Her Cherokee Groom

“I have the servants checking the carriage house and the stables,” John said. “Go upstairs to your rooms and stay there. Both of you.”

“Yes, sir.” Annabelle curtseyed politely.

She was more than delighted to take her leave. This current Mrs. Eaton might be a special friend of President Jackson but she wasn’t kind and loving the way Annabelle’s first foster mother, Myra, had been. Oh, how she had wept when that dear lady had gone to Glory at such a young age.

Climbing the spiral staircase with Johnny, Annabelle realized she was actually happier being ignored than being watched too closely. That revelation was a surprise. A welcome one. It not only helped her feel less unwanted, it gave her a sense of freedom she had never before sought or even imagined.

“A servant will assist you getting ready for bed,” she told the child. “I’ll call Adams. He helps our father.”

“I have no father,” Johnny said flatly. “And I can take care of myself.”

“All right, whatever you say.” Annabelle continued to hold his hand until she said, “Remember. You promised to be good and stay here.”

“I remember.”

She hated to leave him alone looking so small and forlorn, yet she knew she must. With a deep sigh she eased the door closed and walked away. It was bound to be a long night for the child, not to mention how hard it was going to be for her to stop thinking about Charles McDonald’s narrow escape and her part in his rescue.

She smiled to herself and gave a little shiver, then headed for her own room. Many nights she had prayed for a cessation of dreams but tonight she was eagerly looking forward to seeing if the handsome Cherokee would appear in them.

Given a choice, she would definitely have wished to include him as a part of her nighttime imaginings.

* * *

Charles headed straight for the boardinghouse when he left Eaton’s. Instead of a quiet atmosphere, he found the male guests gathered in the sitting room, smoking and talking while uniformed soldiers in blue and police officers moved among them.

“Where have you been?” Elias Boudinot asked Charles, speaking aside. “Tell me you weren’t near the river.”

“As a matter of fact, I was. Why?”

The shorter, slightly older man pulled 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.