Jo and Henry whirled to face Miss Simmons, who was standing in the newly-reopened door, arms crossed. They each mentally scrambled for an explanation, but examining a locked safe after breaking into a locked office was hard to cover gracefully.

Miss Simmons did not look inclined to listen anyway. "I came back for an extra deck of cards, but I see Sir Benedict isn't the only one trying to stuff aces up his sleeves." She crossed quickly to her desk and opened a drawer. Jo instinctively reached for her gun and cursed when she realized her holster was not at her hip, but Simmons was only retrieving her phone. "Her Holiness the Manager has a very short list of reasons we can use cell phones without getting fired, and guess what? Calling the police is one of them."

"Wait!" Jo took two quick steps forward to stop her; uniforms rolling in with lights flashing would ruin everything. She halted when Simmons looked alarmed and unlocked her phone. "You don't need to call. We are the police."

"Sure you are," she said. "Let me guess: Scotland Yard?"

Henry had done a stint consulting with the Yard after the Ripper case, but this didn't seem the right moment to mention it.

"No, we're NYPD. I'm a detective, and he's a medical examiner. Henry?" Jo held out her hand to him, palm up, and after a brief moment he caught her meaning.

"Yes! Of course." He reached slowly inside his jacket, trying not to spook Miss Simmons into dialing 9-1-1. He pulled out a flat leather wallet and handed it to Jo, and she opened it to reveal her badge—not everything fit down her bodice.

"I'm Jo Martinez, Homicide, and this is my partner, Dr. Henry Morgan. Would you mind putting down the phone and showing us the inside of that safe?" Miss Simmons's position as Number One Suspect was slipping fast—Jo didn't think the real killer would be so eager to call the police—but she still needed to follow through.

Simmons frowned. "Homicide? What are you doing here? Nobody's dead."

"The Brewers didn't simply cancel," Henry explained. "They were murdered en route to this retreat."

"And we have reason to believe that someone in this house was involved," Jo finished. "Ms. Simonson, can you tell us where you were between 3 and 8 p.m. yesterday?"

She blinked in surprise at the use of her real name before she processed what Jo was saying. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—you think I killed two guests? Maybe I've fantasized about that, but not for real. Just in a "this job sucks" kind of way. I've never even met the Brewers. Why would I kill them?"

"To sabotage the retreat after management refused to promote you," Jo began.

"...and because you were looking for an extremely valuable object—one that could erase your substantial debts," Henry finished.

Simmons—or rather Simonson—frowned. "Are you talking about the Mansfield Park manuscript?"

"So you admit that you know it's here," Jo confirmed.

"Of course I know. It's the reason I didn't flee this nuthouse Thursday night." Henry and Jo both raised their eyebrows at what sounded like a confession, but she continued. "You're wrong about my debt. I mean, yes, I do owe hundreds of thousands of dollars, and my measly paycheck here doesn't even cover monthly payments, but I've got it covered."

Jo pinned her with an interrogation-room stare, one that made it clear that vague claims of innocence would not be enough. Simonson folded, like Henry knew she would. His partner really was very good.

"If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone where I was?"

"No." Jo didn't elaborate.

The woman sighed, realizing that aside from the deck she still clutched in one hand, she had no cards to play. "Look, I'll admit that I was pretty pissed off when Mrs. Godfrey wouldn't even give me an interview after four years of quality service, but I got over it."

"Just like that?" Jo asked, voice dripping with doubt.

"Yeah, well, this helped." She crossed to the safe and opened it with a key from around her wrist. From her vantage point over the woman's shoulder, Jo could see clearly inside: there was no dagger, only a stack of papers. Simonson removed the entire stack and handed it to Henry, who began reading.

"It's a contract from NBCUniversal," he said, turning the pages and scanning for important information. "It seems Ms. Simonson is to be the technical adviser for a television program, and at a very lucrative rate."

Simonson filled in the details. "I'm consulting on a new period drama premiering next year. It's crazy good money. It's also a closely guarded project. I had to sign about 50 nondisclosure agreements, and if I break any of them, the deal is off. Hence my reluctance to talk about it."

Jo pressed on. "If you just landed the job of a lifetime, why do you seem less than thrilled?"

She threw up her hands. "Because Mrs. Godfrey wouldn't let me out of my contract, and I'm stuck here this weekend! I was supposed to be in LA yesterday for a meeting. Thankfully, they let me Skype in. That's where I was, to answer your question: I told Gladys I had a family emergency, not that she believed me, and I went into town to find some decent wifi."

"Gladys?" Henry asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Mrs. Hill. The housekeeper and resident female warden. Earlier in the week I was ready to just say 'screw it,' break contract, and never look back, but then I saw the insurance rider." She looked from Jo to Henry and back like it was obvious, and Henry nodded.

"You're a specialist in nineteenth-century British history," he reasoned. "The chance to see the only known manuscript of a Jane Austen novel would be too good to pass up." Simonson nodded in confirmation.

Jo was all but convinced that this wasn't their killer, but she wasn't ready to let Simonson off the hook quite yet. "I'm going to need the names and numbers of the people you were skyping with to confirm your alibi," she said.

Simonson gave one of her long-suffering sighs and nodded in agreement. "Would you do me a favor and call them yourself?" she implored Jo, then narrowed her eyes toward Henry. "Don't let him do it. They would like him—a lot—and I need this job."

Jo called Hanson with Simonson's alibi information, and he said he would follow up right away. In the meantime, the historian agreed to continue her role for the weekend as planned. None of the other guests had come looking for them—apparently no one was in a hurry to play whist—so no one had witnessed what happened in her office. Simmons (they reverted to her Hopkins House name to avoid slip-ups) returned to the drawing room first with the nearly-forgotten deck of cards. When Henry and Jo followed shortly thereafter, they were met with wagging eyebrows and suggestive teases that seemed better suited to bawdy romance novels than Jane Austen, or so Henry thought, but at least their cover was intact.

More mingling followed, along with half a game of whist, but the game was abandoned when a spirited debate developed about the role of the military in Austen's novels. Jo didn't have much of an opinion when it came to Napoleonic militia, and she was having a hard time pretending to be interested. All she really wanted to do was excuse herself and check in with Hanson, but she had already conspicuously disappeared once this evening; she didn't want to press her luck.

Henry noticed her restlessness. When the debate came to a natural lull, he announced, "From the looks of the schedule, we have a full day tomorrow. Joanna, my dear, would you care to retire?"

"Yes, I suppose I'm a little tired as well," Jo played along, giving the other guests her best attempt at a wan smile.

Several of the other ladies declared that they, too, were ready to retire, and the party officially broke up for the night. On their way to the stairs Henry was drawn into conversation with Mr. Pennyworth, and Jo ended up walking next to Sophie, who was still limping a bit.

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," the woman said under her breath.

Jo tensed but quickly schooled her features. "What do you mean?"

"You don't look the least bit tired to me." Sophie gave Jo a wink. "And neither does Henry. You've been antsy—I mean, anxious—to get upstairs ever since you got back from powdering each other's noses. Not that I blame you," she added, with an appreciative glance forward. "Seriously, is he for real?"

"I wonder the same thing most days," Jo said. Sophie didn't need to know that her reasons for wondering were entirely different. Well, mostly different.

The guests said goodnight as they arrived at their individual doors, and Jo took careful note of who entered each one. She and Henry entered their room—together, as everyone was so eager to point out—and began preparing for bed. Their one, singular bed. Not a big deal, she told herself. They were professionals, and friends, and this was not a problem.

"We appear to have a problem." Henry's disembodied voice came to her from somewhere beyond her changing screen. "If Miss Simmons is indeed innocent, that leaves us with no current suspects." Jo's call to Hanson had revealed only that Hollywood executives were difficult to get a hold of without an agent, even for the NYPD. Confirmation would have to wait until morning.

"No," she countered, "that leaves us with a lot more suspects. There are eight other guests, plus staff. We have a busy day tomorrow." She unfastened the last of the buttons and hooks and ties that held her into this getup, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she finally freed herself and pulled on her pajamas.

It had taken her far too long to decide what sleepwear to pack. She certainly wasn't going to bring a nightgown or anything slinky. On the other hand, it was August and there was no air conditioning here, plus she didn't want to make it too obvious that she had thought about it so much. In the end, she had decided that a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a tank top gave the impression that she had packed casually.

When she emerged from behind the screen, dress over one arm, she found him standing in front of his open wardrobe, hanging the last of his clothes inside. He was wearing a robe, and Jo could only assume he wasn't naked underneath; all she could see were bare calves and a triangle of chest.

He turned to face her, his eyes unmistakably taking her in. The look on his face was nothing she would describe as lustful, but it might pass as deeply affectionate, and that seemed nearly as dangerous.

"Congratulations—you survived your first day in 1811." He crossed the room and held out his arms. For a moment, she thought he was reaching out to hold her, and she almost stepped back in surprise when she realized he only meant to take the dress off her hands. She handed it over, and he carried it to her wardrobe and began putting it to rights on a hanger.

"Yeah, it wasn't so bad." She watched him fussing with the garment and mentally shook off her misunderstanding with a tease. "Let me guess: you worked your way through medical school as a lady's maid?"

He smiled. "No, but I'm the one who will have to answer to Mrs. Yang if her gowns are rumpled."

While he fussed with the dress, she eyed the bed again and finally broached the topic. "So, we haven't talked about sleeping arrangements yet."

"No, we haven't," he agreed, and continued what he was doing.

She hadn't expected him to not offer a solution, and she had no response ready. When the silence lasted a second too long, he turned from the wardrobe to give her a mock-serious look. "I assure you, Detective, that I will be able to control myself. I will stay firmly on my side of the bed."

She caught the not-so-subtle emphasis in his statement. "Don't worry, Doctor, your virtue is safe with me. I'm just concerned for your safety; if any uninvited limbs wander onto my side, I can't be held responsible if you end up bruised."

"Duly noted," he said. "I shall guard my shins carefully." The dress was finally arranged to his satisfaction, and he circled back to the opposite side of the bed.

Their whole conversation sounded a little forced to Jo's ears, a little shy of honest, but at least this way she didn't have to face the flutterings in her gut quite yet. Her gut could just keep on fluttering; for now, she would keep on ignoring it.

She was standing on the left side of the bed, he on the right. It was only a coincidence, she told herself, or unconscious habit, that she had claimed the same half of the bed that she did at home; the same half she had slept in with Sean. If she had more experience with undercover operations like this, she might have intentionally chosen the opposite side just to maintain some mental separation. Next time, she would. Traitorously, the idea of "next time" caused her gut to twist again. She was pretty sure it wasn't undercover police work in general that had triggered it.

She realized that she had been standing at the bedside for too long. She didn't want to look hesitant, didn't want Henry to see that this meant more than police business as usual to her unruly gut. Without further ado, she lifted the corner of the covers and slid into the cool, crisp sheets.

Henry looked down at her with an expression that seemed a little knowing and a little sad, and she suspected that he knew she was thinking about Sean. Maybe he was thinking about Abigail, too. Before he could say something unbearably considerate and threaten her defenses, she went on the offensive. "You once told Reece that you sleep naked. Was that just a line to explain your skinny dipping, or am I about to get a show?"

Henry saw this for the diversion that it was, but he didn't comment. Instead he loosened the sash around his waist as he replied matter-of-factly, "I only sleep naked when I have good reason." With that, he removed his robe to reveal boxers. He hung the robe over a chair back and slid under the covers on his side of the bed. He had seemed completely unselfconscious about stripping down to his underwear in front of her. Of course, after 200 years of materializing wet and naked in public places, Jo could understand how he might have an unusually low sense of modesty, even with his ye olde upbringing.

The mattress shifted slightly as his weight settled in, but it was a large bed, and they easily occupied separate sides without touching. Henry leaned toward his nightstand and blew out the candle burning there, and Jo did the same. The window shades were open to admit a pleasant night breeze, and the waxing moon gave them enough light to make each other out clearly as they lay side-by-side on their backs, the sheet folded down at their waists.

Jo laughed a little.

"What?" Henry asked.

She turned her head to look at his profile. "Do you remember the last time we were in bed together?"

He smiled and turned his head as well. "We were testing the gas levels in Eric Shaw's apartment," he replied, "and wearing full face masks. Surely this weekend's dress code is more comfortable than that."

"The jury's still out on that one." The conversation they'd had through those gas masks suddenly filtered back to her in a new light, and she shifted onto one hip and elbow to face him directly. "So all those ways to die that we talked about that day, your insights into which ones were the worst—that wasn't theoretical knowledge, was it?"

He shook his head on the pillow. "All trial and error, I'm afraid. Sometimes literal trials," he added, "if witch trials and lynchings count."

"No, I'd say those belong in the 'murder' category."

He smiled. "I applaud your definition of justice."

Her gaze was drawn then to the rough contours of the scar on his chest, thrown into relief by the moonlight, and the grin of her lightening mood faded. "Is that what your first death was about? Justice?" She had begun to unconsciously reach her fingers toward his scar when she caught herself and dropped her hand onto the mattress in the narrow gap between them.

He turned his face toward the ceiling as he considered her question. "I told you I was shot defending a slave, and that The Empress of Africa was my father's ship." She nodded. He seemed to gather his thoughts before continuing. "I've had over 200 years to think about that night. There were many heroic men and women aboard that ship, but I do not count myself among them. I may have opposed the slave trade, but I was not on board The Empress seeking justice. The truth is, I was seeking redemption—for my father and myself. It wasn't heroic; it was selfish."

His voice remained low and calm, pitched for a moonlit conversation, but a current of self-recrimination flowed beneath his words.

She let the silence settle for a moment before she spoke. "Henry, Isaac and hundreds of other people are alive today because of what you did that night. Does it matter whether your motives were pure? You may be immortal, but you're only human. I say cut yourself some slack and move on. Everyone else on that ship did."

At that he turned on his side to face her more fully and held her gaze. "Thank you, Jo."

"For what?"

"For being my partner. For not running away." He smiled. "For not making me sleep on the floor."

"You're welcome," she said simply, and reached up to grasp the hand that rested between them, near his heart. They lay like that for a few heartbeats, hands clasped and bodies facing each other across a narrow strip of mattress. Finally she exhaled and let go of his hand, breaking the spell. "Speaking of sleep, we've got a big day tomorrow." She had drifted toward the middle, and she started shifting back. "Good night, Henry."

"Good night, Jo," he answered, and they each retreated to their own sides of the bed, and into their own thoughts. Jo fell asleep to the sound of Henry's regular breathing, at rest but not asleep, and the quiet, certain knowledge that she wanted to fall asleep this way again.