Katie Rose (17 page)

“Hmmp,” Winifred snorted. “Let me see the paper.” Forcing herself to brave the worst, she peered at the front page.

“Oh, no! Look at this headline! ‘Legal Siren Gets Prosecutorial Comeuppance!’ ” Horrified, Winifred sat up and scanned the story. “There is nice coverage of the march … plenty of material about Mrs. Black … well, that’s good. But then it goes on to justify Charles’s interference! ‘Many men cheered the handsome attorney’s actions when he swept the troublesome Miss Appleton over his arm and out of the fray.’ They even speculate about the nature of our relationship! Oooh, that man!”

Winifred fumed, whipping through the pages so quickly that Penelope felt windblown. “Is it that
bad?” her sister asked innocently. “I mean, after all, Winnie, you have been sweet on Charles for a long time—”

“I am not sweet on Mr. Howe,” Winifred announced firmly, finding the continuation of the story. “Look at this sidebar. ‘Outraged Prosecutor Seeks Revenge!’ They make it sound more like a lovers’ quarrel than a political disagreement!”

“Well, isn’t it?” Penelope shrugged. “I think it is all terribly romantic, and it shows the depth of Mr. Howe’s feelings for you. He obviously is not comfortable with you being portrayed as a suffragette, and he feels what you are doing with the Black case is wrong.”

“I am not doing anything illegal,” Winifred insisted. “Charles is just angry because I outwitted him with the march. He has won a battle, certainly, but the war is far from over.” She glanced at the clock, and her face brightened. “I think there is still time to influence the
Evening Post
. With any luck, we can give them an exclusive story and change the tide of public opinion.”

“Winnie! Where are you going?” Penelope exclaimed as her sister jumped out of bed, dropping the paper in her haste.

“To the
Post
, silly,” she responded, as if the answer were quite evident.

“M
R
. H
ARRISON
, could we speak for a few minutes?”

The reporter looked up from his work, annoyed at the interruption. Then he recognized the woman standing before him. “Miss Appleton!” he said, getting awkwardly to his feet. “I did not expect—”

“I came on my own accord.” She gave him her best smile. “I thought you might appreciate a scoop.”

“Yes! I mean, that would be great! But why”—his ill-kept brows drew suspiciously together like two caterpillars—“have you come to me? I thought Shane’s office used the
Sun.
”

“Have you seen this morning’s paper?” Winifred asked softly, displaying the
Times
with an air of the injured party.

“Quite a picture, wasn’t it?” The little man grinned, eyeing the sketch of Winifred, her rump in the air, being carried from the street. “Say, that’s you, isn’t it?” He cocked his head, as if trying to see her upside down.

“Yes, I am afraid it is,” she sighed, closing the paper up when he seemed more interested in her posterior than her story. “It has all been terribly misconstrued. I am here to set the record straight.”

“I see.” Harrison grinned, then reached for his notepad, sensing a good tale. “We didn’t get our version out yet. We are an evening newspaper. If your story has merit, we’ll try to get it in tonight.” He opened the
Times
to the front page again and glanced at the picture. “Mr. Howe certainly seems infatuated with you. Did he actually carry you off like that?”

“Charles—I mean, Mr. Howe—has had … rather a fatherly feeling toward me for quite some time,” Winifred sighed, as if explaining something painful. “That is why he offered me the apprenticeship in the state’s attorney’s office—as a way of helping my career.”

“Damned nice of him,” the reporter scribbled. He eyed her shrewdly. “You consider his interest fatherly?” His gaze traced the soft curves outlined by her stark dress, and his expression became hungry.

Winifred wished she had something to cover her chest with. “Yes, that is absolutely the nature of our
relationship,” she said. “That is why he forcibly escorted me from the march. It was his way of protecting me.”

“Interesting. The prosecutor protects the defense. I don’t think I have ever heard of a case like that before.”

“But this incident should not distract us from the real reason for the march,” Winifred insisted, changing the subject. “Miss Anthony and Mrs. Stanton are firmly behind poor Mrs. Black. Mr. Howe’s demonstration with me clearly shows what is wrong with men in our society. They treat women as children, just because they are stronger physically than we are! They refuse to give credence to the fact that we have a brain.”

She rose, flushed with indignation, her eyes flashing. She was no longer pretending; this was truly how she felt.

“That makes good press,” the reporter said gleefully, fascinated by the change in her appearance, “but the men will be outraged.”

“None of them want to face the truth,” Winifred continued indignantly. “But women are people, too—even the notorious Mrs. Black. And her husband may well have abused his power over her. I understand that he is a brute. Who knows what he did to drive her to her alleged action? Yesterday’s events make one wonder, don’t you think?”

“That’s a hell of a transition,” Harrison remarked, “if I do say so myself.”

“I think it would make a good evening news story, don’t you?”

The reporter grinned. “Yes, Miss A., I believe it would. Let’s get started.”

•  •  •

T
HAT EVENING
at Horace Shane’s office, Winifred yawned, rubbing her eyes and forcing her attention back to the work at hand. Horace had long ago left, leaving her free use of the library and an admirable opportunity for peace and quiet. Egbert waited for her below, grumbling as usual, but she had given him a few coins to purchase a “wee dram,” so she knew his discomfort was not unreasonable.

There was so much to do, yet the clock was already ticking a late hour. The suffragette march had been hugely successful, and afterward had come speeches, with the suffragettes pleading passionately on behalf of Mrs. Black. But organizing it all had eaten up precious time needed for preparing Mrs. Black’s defense. Fortunately, Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony would take the lead in organizing public events from here on, and Winifred would not have to be directly involved in their activities. Thanks to their talents, Mrs. Black would be a household name by the week’s end. Surely most New Yorkers would be sympathetic.

Charles would not be. The publicity campaign would make him furious, but it mattered little. Mrs. Black had the deck stacked against her. In fact, no man, without a woman’s influence, would see her side. Any typical judge and jury would send her to jail without thinking twice. The defense’s only hope lay in publicizing and escalating Mrs. Black’s cause.

Glancing at her pile of books, Winifred yawned again, fighting sleep. The work itself was fascinating. This was her first real case, a case that would make history.

A carriage pulled up outside. It must be the secretary, Winifred thought, flipping open another law book and reviewing yet another case. Hearing steps on
the staircase, she frowned—Shane’s man was slight of figure and probably would not command such a noise. When the door flung open, she gaped in startled amazement.

“Charles!” Winifred dropped her pencil. “Whatever are you doing here?”

He strode over to her and thrust the
Evening Post
across the desk at her, his eyes glittering in black fury. “Miss, how do you explain yourself?”

Winifred glanced warily at the glaring headline. She did not have to read the article to know why he was outraged. Shoving the paper aside, she faced him directly like a schoolmarm. “Charles, I am aware of the story. I had to do what I could for poor Mrs. Black. What is your point?”

“ ‘Poor Mrs. Black’!” Charles sneered. “If I hear that phrase one more time, I am going to punch someone. You’ve deliberately manipulated the press! This must end! You almost imply here that I had a personal motive for preventing you from making a fool of yourself yesterday!”

“Well, didn’t you?” Winifred answered hotly. “You said yourself you felt entitled to special privileges, just because we—we—”

“Were intimate?” Charles suggested, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Well, yes,” Winifred replied, her cheeks heating. “I did not say anything that wasn’t true.”

“You made my office look like a bunch of misguided Romeos,” Charles spat, his black eyes glittering. “You are trying to influence public opinion, even the prospective jury. You know you cannot win legitimately, so you are resorting to these tactics! It is wrong, and you know it.”

“I really do not understand why you are so upset,”
Winifred said defensively. “Mrs. Black suffers from the same injustices that afflict many, many women.”

“Mrs. Black is no noble heroine, as you well know. I do not care how many suffragettes embrace her—nothing changes the fact that she has committed a crime. She attempted to murder her husband. Murder! And you have made her out to be Joan of Arc!”

“Charles.” Winifred rose and placed a cool hand on his shoulder. The man was obviously distraught. “You have your view and I have mine. You have never heard the woman’s side of this. Her husband is a brute—”

She stopped suddenly when she realized he wasn’t listening but instead was staring at her hand. His gaze turned back to hers, and she inhaled sharply. Passion burned there in his eyes, along with his fury. There was something dangerously exciting about his fiery rage, something that made her own blood flow hotter and her fingers long to touch him more fully.

Had she pushed him too far? No, they were simply on opposite sides of this case. She must never forget that.

Then Charles recovered himself. “I did speak to Mrs. Black.” His voice was deceptively soft. “I know all about her marriage. Granted, her husband is no saint, but he did nothing to justify her action. He did not try to kill her. Lots of people have unhappy marriages. Instead of trying to murder each other, they usually separate!”

His voice had risen an octave, and Winifred swallowed hard. He stepped smoothly around the desk, to her. All her memories of his seduction flooded her. She couldn’t protest, couldn’t do anything except experience a longing for him that was more intense than any she had ever known.

He was so close, she could smell his cologne, breathe the sensual scent of man and lime water, and see the blazing fire in his eyes. “I know how this must seem to you,” she said. “But truly, you cannot understand the woman’s viewpoint. You cannot know what it is like to be completely within a man’s power and then to have that power abused. There are many Mrs. Blacks out there, living in silence and shame, desperately unhappy. It is disgraceful that they have no voice, no escape—”

“Fine.” Charles put his hands on Winifred’s shoulders as if to shake some sense into her, but the warmth of his palms only made her long to feel them caressing her, touching her, arousing her to the point of forgetfulness. As angry as he was, even Charles seemed affected by their contact. “I agree,” he said hoarsely. “Perhaps the divorce laws should be made easier. Maybe there should be some other mechanism to help women in unhappy marriages. I would not object at all if you fought for that. But damn it, Winifred, this woman is guilty as hell! You know it, and so do I!”

He gazed into her eyes, and the intensity of his words made her breathless. Swallowing hard, she realized with a sudden sense of female vulnerability that she was alone with a deadly furious man. She tried once more for sanity.

“Charles, be reasonable,” she said coolly. “There is no sense in getting … passionate about it.”

Charles swore silently, completely exasperated, and the fire in his eyes blazed out of control. “I have been too reasonable,” he said hoarsely. “And too permissive where you are concerned. I have let you have far too much say in our relationship. I have given you free rein thinking that you would soon come to your senses. Instead, this is the result. You consider my
interest ‘fatherly.’ I think it is time you learned something about the true relations between men and women. I will show you just how passionate I am about this.”

With that, he took her roughly into his arms and kissed her.

T
he kiss was incredible—defense meets prosecution, man meets woman, softness yields to strength. Winifred was completely undone. The passion inside her rose to an overwhelming force, and she eagerly returned his embrace, amazed at the heat she felt in his arms. Sensing her response, Charles deepened the kiss, teasing her tongue with his own, then plunging in to take full possession of her sweetness. At the same time, he undid the buttons of her dress, and his hand slid beneath the coarse cotton to cup her breast. Breathless with excitement, she rose up against him, eager for his caresses, wanting to feel the full length of him against her, wanting his kiss, wanting …

The sounds that came from her throat surprised even her. Opening her eyes, she was dimly aware that she was sitting on the desk, half naked, her desire spiraling out of control. Then his fingers moved cleverly to the place where she was dying for him to touch her. Breathlessly, she arched her back, loving everything he was doing to her. All else was forgotten: the case, Mrs. Black, male versus female. All she cared
about was fulfillment, which seemed to hover just beyond her reach.