“He’s obviously a man who doesn’t want to be found.”
“I don’t know why he’s on the run. I told him I wouldn’t have him arrested for what he did. Guess he didn’t believe me.”
“Perhaps he’s doing it just to spite Honor. If he can’t have her, he’s going to make sure no one else does.”
“He’s sure accomplishing that. As long as he stays missing, we can’t marry.”
Catherine studied him thoughtfully, as if choosing her next words with exquisite care. “Much as I hate to mention this…have you told her the truth about the night August Talmadge died?”
Nevada shook his head. “Haven’t found the right time.”
Her expression softened with sympathy. “No time is the right time, old friend. Honor is a lawyer, sworn to uphold the law, just as I am a doctor, sworn to heal the sick. You can’t keep something like this from her too long, because when she does find out, she will be devastated. You may even lose her.”
He rose and strode over to the window, where he hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked back at Catherine in despair. “How can I tell her that the man she loves is a cold-blooded murderer?”
Honor paused before the gold-framed mirror in the Delancys’ foyer to check her appearance one last time before meeting the famous Philip Lyons. Not a hair was out of place. Her mannish, tailor-made shirtwaist with its starched front, modified wing collar, and jaunty blue tie made her look like a woman who expected to be taken seriously.
The tapping of boots on the marble floor heralded Nevada’s approach. He looked her over as if she were something rare and precious, then glanced around the foyer to make sure they were alone. “I don’t reckon you’d let me kiss you.”
When Nevada took a determined step toward her, Honor raised her hands to ward him off. “As much as I’d love you to, I simply cannot meet Philip Lyons looking as though I’ve just tumbled out of my lover’s bed.” She smiled. “Which is exactly how I will look if I let you kiss me.”
His blue eyes danced as he kissed her chastely on the forehead.
Honor reached for her locket, remembered she hadn’t put it on, and let her hand fall away. “Where is he?” she muttered nervously. “What’s he like?”
“He’s in the parlor with Delancy and the doc.” He drew her arm through his. “You can judge for yourself.”
The moment Honor stepped into the parlor and Philip Lyons rose, she was awed by the sheer magnetism that radiated from him in palpable waves. He was taller than Nevada, with a straight, trim physique carried proudly. The youthful, energetic sparkle in Lyons’s brown eyes made him look twenty years younger than his sixty years, despite a head of thick white hair and Vandyke beard. Honor noticed that his lower lip was full and sensual, like Robert’s.
Lyons didn’t wait for an introduction. He strode across the room, his gaze holding Honor’s and assessing her man to woman. Then he took her hand and brought it to his lips with a flourish. He was a master of the dramatic gesture; like an actor, he used his body to illustrate the spoken word. “You must be Honor Davis,” he said in a deep, authoritative voice that made judges and juries sit up and take notice. “I am Philip Lyons, at your service.”
Up close, Honor could see the deep lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and scoring his cheeks, but they only made him look more distinguished, giving him the air of a wise elder statesman. The only flaw in his perfect features was the broken blood vessels that reddened the tip of his nose.
He drinks too much, she thought, dismayed.
She smiled. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lyons.” Beside her, Nevada stirred restlessly.
Catherine stepped forward to take Honor’s hands and kiss her cheek. “We were just telling Mr. Lyons all about you and how we hope he will accept your help with our case.” She turned to her husband, who was standing near the sofa. “Isn’t that right, Damon?”
“Yes, Catherine,” he replied. “But as I told Mr. Lyons, the final decision is his.”
“Why don’t we sit down and discuss it?” Catherine said, ushering all of them to their seats.
Lyons fit himself in one corner of the sofa across from Honor, propped his elbow on the low arm, and rested his head casually against one hand, with two fingers touching his temple. He studied her. “In all my forty years at the bar, I’ve never before met a female lawyer, and I can’t say that I approve of them in general.”
Though Honor felt her temper rise, she decided that Philip Lyons was the kind of man who would be won over by reason and logic rather than confrontation. This was no time to be Steel Stays Elliott.
“I realize that even though I’ve argued several divorce cases,” she said, “I still have much to learn. But all I’m asking is a chance to learn from the best, Mr. Lyons. There is so much that you can teach me, and I’d give my right arm to work with you.”
Beside her on the sofa, she felt Nevada shift in his seat.
Honor added, “I can do research for you, gather character witnesses, and take depositions. I can be your eyes and ears in New York while you’re in Philadelphia.”
Lyons tapped his temple, those sharp, youthful eyes staring at her intently. “I don’t know New York at all, so that would be helpful.”
Catherine glanced at her husband, seated next to her, and an unspoken signal passed between them.
Damon said, “Before you agreed to take my wife’s case, you said that you had to be allowed to conduct it as you saw fit.”
Lyons nodded. “I know what’s best for my clients and how to give them the best defense. This isn’t idle boasting. My record speaks for itself.”
“You’re certainly not known for losing,” Honor said dryly.
Lyons smiled and shrugged. “I have lost one or two cases, but then, no one is perfect.” He was not a modest man.
Damon said, “I would consider it a personal favor if you would agree to let Honor assist you.”
Lyons stroked his beard. “Ordinarily I would refuse, because I prefer to work alone. However, after hearing about your victory in
Graham versus Graham,
I will make an exception in your case, Mrs. Davis. I would welcome your assistance.”
Honor let out the breath she had been holding. “Thank you, Mr. Lyons. You won’t regret this.”
“See that I don’t.”
“When shall we start?”
Catherine said, “How about tomorrow morning? Damon and I would like to show Mr. Lyons around New York this afternoon. He’ll be staying here as our guest, so you can see him anytime.”
Honor said, “Tomorrow would be fine. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have to get back to my office.”
Nevada rose at once. “I have to go down to Wall Street, so why don’t I drop you off?”
Damon rose to escort them to the door, and when they reached the foyer, Honor placed her hand on his arm. “Thank you for requesting that Mr. Lyons let me assist him.”
His cold gray eyes warmed. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m not your enemy. I just want what’s best for my wife.”
She nodded in mute understanding and wished him a good day.
Once Honor and Nevada were seated side by side in the Delancys’ carriage, she said, “You don’t like Lyons very much, do you?”
“Not particularly,” he replied, looking out the window.
“Why not? He does seem immodest, but his confidence is justified. He’s the best counsel money can buy, and he knows it. Catherine will win against Comstock, mark my words.”
He turned to her. “The law has nothing to do with my feelings toward him. The man is attracted to you, pure and simple.” His cool gaze warmed as it lingered on her, a hunter staking his claim. “Not that I blame him.”
“Nevada LaRouche, I’m surprised at you. He’s old enough to be my father.” Still, the thought that her confident lover could be jealous of another man delighted Honor on some primitive level she couldn’t even begin to explain.
“A man like that wouldn’t let a few years stop him if he really wanted you.”
“Well, he can want all he pleases. My interest in him is purely professional.” She reached for Nevada’s hand and drew it to her lips, kissing each knuckle. “I’m a one-man woman, Clovis. You should know that by now.”
He gave her an exasperated look at her use of his hated name and drew the backs of his fingers down her cheeks in a light caress, his eyes darkening with possessiveness. “I do know it, but a man shouldn’t take his woman for granted.”
“Or a woman her man.” Honor closed her eyes and trembled at his tender, exciting touch. Her clothes suddenly felt too hot and unbearably heavy against her skin. “Do you have to go to your office right away?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
“Shall we stop at your apartment?” His soft drawl had an impatient, ragged edge to it.
Honor’s heart raced at the delicious wickedness of a morning dalliance with him while the rest of the world went heedlessly about its humdrum affairs. “I have a feeling that neither of us will arrive at our respective offices today.”
And they didn’t.
Lyons spent the following day in Honor’s office, where her desk was piled high with every newspaper Elroy could lay his hands on.
After spending the entire morning and half the afternoon reading and studying the accounts of Catherine Delancy’s troubles with Anthony Comstock, Lyons finally rose, stretched unselfconsciously, and said to Honor, “Catherine will have a better chance of winning her case if she has a jury trial.”
Honor knew full well that misdemeanors were tried in the Court of Special Sessions before three justices of equal rank, not before a jury. “So you’re going to court to appeal for a jury trial?”
His youthful eyes gleamed like those of a fox getting ready to outwit the hounds. “Yes. The judge may not grant us one, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. This maneuver will also delay the trial, so we’ll have more time to prepare.”
She gave a knowing nod. “You think that a jury will be more sympathetic to her.”
Honor knew as well as any lawyer that even though jurors were supposed to determine the issue without prejudice and base their verdict solely upon the sworn evidence, they were still fallible human beings.
“They will be more sympathetic to her,” Lyons said. “Do you know why?”
Honor sat back in her chair and pondered his rationale. “Most likely they’ll be family men, some young and others middle-aged. Perhaps several will have experienced the financial hardships of raising large families themselves. Perhaps others will even have practiced some method of limiting the size of their families.”
Lyons held up his right index finger to emphasize his point. “During the voir dire, we’ll look for those who have lost a wife or a sister to childbirth, or someone whose wife or daughter was saved by a woman doctor like Catherine Delancy. We’ll seek those who once lived in the tenements and pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and got out.”
He spread his hands before him. “But that’s not all. Let’s hope to get a writer or an editor, because such men are intelligent and will doubtlessly find in Catherine’s favor. The same would be true of artists. They’re romantic and imaginative.”
Honor knew from her own experience with
Graham v. Graham
and her other divorce cases that all lawyers, including herself, had their own prejudices when it came to selecting jurors.
She nodded. “Twelve jurors will give us much better odds than three justices.”
Lyons leaned across her desk. “But that’s only the start. Next we’ll have to persuade the popular press to take our side.”
Honor recalled Gordon Graham’s skillful, but ultimately unsuccessful, manipulation of the press during his divorce case, and as much as she hated dealing with swarms of nosy reporters and hearing lurid headlines bawled by newsboys from every street corner, she had to admit that journalists could sway public opinion.
“Can’t you see the headlines?” Lyons said, sweeping his hand across an invisible front page in yet another dramatic gesture. “‘Angel of the Tenements Threatened with Prison,’ or ‘Lady Doctor Fights for Freedom.’” His eyes sparkled with youthful zeal, and his face turned red. “The outraged citizenry of this city will march through the streets in protest. They’ll burn Anthony Comstock in effigy. They’ll crowd the courtroom demanding justice for the fair Catherine.”
Caught up in his infectious enthusiasm, Honor added, “The jurors will have tears in their eyes when they hear your moving, brilliant closing statement about this courageous woman doctor who is willing to risk a prison sentence to better the lives of her patients.”
Lyons placed his closed fist
over his heart. “Who could not be moved?”
Honor smiled. “That’s a brilliant strategy, Mr. Lyons.”
“Philip, my dear,” he said, grabbing her hand and bringing it to his lips. “If we’re to work so close together, we cannot stand on formality.”
She felt her cheeks turn pink, and she was thankful that Nevada was not in the room and that Elroy was seated just beyond her closed door, pecking at his typewriter. “Philip and Honor it shall be.”
Lyons released her hand and started pacing around the office like his restless namesake, staring down at the floor as if brilliant legal strategy were written there. Then he looked at Honor. “Your task is to make everyone in this city fall in love with Catherine Delancy.”