to the sideboard, he picked up a crystal decanter of port, pulled out the stopper, and turned, cocking his head. “Will you join me?” The dowager’s eyes gleamed. “Need you ask? Surely you did not think I would leave you to drink alone.” He chuckled, handed her a half-filled glass, and settled into a wing-backed chair. After taking a reviving swallow of the excellent port, he picked up the conversation again. “I am surprised to find you in London. I thought you were permanently settled these last few years in the dower house at Salcott.” “Oh, I am. Very comfortably, I might add. Country life suits me at my age, and I would not normally travel so far, but I had business with my London solicitors. They could have come to me, of course, but I also wished to speak with you.” “I gathered that.” He leaned forward and studied her face, a flash of unease bringing a frown. “Is something wrong? You are not ill?” “Do I look ill?” The dowager appeared startled. “On second thought, do not answer that. I am afraid what your answer might be.” “Nonsense. You are as beautiful as ever.” “Now who is talking nonsense?” she said with a smile. “I am well, Lucien, as well as one can be at seventy.” Her mood visibly shifted as she pursed her lips. “However, I shall not deny I am disquieted. I came to town because I need your help.” “You shall have it. What can I do for you?” It's that time of year when we say good-bye to the old and hello to the new. I wish you and yours the happiest of holidays. Since this traditional song originated with the Scottish and was around during the Regency era - in fact, it was well-known thanks to the poet Robert Burns putting the lyrics to paper - it only seems fitting to include it on this blog and to present the song as it was originally intended--the Scottish way.  Aria for Murder (A Julia Kogan Opera Mystery) Genre: Mystery/ Thriller Romance Rating: 2-3 Excitement mounts as the moment arrives for brilliant young violinist Julia Kogan's debut in the orchestra of the world-renowned Metropolitan Opera. But the high-stakes milieu of this musical mecca is rocked to its core when, during an onstage murder scene, Julia's mentor, a famous conductor, is assassinated on the podium. Thrust into the investigation when her closest colleague in the orchestra is named chief suspect, Julia teams up with opera-loving NYPD detective Larry Somers to solve the murder. In the process, they are shocked to discover the venerable opera house is rife with a web of secrets, intrigue, and lethal rivalries. But all bets are off when Julia suddenly finds herself the real killer's prime target. “A ruthless and clever killer haunts the Metropolitan Opera and the hidden recesses of Lincoln Center. Violinist Julia Kogan, a rising star in the pit, must unmask the murderer or become a victim herself. Erica Miner’s richly satisfying Aria for Murder delivers a compelling mystery, replete with devious characters, glorious music, and plenty of behind-the-scenes dirty laundry. A musical and dramatic triumph. Bis! Encore!”—James W. Ziskin, Anthony, Barry, and Macavity Award-winning author “Erica Miner, the Agatha Christie of the opera world, continues the genre with a wickedly wonderful…brand new thriller, Aria for Murder…This is simply brilliant writing. Bravissima!” —Richard Stilwell, international opera star Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/Aria-Murder-Julia-Kogan-Mystery/dp/1685121985/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669763489&sr=8-1 EXCERPT: Prologue Chi è morto, voi, o il vecchio? Che domanda da bestia! Il vecchio. Who’s dead, you or the old man? What an idiotic question! The old man. —Mozart, Don Giovanni, Act I Collateral damage. Sometimes it just can’t be avoided. That was what his partner had told him. When you’re trying to kill someone, other people can get in the way. It’s not planned. It just happens. Though the Metropolitan Opera’s orchestra pit was the largest in the world, when the orchestration of an opera was vast, as in Wagner or Strauss, things could get quite crowded for the one hundred or so musicians squeezed together there. Tonight’s Verdi was no exception. Grand opera at its loftiest, with plenty of brass, extra strings, and the like. He would do his best to hit his target precisely. But it wasn’t an exact science. And if, under pressure, he was slightly off, well... Tanto peggio, as they say in French. He chortled to himself. Everyone in the Met knew “tanto peggio” was Italian, not French. He salivated with anticipation as he lovingly cleaned his VAL Russian sniper rifle with its special bronze-bristled brush, and oiled and lubricated the ammunition chamber with the fine-spray One Shot gun cleaner and a cotton swab. He picked up the last tiny fragments of powder residue with an alcohol patch threaded through a needle attached to the brush. Then he polished the entire instrument with one of his special-order McAlister microfiber gun cleaning cloths. If you look after your firearm, when the time comes, it will look after you. A vintage model, no longer available, the VAL was precious, but not because of its monetary or historic value. It was his own personal Stradivarius: a thing of beauty, a state-of-the-art example of genius in design at its time, and still as reliable as ever. He knew that the cartridge of this rifle, with the immense power contained within its barrel, was capable of forcing a bullet to explode at a higher speed than a mere handgun: the kind of velocity he needed to accomplish his goal. Lord knows I need something dependable—and powerful. No one knew he kept the VAL right inside the opera house, practically under everyone’s noses. To head off the possibility that they might install metal detectors at the Met—which everyone seemed to be doing these days—he had found the perfect hiding place for his beloved firearm, in a far-off corner away from prying eyes. It remained there, at the ready, just in case he needed it. No one was aware of its existence, let alone its hidden location.  About the Author: A former violinist with the Metropolitan Opera, I am an award-winning author, screenwriter, arts journalist, and lecturer based in the Pacific Northwest. My debut novel, Travels with my Lovers, won the Fiction Prize in the Direct from the Author Book Awards, and my screenplays have won awards in a number of recognized competitions. Aria for Murder, the first in my Julia Kogan Opera Mystery series, released on Oct. 28, 2022. Something unique/unusual that isn't in your regular bio. “To my knowledge, I’m the only former Met Opera musician who is writing operatic mysteries.” Author Contacts: https://www.facebook.com/erica.miner1/ https://twitter.com/EmwrtrErica https://www.instagram.com/emwriter3/ For more information about the author, check out her Author Interview on my Ally Shields blog: |
AuthorJ L Buck writes in the mystery genre, currenty enthralled with Regency-era England. She is multi-published in paranormal 
Check out my profile on AllAuthor (including my Ally Shields fantasy books). Here you can read my books' sample chapters, get updates on my books and latest deals, ask me questions, discuss my books and much more. Follow me on AllAuthor.
https://allauthor.com/author/jlbuck/ 
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