Read Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited Online
Authors: Heather Graham
Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited
A Philadelphia mansion plays host to uninvited death
1777:
In the throes of the
Revolutionary War, Landon Mansion is commandeered by British Lord “Butcher”
Bedford. He stabs Lucy Tarleton—who spurned his king and his love—leaving her to
die in her father’s arms.
Now:
After the day’s final tour,
docent Allison Leigh makes her rounds while locking up…and finds a colleague
slumped over Bedford’s desk, impaled on his own replica bayonet.
Resident ghosts may be the stock-in-trade of stately
Philadelphia homes, but Allison—a noted historian—is indignant at the prospect
of “ghost hunters” investigating this apparent murder.
Agent Tyler Montague knows his hauntings and his history. But
while Allison is skeptical of the newcomer, a second mysterious murder occurs.
Has “Butcher” Bedford resurfaced? Or is there another malevolent force at work
in Landon Mansion? Wary, yet deeply attracted, Allison has to trust in Tyler and
work with him to discover just what uninvited guest—dead or alive—has taken over
the house. Or
their
lives could become history!
Praise for the novels of Heather Graham
“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and
romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature
of the killer’s evil.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
The Unseen
“Suspenseful and dark. The culture and history surrounding San
Antonio and the Alamo are described in detail. The transitions between past and
present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting and their
connection to one another is believable.”
—
RT Book Reviews
on
The Unseen
“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister
and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s
latest…Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real,
human evil.”
—
Miami
Herald
on
Unhallowed Ground
“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly
suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing and, in the
wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is
especially poignant.”
—
Booklist
on
Ghost Walk
“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts
suspense, romance and the paranormal
—all of it
nail-biting.”
—
Publishers
Weekly
on
The
Vision
“An incredible storyteller.”
—
Los Angeles Daily News
“Great writing and excellent characters make
Wicked
a terrific read… The undercurrent of mystery
and suspense will keep readers riveted.”
—
Romance Reviews Today
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNHOLY
THE
UNSEEN
BRIDE OF THE NIGHT
AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS
THE EVIL
INSIDE
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE
VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST
SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR
CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY
GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST
NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF
DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING
KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME
DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE
BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW
BURN
NIGHT HEAT
* * * * *
Look for Heather Graham’s next novel
from Harlequin MIRA
in 2013.
To the great city of Philadelphia, and to
my favorite Pennsylvanians in the world, Gail Spence Crosbie and Ann
Spence—and to Jimmy, Megan, Spencer and Anthony Crosbie
Prologue
I
t was a beautiful time of day, close to
dusk, at a beautiful time of year, early fall. Philadelphia’s Tarleton-Dandridge
House sat back from the street, majestic and stately, in the light that had just
begun to fade, as fine and poignant as an old building could be, a proud remnant
of an era long gone, yet ever remembered.
Julian Mitchell almost felt guilty. Almost. He couldn’t quite
manage guilt; he was too ecstatic over his day, still pumped with enthusiasm and
the beat of the music he’d been playing. He enjoyed being a guide at the
Tarleton-Dandridge, but today he’d had to ditch it. The audition had been
important and, much as he loved his job, he loved the idea of working full-time
as a guitarist more. Sure, it was great dressing up and playing with the band in
Old Town, but he had dreams of being a real rock star. Now, however, he had to
slip back into the house—and suck up to Allison. She was their unofficial
leader, head of the guides or docents at the Tarleton-Dandridge, and if she
forgave him, the others would, too.
He saw that one group of guests had already entered the house
with their guide and that another, the last group of the day, was assembling
just outside the main door. He could see Allison Leigh to the side of the house
near the gate, welcoming those who were gathering for the final tour. Allison
was dressed in the typical fashion of the Revolutionary era—the typical
high
fashion of the Revolutionary era, since female
guides wore clothing along the lines of that which would’ve been worn by Lucy
Tarleton, the martyred heroine of the house. The male guides dressed as Lord
Brian Bradley, the British general known as “Beast” Bradley, who had occupied
the house.
They all looked pretty cool in their clothing, he thought. But
especially Allison. She was beautiful to begin with, even if she
was
kind of a nerd. A real academic. But she did bear
a resemblance to the heroine she played, Lucy Tarleton. They’d all remarked on
her resemblance to the painting in the house and those in various museums, but
there was no evidence that she
was
a descendent of
the woman. And if anyone would know, Allison would, since she was a historian.
Maybe it was the clothing that gave her the look.
Allison wasn’t even glancing his way, so he quickly jumped the
old brick wall that surrounded the house.
He was still in his period clothing from the morning shift; he
hadn’t sneaked out until after lunch. Luckily, his band’s audition had been to
open for the new “it” group—rockers who liked to dress up like Patrick Henry and
friends—which meant he hadn’t had to worry about auditioning in his work
outfit.
Of course, he hadn’t asked for the time off. He’d decided that
in life it was generally better to
do
and ask
forgiveness later than it was to beg for permission and get a big fat
no!
What guilt he did feel was because one of his
colleagues had to take the tour group
he
should have
led.
Still, he had a plan. He’d wait until the last group had gone
through, and Jason and Allison had finished for the day. He winced; he realized
Annette wasn’t at work. She’d made an appointment for a root canal. But he knew
his fellow docents as well as they knew him. Jason would leave before Ally.
Julian just had to wait until Jason had left and Allison was alone, checking as
she always did that the doors were locked and the alarm system was on. She would
come down to Angus’s study—ye olde study, where that poor bastard Angus Tarleton
had died, supposedly of a broken heart—to make sure no kids were hiding under
the desk to spend the night in the “haunted” house. He’d wait for her there.
When Ally showed up, he would beg and plead and he could honestly tell her
they’d probably get the gig, and he’d do anything to compensate for the time
he’d missed. And he’d promise her backstage passes to the first concert.
He tiptoed to the front door and listened. Once Jason’s tour
had moved into the social rooms to the left, he hurried up the stairs. But when
he reached the second-floor landing, he heard conversation and footsteps coming
down from the attic. He dodged into Lucy Tarleton’s room. He’d forgotten the
board was meeting at the house that day. He’d have to wait until they were
gone.
At last, they were. He heard the foursome going down the main
stairway. As usual, they were bickering among themselves.
“Cherry, you may be a descendent of the family, but this place
is owned by Old Philly History now. We’re only the board.” She started to speak,
but Ethan Oxford interrupted her. “Yes, it’s privately owned and operated, but
there’s a charter. The house was donated for the preservation of history.”
Old Ethan Oxford was the senior member of the board. Cherry’s
mother had been the last of the Dandridge family. Cherry would probably have
eschewed her own father’s name to take on Dandridge, Julian was certain, except
that her husband, George Addison, was becoming a very well-known artist, and she
liked the prestige that came with being Mrs. Addison.
“No one knows this house like I do,” Cherry insisted.
“Really? You never lived in it. It was handed over to Old
Philly History long before you were born.”
Julian smiled. That voice belonged to Nathan Pierson, who loved
to listen sweetly to Cherry and then zing her.
“Hush!” Sarah Vining said. “There are tour groups in here!”
A moment later, even their voices faded away as they left the
house.
Julian started toward the attic but paused. For some reason, he
had the odd sensation of being held in the room and he turned around, curious.
He saw nothing there. Nothing except the painting of Beast Bradley. The
nice
painting of Bradley. “They say you were a brutal
bastard. Glad someone saw the good in you!” Julian said. Giving himself a mental
shake, he dashed up to the attic to hide. He sat at the desk there, glancing at
the piles of paper around the computer and the countless file folders. Some of
the information here was pure business—schedules, events planned at the estate,
programs planned, money collected. But most of the piles belonged to Ally.
Professor Allison Leigh. “You would have to be a brainiac!” he said aloud. He
was a year or two younger than Ally, but he’d had a crush on her since he’d
taken his position here. And she wasn’t
all
work and
no play. He knew because she’d dated another musician for a while, an
acquaintance of his.
“You may have brains, Ally, but your taste in men isn’t so
great.” It was one thing to have a casual friendship with a drug addict; it was
another to date one. Ally’s romance had ended when she realized she couldn’t
compete with his cocaine habit.
Ah, well, history seemed to be her true love. He picked up the
nearest folder and began to read. “Huh!” he murmured. Apparently, she’d found a
new lead on an old subject.
To his own surprise, he became interested in her notes. Ally
definitely seemed to be on to something. He set down the folder and listened
carefully. It was safe to go down to the second floor, he decided, since Jason’s
tour group had departed.
Julian hurried back to Lucy’s bedroom. There was a beautiful
rendering of a young Lucy on one wall. She was dressed in white and had a look
of open excitement in her eyes, as if she loved life, and the whole world. It
had been an eighteenth-birthday gift to Lucy from Levy Perry, an artist killed
at Brandywine. Naturally, it was painted before either of them had learned about
the horrors of war.
He turned from the image of Lucy and stared at the painting of
Beast Bradley again.
“Charmer, were you?” He laughed softly. “Well, that’s not what
history says.”
As soon as he could, he’d go down to Angus’s study and wait for
Ally. If she gave him any grief, he could tell her he’d read her notes about
Bradley and Lucy, and they were brilliant, just brilliant.
Interesting that the painting of Beast Bradley in the study was
nothing like this one.
He smiled. He’d have the chance to stare at
that
one for a while. Because he wanted to be in
Angus’s chair when Ally found him. He was dressed as Beast Bradley—why not play
the part completely as he begged her to forgive him? It was the perfect way to
convince her that he was serious about his job here. At least until his music
career was well and truly launched…
Leaving Lucy’s bedroom, he reached the door and thought he
heard a noise behind him. But that was impossible.
Unless it was good old Beast Bradley himself, roused from the
dead to rummage through the research papers?
Tiptoeing down the stairs he laughed. He opened the hall closet
on the first floor to pick up the reproduction muzzle-loading musket and bayonet
that went with his uniform.
He heard a noise again and frowned. It
couldn’t
be coming from the attic. No, he told himself, the rustling
was probably outside.
“‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!’” he muttered.
And yet, it was with great unease that he waited.
He felt he was being watched.
And followed.