him into a corner and spoke with a coarse whisper. “Don’t admit it. These men are out for blood, preferably ours.”
“What for? What happened?”
“Somebody got knifed tonight.”
Charles felt the blade in his pocket, glad he hadn’t been a victim of the same kind of mayhem. “I’m not surprised. A couple of toughs came after me. It was only by the grace of God I managed to escape.”
“Good thing you didn’t have a woman with you.”
The hair on Charles’s nape prickled. “What do you mean?”
“They say the dead man was all tangled up in a woman’s outer garment. It looked as if whoever killed him had rendered him helpless before driving a knife blade between his ribs.”
Charles plopped onto the brocade-upholstered, horsehair sofa. “Say that again?”
“It wasn’t a normal mugging. The victim was trussed up first, then murdered in cold blood. Worse, he was a soldier on leave.”
There was nothing Charles could think to say or do other than sit there and stare. The man they had tied up had been alive and well when he, Annabelle and Johnny had left him. Charles knew she would swear to that—except she’d have to admit to having been on the scene if he asked for her support. And then what would happen to her already tenuous standing in the Eaton household?
There was only one real problem as Charles saw it. The cape. If anyone recognized the fabric remnants left behind and questioned Annabelle, she’d be honor bound to tell the truth.
As long as the police believed all her story, everything would be fine. If they chose to twist her words, however, his whole diplomatic mission could be in jeopardy, not to mention his neck. Murder was bad enough. The thought that a visiting Cherokee might have killed a Washington citizen, let alone a soldier, was far worse.
Charles’s choices were poor on all counts. His tribe depended upon its ambassadors portraying an image of refinement and civility. So, what should he do? Tell the whole story and reveal the girl’s name? Keep mum and pray that nobody knew Annabelle had come looking for him? And what about Johnny? Suppose he remained with Eaton while Annabelle was ostracized?
Agonizing over the unacceptable possibilities, Charles decided he could not sit there and let an innocent young woman suffer needlessly. He must slip out and return to warn her, even if it meant sneaking into the Eaton mansion and somehow using his nephew as a go-between. Then, if he and Annabelle could not see a solution to their dilemma, he would return to Plunkett’s and confess his part in the altercation being investigated.
Leaving the sofa with the fluid movement of a skillful hunter, he was out of the room and headed for the back door without any of the soldiers noticing.
Elias watched him go without a word.
* * *
Annabelle tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. She’d opened the windows partway to ventilate her stuffy bedroom and could hear voices coming from the yard below as well as from the mansion’s ground floor.
Was that her name? Had someone just called to her?
“Annabelle!”
There it was again. Curiosity drew her to the open window, made her lean out and look down. “Charles? What are you...?”
“Hush. There may be troops headed this way. I came to warn you.”
“Why?”
“They’re at Plunkett’s now. Police, too. We must have been seen together in the park.”
She drew her nightclothes around her more tightly and tried to still her trembling. Surely there was no way anyone could have found out about her unauthorized excursion.
“We didn’t do anything wrong. You were the victim.”
“The man we tied up is dead,” Charles said.
“No! He can’t be.” Her head was starting to spin and she leaned heavily on the smooth wooden windowsill. “You must be mistaken. He was fine when we left.”
“Somebody killed him after we were gone.” Charles’s voice was barely audible over the noise beginning to arise from the front yard and portico.
And there she stood, in her nightdress, holding an inappropriate conversation with a man she barely knew. A man whose presence in the garden would be further damning evidence of her mistakes if they were observed.
“Annabelle!” John Eaton’s voice boomed, echoing up the stairwell. “Annabelle!” Boots thudded. Her door was hit hard and slammed open against the wall.
She whirled, her back to the window, the collar of her long gown fisted at her throat. There was no mistaking her foster father’s tone or his reddening face. Someone must have discovered her trespasses, as Charles had warned.
“Downstairs. Now. And cover yourself decently.”
“Yes, sir.” Threading her arms through the sleeves of a linen wrapper, she belted it over her gown and freed her long, heavy braid from the collar.
Eaton pushed past her to the open window and leaned out, giving Annabelle a terrible fright. It wasn’t until he slammed down the sash and turned away that she was able to breathe. If he had spied Charles McDonald waiting below he would surely be shouting. At least one thing had gone her way this evening.
She followed, barefoot, to the upper landing.
John Eaton was descending to join a group of heavily armed men. The foremost one wore a constable’s badge. The others were mostly scowling, uniformed soldiers bearing rifles.
For an instant she entertained the thought that Charles had been wrong about the killing and someone had recovered the missing silver service. Then she realized there would be no reason to summon her if that was all that was wrong.
No. This all had to be happening because of what she’d done—or what they believed she’d done—earlier.
Frozen in place at the top of the staircase Annabelle stared at the angry crowd.
Eaton motioned to her. “Come down here. These gentlemen have some questions for you.”
“May I dress first?”
“No. Come as you are. The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better.”
Her bare feet on the carpeted steps made no sound. She slid one hand along the banister to steady herself and obeyed his command, not stopping until she’d reached the bottom.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where were you tonight?” Eaton demanded.
“I beg your pardon? I was with the family.” Her nervous fingers found the loose braid hanging over her left shoulder and unconsciously worried the end of it.
“Not every second. I recall that you did not answer when I called to you. You told us you were out in the garden. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
