LITMIR.BIZ

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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.” Annabelle’s stomach was churning and she wondered if she was going to be ill.

      One of the soldiers nearest the front door held up a soiled, ruined garment for all to see. Eaton pointed to it. “Then how do you explain this?”

      For the first time in her life, Annabelle wished she were the kind of frail female who fainted at the drop of a hat. Surely being unconscious would be preferable to having to admit that the shredded remnant was her cape.

      “What a shame.” She used the stair railing for support. “It was so pretty.”

      “Then you don’t deny it’s yours?”

      “No. It’s mine. How did they know?”

      “There was a note found nearby with your name on it.”

      “I did nothing wrong. Truly.” She fought to hold back tears.

      Dismay and disappointment on her foster father’s face was countered by the vehemence of Margaret Eaton’s railing. “Do you see now? I warned you the girl was up to no good. Blood will tell and hers is tainted.”

      Eaton whirled on her. “She caused no distress while Myra was caring for her.”

      “That was years ago. She’s nearly a grown woman and a wily one at that.” Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Your reputation in Washington will be ruined, John.”

      “We—I will stand by Annabelle,” Eaton vowed.

      Margaret clung to his arm, weeping. “You mustn’t. Think of the scandal. She’s not even kin.”

      “Nevertheless, I made a commitment.” He faced the armed cadre to say, “Annabelle Lang will be secure in my care. Contact my office at the Capitol if you wish to speak with her further and I will make those arrangements.”

      All the men looked uneasy. The veteran constable who was clearly the spokesman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. The murder victim was from the president’s old regiment and our orders are to apprehend and arrest the suspect.”

      “Tonight?”

      Frozen in place, Annabelle held tight to the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the final decision and wondering if she dared speak to defend herself. If she did, there was a very good chance that Little Johnny would also be blamed, not to mention his uncle. If no one believed she was innocent, how could she possibly convince anyone that others were blameless?

      The constable nodded as he cast a glance over his shoulder at the military men. “Yes, sir. Tonight.”

      Annabelle quailed. This could not be happening. Not to her. She looked to her foster father, pleading with her gaze, and saw indecision. Was his influence so weak in Washington that he could not prevail?

      Then she recalled how close Margaret had been to the president himself. Could this accusation be her doing? Had there been enough time to have influenced Jackson? No. Yet he must know how Margaret felt about sharing her home, even with her own three offspring, because as soon as she’d learned of her first husband’s death she’d shipped the Timberlake children off to live with her late husband’s relatives.

      John Eaton’s expression grew regretful and he stepped back before gesturing to the officers. “Do what you must, but rest assured I will engage an attorney on her behalf. She had better be treated with kid gloves or heads will roll, starting with yours.”

      Annabelle found her voice. “They’re really arresting me?”

      “I’m afraid so. You won’t be held for long if I have anything to say about it.”

      She tried to fill her lungs with breathable air and failed.

      Light flashed before her eyes as if she were staring directly at the summer sun and unable to look away.

      A tingling on her soles and palms, coupled with the spinning of the room, made her light-headed.

      Seconds later she closed her eyes, lost her grip on the banister and slumped to the floor.

      * * *

      Charles caught a passing cab and made it back to Plunkett’s in time to hear Major Ridge, the graying patriarch of the Cherokee delegation, addressing the crowd in the parlor. He was speaking himself, instead of asking his adult son to translate.

      “The Cherokee Nation is self-governing by order of your own President Jefferson. We will handle the matter.”

      “We got proof! A name wrote down,” someone in the back shouted.

      Another voice chided, “Since when can you read?”

      “May I see your proof?” Ridge held out his hand.

      “It’s not here. Which one is McDonald?”

      Charles stepped forward. “I had nothing to do with killing that man or any other.”

      “Can you prove it?” Ridge asked him.

      “If I have to.”

      Grumblings grew to shouts and several men shook clenched fists and brandished weapons.

      “Then we will hear your testimony when the time comes,” Ridge said. Unwavering, he faced the gathering and raised one hand as if taking an oath. “All of you. Go. I will vouch for the carrying out of justice.”

      Slowly, begrudgingly, the venerable man’s orders were heeded. As the room began to clear, some onlookers were still muttering but the Indian delegation stood united, shoulder to shoulder.

      Charles didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the door slammed behind the last accuser.

      “All right,” Ridge said. “I want to hear the whole story. From the beginning.”

      When Charles was through, the older man was shaking his head. “We must go and speak with the girl.”

      “Is that really necessary?”

      “Yes.” The old leader was adamant. “Is this woman truthful? Can she be trusted?”

      Sighing, Charles nodded. “Yes. But if Eaton doesn’t already know she was with me, asking questions could ruin her life.”

      “That is her problem, not ours. Those soldiers will be back. As soon as we have spoken with her, we will leave Washington.”

      “Before we’ve been granted an audience with President Jackson?”

      “Eaton and Coffee say they speak for him. That will have to do. Our presence here is no longer wise.”

      “I am sorry,” Charles said. “I truly did nothing wrong. The man was alive when I left him by the river. Here. See? I even took his knife.”

      Withdrawing the blade from his pocket he laid it across his palm and

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