Preview of THE DEAD CANNOT HIDE Releasing February 14

​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

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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.”
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“You shall have it. What can I do for you?”

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