Katie Rose (31 page)

“Yes.” A murmur rumbled from the gallery, cut short by the judge’s threatening glance. “Mrs. Black and I discovered we had much in common. I remembered her from the days when she was on stage, and she seemed happy to talk about those memories. I did stop by her home upon occasion to visit her. She seemed very lonely to me.”

The jury muttered among themselves. Mr. Black glowered at his wife as if mentally peeling away her veils, shocked at the woman he found beneath. Mrs. Black kept her face straight ahead.

“It was very kind of you to relieve her loneliness,” Charles said sarcastically, prompting an eruption of laughter from the jury. “Mr. Albright, did you bring Mrs. Black any presents?”

“We exchanged a few tokens of friendship.” Albright’s face flushed, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Can you tell the jury what they were?”

“I gave Mrs. Black a book of sonnets. At Christmastime, she presented me with a watch charm. I see nothing unusual about exchanging holiday gifts with a friend.”

“You don’t?” Charles was incredulous. “Mr. Albright, are you aware that Mrs. Black is a married woman, living with her husband?”

“Yes, I am.” The witness flushed even deeper. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“And would you not consider a book of sonnets a rather romantic present, and obviously inappropriate given Mrs. Black’s marital state?”

“No, I do not!” Albright’s voice rose in agitation. “Monica—I mean, Mrs. Black—enjoys poetry. I thought she would appreciate the book.”

“I am sure she did,” Charles said sharply. “I have here a copy of the book you gave her. Mr. Albright, would you mind reading aloud the first few lines of the poem on page one?”

Albright’s face turned brilliant red. He glanced at the judge, as if to ask whether this was legal. He then looked to Horace, who was conveniently studying the ceiling. Having no other choice, he opened the book and read weakly.

The gallery burst into laughter at Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s beautiful poem. Even the jury exchanged amused smiles. But Mr. Albright looked furious as he
slammed the book closed. He stared at Charles with open animosity, as if contemplating his dismemberment.

“Very nice,” Charles said. “Please note for the record that Mr. Albright presented Mrs. Black with a gift that was very romantic in nature. Now, Mr. Albright, did you ever escort Mrs. Black anywhere? Take any trips with her during your brief relationship?”

Albright was still so angry, he could barely speak. This time he refused to look up, but answered sullenly, “Yes. We took an excursion to Newport by steamer. Mrs. Black had always wanted to go there, and I had the means to take her, so I did.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Just to lunch and occasionally dinner in town.”

“I see. Where was Mr. Black during these outings?”

“He was away at a Masonic meeting when we went to Newport. Other than that, he could usually be found at the local tavern.”

“That is a lie!” Mr. Black rose to his feet, shaking his fist at the dapper man in the witness box. The gavel banged soundly, and his own attorney rose to restrain him, forcing him back into his seat. The jurors glanced meaningfully at each other.

“Mr. Albright, did you ever express any physical intimacy with Mrs. Black? For example, did you ever kiss her? Embrace her? Caress her?”

Again Albright struggled. He glanced at Mrs. Black, at her husband, and then at the jury. Finally, as if all hope left him, he spoke softly.

“Yes.”

The reporters raced from the room. The morning air would be rich with the scent of scandal.

Charles saw that Winifred had returned and positioned herself as close to the rail as possible, her hair
neatly arranged once more, her dress fresh. Her eyes met his and he gave her a warm smile, then turned once more to the witness.

“Mr. Albright, did you ever promise Mrs. Black matrimony, or hint at such, if anything ever happened to her husband?”

The court fell quiet, as everyone waited in breathless anticipation for his response. Albright gazed about helplessly, and when he replied to Charles, it was as if someone had stripped off his mask.

“I admit I said that. I am in love with Mrs. Black, and I believe she cares for me. I know such an admission will cause my ruin, but that matters little to me now. The woman you are trying for murder is a good woman, sweet and kind. If she attempted to harm her husband, it was in self-defense. The man is a drunkard and a fool and does not deserve to kiss her boots.”

W
INIFRED’S HEART SANK
as she watched Horace walk up to the witness stand for the cross-examination. No matter how talented he was, or how brilliantly he argued, there was little he could do now.

No one, after Albright’s startling admission, would believe that he was a “despoiler of women.” The emotion he described was too real, too honest, to be anything but true. The jury must have felt it, too. And Winifred realized something personal: the man was describing how she felt when Charles held her, kissed her.…

That was what had motivated Monica Black. With Albright, the woman had, for the first time, experienced real love. No wonder she’d been so desperate, so intoxicated with emotion, to think that poison was her only way out—if that was truly what she had done.… If only they could find that tea tin! Yet
the police hadn’t been able to find it, having scoured the house thoroughly.

The sad part, Winifred realized, was that the Blacks were miserable married to each other. Yet they were shackled together, unable to break free. If divorce had been more easily obtainable, Monica Black might never have come to this pass. Perhaps …

Winifred froze, a flash of brilliance coming to her. That was it! That is what she had to show them! She had to make the jury realize that Monica Black had been trapped and had had no other choice. And she knew just how to do that.

She hesitated for a moment as her conscience chided her. Charles wouldn’t like this. Yet he himself had encouraged her to continue, practically forbade her to quit the case. Forcing aside her emotions, Winifred rationalized that Charles would understand. He had to.

Scribbling onto a piece of paper, she passed the note to the bailman. When Horace finished questioning Albright, he sat down at the defense table and read her missive carefully. The same silly grin spread across his face, and he turned to Winifred and gave her a thumbs up.

Court adjourned for the day, and Winifred rose, feeling ten times lighter than she had upon entering the courtroom. Whirling about, she stopped in surprise as Charles approached her.

“Feeling better?” he asked solicitously.

“Much.” She gave him a soft smile. “Thank you again, Charles. You are so kind.”

“I would like to be much more than kind,” he said meaningfully. Winifred felt a flush of warmth. “Look, I know you are tired. Why don’t we have an early supper together? I promise to tuck you in early.”

The thought of Charles tucking her in anywhere
was almost too intoxicating. “I do not think that is a good idea,” she began.

“Just dinner,” he insisted. “Look, I know I should not be seeing you, either. I just thought you might need a friend to talk to tonight. That’s all.”

Friend
. Somehow the word coming out of his mouth hit a discordant note. Winifred had to smile at her own fickle nature. Yet the thought of being with him was just too enticing, especially after that morning. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Good.” Then he turned cautious. “Would you mind terribly if we dined at my house? After the latest newspaper stories, it might be more discreet.”

Winifred nodded, ignoring the little thrill that leaped in her veins. “You are right. It would be much better if no one saw us socializing.”

“Wonderful. I will have your driver bring you directly.” For a moment, Charles looked as if he would kiss her, then he remembered where he was. Winifred watched him go, feeling a delightful shiver of anticipation.

She and Charles dining alone, in his house. Whatever was she thinking?

Y
ou are so beautiful,” Charles said softly, easing first one stocking from her leg, then the other. They had barely set foot in his townhouse before they were locked in a heated embrace, both of them starved for a taste of their familiar sensual pleasures. Charles wasted no time positioning Winifred on his brocade sofa. Arching beneath him, she pulled him frantically toward her, wanting everything his lean muscled body promised.

“Charles …”

“I know, sweet.” He kissed her thoroughly, wantonly and at the same time, his hand moved beneath the layers of petticoats to her drawers. Finding the warmth he sought, he touched her there, where she ached for him, eliciting another gasp of sheer pleasure. His fingers lingered there, stroking her, arousing her to the point of utter forgetfulness.

“I don’t know if I can stand this—”

“Just a little more. Trust me, darling.”

His face left hers for a moment, but before she could protest the loss of his warmth, he knelt between her legs and drew her drawers down. Winifred felt his
breath, hot and arousing, close to her woman’s flesh. She started to rise up in shock, but Charles would have none of her withdrawal. He held her down firmly, one hand on each thigh, and kissed her intimately.

Winifred gasped, writhing on the sofa. A thousand searing sensations tingled through her as he expertly caressed her with his lips and tongue. “Ohhhhh …” Arching against him, she cried out as the intensity grew unbearable. “Oh, Charles, please stop. You can’t—I can’t—oh, don’t ever stop!”

The pleasure was incredible, more than anything she had ever experienced. Within moments, the sweetest climax she had ever had made her cry out loud, clinging to him as she trembled violently. Her body spasmed, the flooding pleasure throbbing through her, washing her all the way to her toes with fire, making her feel hot, vibrant, and alive.

Then Charles rose, rid himself of his trousers, and entered her. It felt shockingly pleasurable and more than a little naughty to make love like this, still partially clothed. Then the throbbing pressure began again, more deeply this time, and her hot, slick warmth encased him eagerly. She lifted her hips toward him, giving him everything and receiving so much more in return. He feathered hot, sweet kisses on her throat, stimulating her beyond control, and at the same time, making her feel protected, cherished, and … loved.

“Winnie, my beautiful, darling … I want to see your face, I want to watch you—”

As he thrust deeply inside her, she convulsed, bringing the tremendous pressure to a shattering climax once more. Her eyes flew open with astonishment, then closed in rapture, letting all of the delicious feelings rush over her. He cried out her name, arching against her and thrusting roughly inside her. His face
was wildly exciting, filled with passion, and even as he held her closely against him, he exploded in ultimate pleasure.

For a long moment, they simply enjoyed the aftermath. Winifred felt Charles’s heart pounding in rhythm with her own. Then her fatigue overwhelmed her, and as soon as she rested her head on his chest, she fell asleep.

Charles smiled as he heard her unmistakable snoring. He’d have to tease her about that tomorrow, watch the indignant blush come to her face as she flatly denied any such thing. He could see her now, her head lifted like a noble heroine, her eyes flashing—she was everything he ever wanted, and more.

Having watched her during the trial, he was forced to admit something else: she would be a damned good lawyer. So how to reconcile her ambition with what he wanted from her—and with what, he was certain, underneath it all, she needed, too?

He had just received a letter from a colleague in Wisconsin. A Miss Lavinia Goodell had passed the bar examination. Yet when she applied for admission to the bar, she had been flatly denied. In response, she had authored an amendment to the state statute, an amendment that Charles’s colleague intended to sponsor. The woman’s work was brilliant, and perhaps they would succeed. Perhaps, with the right political support, the same thing could happen here. Such a law might not pass on the first attempt or even the second, but eventually public opinion could change.

As if hearing his thoughts, Winifred snuggled even closer into his arms.

“I
WOULD LIKE
to call Mr. Henry to the stand.”

Winifred yawned, slightly bored. Mr. Henry, a
balding, portly man with chubby cheeks and a booming voice, took his place, lifting his hand earnestly. The druggist was Charles’s last witness, and he would surely testify that he sold arsenic to Monica Black.

Listening idly as Charles raced through his questions, Winifred noticed how attractive the prosecutor looked that morning. When he caught her looking at him, he sent her a seductive wink that made her blush down to her toes.

All she could envision was Charles making love to her in the most intimate way possible, his face dark with desire. Embarrassment suffused her as she recalled falling asleep in his arms, only to awaken outside her aunt’s home. Charles had dressed her, carried her to the carriage, and brought her to her doorstep. Their parting kiss had been so utterly tender that she had wanted to stay with him forever. Now she had to shake her head to force her thoughts back to the case at hand.