Release Day for The Dead Betray None (a Regency mystery)!

An aristocratic spy and a highborn lady cross paths over a dead body..

1811 England seethes with discontent. A self-indulgent prince regent sits on the throne of a country at war with France, on the brink of war with America, and facing growing rebellion at home.
 
Lucien, Viscount Ware, recently home after four years on the Continent as a spy for England, finds life in the haute ton tedious. He secretly agrees to handle a few delicate matters for the Crown’s private spy unit at Whitehall. A housebreaking at a country houseparty seems a strange assignment until he discovers that a French cipher, the key to Napoleon’s war codes, was among the stolen items. As he follows its trail to London’s notorious rookeries and into its glittering ballrooms, he faces a growing threat of treachery from more than one direction.
Lady Anne Ashburn missed her London season while caring for her invalid mother in the north country. A new nurse allows her to visit relatives, where she becomes embroiled in a blackmail plot. To avoid a terrible scandal, she goes to London to face down the scoundrel threatening her family.
 
The night of the elegant Christmastide Ball, Lucien finds Lady Anne standing over a corpse. What happens after that—the risks they take, the intrusion of a notorious crime lord, society gossip, and good intentions gone awry—sends them spiraling into danger and potential disaster for England’s war effort.
 
An ever twisting plot sure to keep you turning the pages.

Easing the bays to the left toward the stable yard, he brought the light carriage to a halt, and his groom, Finn, slipped off the back to run to the horses’ heads. The high bred team danced in place, snorting at the abrupt end to the journey, their hot breath forming tiny clouds in the icy air.

Lucien leapt to the ground, his top boots squishing the sodden maple leaves blown over the cobblestones. He tossed the reins to Finn. “Be good to them. They earned it.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The small man, somewhere in his thirties, but not much over five feet tall nor eight stone, gave his master a toothy grin and flipped a shock of reddish-brown hair out of his eyes. “Sev’teen mile in a’ hour an’ a bit more. They be getting oats an’ barley for sure.”

Lucien nodded casual approval and yanked off his leather driving gloves, using them to brush at the dried road dirt on his multi-caped greatcoat. A burst of rain and sleet from the same storm that must have blown through the baron’s estate had caught him on the Great North Road from London.

With a final slap of the gloves, he abandoned the futile effort to make himself presentable and strode toward the country house, his lean, muscled frame moving with the ease of a man used to action. A twinge of disquiet returned a frown to his face, and his eyes narrowed. Four years of clandestine missions in the glittering courts and ballrooms of the Continent—their elegant setting no less deadly than the wretched battlefields—had taught him to trust his instincts, and something was off the mark about this assignment. A part of him had known it since Lord Rothe’s man came pounding on his door before dawn.