Sneak Peek Excerpt of THE DEAD CANNOT HIDE by JL Buck

The Dead Cannot Hide (Viscount Ware Mystery #2) releases next Tuesday, February 14, and I decided to post a sneak peek of the opening pages a week early (which I'm cross-posting to both my blogs). I hope you enjoy it!​

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The Dead Cannot Hide (Viscount Ware Mystery #2)
Genre: Historical Mystery/Regency England

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 Ameria, 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 plots before time runs out.

Pre-order and buy links available now at online sellers, including:

Amazon: www.amazon.com/Dead-Cannot-Hide-J-Buck-ebook/dp/B0B6M4WK1R

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 EXCERPT:

Chapter One
 
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.”
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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?”

“A girl from our village, a young woman, I should say…Lucy Drayton is missing.” The dowager’s hand fluttered in the air. “Oh, I doubt you know her. She must be twenty…or one and twenty by now. Her great-aunt, a dear lady, and I are close acquaintances. Lucy’s mother married beneath herself, you see, and the child was brought up in the impoverished but gentle home of an estate agent.” She stopped abruptly as though realizing she had drifted off course. “Well, never mind all that, the long and short of it is at her age and still unmarried, Lucy took a position as governess in a respectable household near London. That was a year ago. Her family had one letter, telling them she had arrived safely, but nothing since.”

“What makes you think she is missing? She may be busy, involved in her new life.”

His grandmother shook her head. “She was ever a polite and considerate child. Her family and I agree Lucy would write and not worry them in this way. Something has happened to her, Lucien. I want you to find her, and if she is not well situated, I hope you can bring her home.”

Lucien tapped his fingers on the chair arm. Young servant girls, even governesses, went missing in London all the time, swallowed by a city that could be heartless. Some were later found to have runoff with young men; others turned off their positions for a variety of reasons, including accusations of loose morals, disappeared into the seedier parts of town, surviving in any manner they could. Finding her might not be easy, especially if she didn’t want to be found. “What does her employer say?”

“Not enough. That is what makes it so concerning.” The dowager’s frown deepened, exaggerating the age wrinkles around her mouth. “The family wrote to Mr. Harwick, twice, but received no response. Three weeks ago, Lucy’s cousin David made the trip to Harwick House and was told she had left without notice late last autumn. And yet nobody told her family…not even Lucy. Is that not strange?”

“I do not disagree, but it is not alarming.” He went on, condensing his earlier thoughts. “Girls are let go or lured away by false promises and end up with lives they won’t divulge to friends and relatives. She may not thank me for finding her.”
“No need to mince words, Lucien. You mean she may be working in a brothel.”

“Well, there are other possibilities, but yes, that is one.”

“Very doubtful.” The dowager spoke with decisiveness. “I know the girl. But if she has sunk that low, her family will want to help her. They at least need to know whether she is alive or dead. Will you look into it?”

Lucien smiled. As though he could say no. She knew he would not refuse her. “For you, anything. I shall do what I can. As you know, Lord Rothe has priority on much of my time.” The dowager was one of the few who had known, even during his four years of seeming frivolity in the ballrooms and courts on the Continent, that he worked as an agent for the Crown. He had sworn her to secrecy, and she had kept her pledge. Family ties notwithstanding, he owed her. He unfolded his long length and stood. “Speaking of Rothe, I have an appointment with his lordship that I must keep.”

“Must you go so soon? Yes, of course, you do.” She sighed and gave him an earnest look. “Thank you, my boy. The Draytons— and I, of course—shall be eternally grateful for anything you can discover. I shall not detain you longer, for I know how important your work is, but I hope to see you soon with news of her. I shall remain in London at least another week or two.”
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“If today’s meeting goes as expected, I may be able to look into this right away.” Rothe’s message had implied he and Sherbourne might be getting a break from assignments. If so, he would be at leisure to do what he could for the Drayton family.

“Oh, excellent.”

“No promises the answers will be what you want,” he cautioned. “But I shall do my best to learn the truth.” He kissed her cheek good-bye and walked toward the door.

The old woman sighed audibly this time. “Oh, Lucien, I am sorry to vex you, but I cannot let you leave without urging you to speak with your father. I mean truly talk with him. I know he should have had faith in you, trusted your character…but now that he knows of your secret work for the Crown, I am convinced he wants to make amends.”

Lucien had stiffened the moment she sighed. Now he turned. “You know our differences go back well before my years in the war. Discovering I have not been the care-for-nothing rake he thought I was changes nothing. He will ever hold me responsible for the death of my mother.”

“Oh, Lucien, no…”

“It is no matter, truly. I understand. But that does not make it easier.”

“No one is to blame for your mother dying in childbirth, least of all the babe. She was always delicate. These things happen in life.”

“Try telling that to my father.” He saw the pain in her eyes and wondered if it was a reflection of his own. It was not as though this was an easy or new conversation.

“My darling boy, he knows… deep in his heart he has always known, but he could not get past his grief. Theirs was a true love match, and, well… When he finally began to recover, I think he felt it was too late and pride stood in his way.”

Lucien shrugged. “It is too late. My father and I will never have a normal father-son relationship. Too many bitter years of misunderstandings are behind us.”

“I cannot accept that as true, dear boy, but if it is, could you not make something new? A friendship, perhaps. Surely it is not too late for that.”

“You make it sound as though we are uncivil. I strive to always show proper respect.” Lucien sounded defensive to his own ears and cut himself off. “I must go, or I will be late.”

She gave a resigned nod. “Yes, I am sorry. I do not mean to plague you.”

“I know.” Lucien’s face softened. “Just as I know the distance between my father and me causes you grief, but it is a lost cause. You must accept it, Grandmama. I have.” He turned back toward the door. “I shall let you know what I learn of Lucy Drayton’s fate.”

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