Henry stood motionless until Jo had left the ballroom. A quick glance around told him that all of the guests and most of the extras had witnessed their little scene. Even though he and Jo had been speaking too quietly to be overheard by even the most curious of gossips, their body language must have screamed "LOVERS' QUARREL" loud and clear.

He tried to arrange his features to convey "just a little misunderstanding, nothing to worry about." The sympathetic looks he was getting from other guests, mostly the men, suggested that he had achieved closer to "I am in such deep shit," but that would have to do.

He followed Jo's path out the door, and wisely no one stopped him. Only a few people were lingering in the hallway, enjoying the relative cool and quiet away from the dancers and drinkers. Henry scanned the space but didn't see his partner, so he stopped to take a deep breath and think. If Jo wanted to escape, where would she go? Their room? The gardens? No, she wouldn't hide. Or more accurately, she would hide in her work. They were very alike in that way.

With that thought, he knew exactly where to find her. He walked as casually as he could manage away from the ballroom, and once he was out of sight, he strode quickly to the staircase.

County Somerset, 1811

The evening of the ball, Rosa Martin was a vision in silk and lace, and she danced every set superbly, but none of that explained why Henry could hardly look away from her.

His attention was riveted to the woman who, the night before, had told him that their host and possibly her own father were involved in the slave trade. She had followed that revelation by playing a sonata, singing a lovely folk air, and being so praised and surrounded by admirers that Henry had found no opportunity to enquire further.

Now it was finally time to claim his dance, and they took their places together for the cotillion. It wasn't a form that lent itself to private moments, so they were limited to small talk and pleasantries until the dance was finished. When the last chord sounded and all the dancers bowed and curtsied, Henry accompanied Rosa through the French doors to enjoy the cool air on the balcony. They found a spot that was visible enough for propriety yet private enough that they wouldn't be overheard.

"Something tells me you have a plan for how to proceed," Henry began without preamble. "How can I help?"

Rosa nodded. "Lord Summersby conducts most of his business from this house during the summer. There must be something in his study that will prove what he is up to. If I am lucky, it will also show that my father does not know what his partner is doing."

"And you would like me to help you search?" Henry ventured.

"Yes, but that is not all." She looked up to meet his eyes. "I am not a fool. Even if I do find the evidence I need, I know that the accusations of a woman will mean very little. I am asking you to go to your father and convince him to make this travesty known."

Henry took a long breath. "My father would never approve of such a deplorable practice, but do you understand what you're asking? To speak against two such powerful men in his profession could have very serious consequences. It could ruin him."

"I know." Rosa looked grim, but she didn't back down.

"What about your father?" Henry asked. "Are you willing see your own family ruined? Maybe not financially, but there would be a terrible scandal. You would be ostracized."

"What does that matter to me?" Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Regardless of what people say, I am not la primadonna desperate to be adored." Color flooded her cheeks, and Henry realized he had inadvertently struck a nerve. She went on, "What is social ruin compared to thousands of souls treated like cattle? I know what I am willing to do, Dr. Morgan. What about you?"

Before Henry could say anything in his defense, she turned on one heel and strode back into the ballroom, sweeping past anyone who tried to engage her for a dance and disappearing through the opposite doors.

Hopkins House

Jo was crouched in front of a door in the darkened hallway, her dress billowing around her and shimmering with a warm yellow glow in the light of the candle she'd brought from their room. She was so intent on her task that she almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching. When she did, she stood and quickly moved her body to block what she was doing, but when Henry appeared around the corner out of the shadows, she gave an exasperated sigh and went back to work. She repositioned the lock pick and wrench in the keyhole of the Pennyworths' door and deftly maneuvered them.

Henry came to stand next to her. "Jo, you don't need to do this."

"Yes, Henry, I do. This is why we're here, remember?" A satisfying 'click' announced that she had succeeded, and she turned the handle and crossed the threshold into the Pennyworths' room.

Henry glanced behind him, but the hallway was quiet. He grabbed the candle from the hall table and followed her inside.

"I do remember why we're here," Henry continued. "I only meant that you didn't need to pick the lock."

Jo whirled around to see Henry holding a key in front of him. He couldn't help looking a little self-satisfied. "After we danced, Lola asked me to hold her reticule while she got punch. I happily obliged."

"You could have mentioned that." Jo shook her head a little, but she didn't want to argue anymore. "Never mind. Let's see what we can find."

Henry placed the candle on a dresser, and it cast a small but steady light around the room. They began opening drawers and wardrobe doors, searching silently. Their fight in the ballroom was fresh in both their minds, and the chance to focus on something else suited them fine.

After a few minutes, Jo was the first to break the silence. "Did you learn anything else from Lola that I should know about?"

"No, nothing of consequence. She didn't mention the Exhibition or speculate on usernames." He frowned in thought. "That in itself is notable. Those were the only topics Caroline and the Martins could talk about all evening."

Jo paused what she was doing. Without looking up she said, "Maybe Lola wanted to avoid the biggest thing on her mind because she was afraid of revealing something she wasn't ready to say."

Henry looked up from his search of an end table at that blatant double meaning. Jo was very intentionally not meeting his eye, which told him she knew exactly what she'd said. The tension and frustration from their argument loosened its hold on him.

"I hope she knows that I never intended to pressure her by anything I said or did, consciously or not. She can share as much as she's ready to in her own time. And I certainly would never use her callously. She means too much…to the investigation. She meaning Lola, obviously," he added.

"Obviously." A small, dry smile crept onto her face. Jo was not ready to kiss and make up, so to speak—the shifting ground beneath their relationship combined with this weird weekend still had her feeling a little unsteady. Despite that, he was still the same Henry, whatever that meant. He might be an immortal bundle of contradictions, but he was her partner, and her friend, and the man who had coaxed her out of the hole Sean left when he died. She trusted him.

She turned from where she was crouched in front of an empty drawer to face him. "Henry, about this morning. I— hold on." When she looked across the room from this angle, there was a faint reflection of candlelight under the mattress. Jo followed the glint and pulled out a laptop. She set it on the bed and opened it. Henry came around the bed to stand next to her.

"Can you unlock it?" he asked.

"Let me see." Jo tapped a button to wake it up, and she smiled. "We're in luck—no password." She clicked the user profile "miss shady," and an email inbox appeared. Henry read along with her as she opened a few of the most recent messages.

"Huh."

They said it nearly in unison, then looked each other in the eyes for the first time since the ballroom. In that instant, they were partners again, the matching glints in their eyes sparked by what they'd just discovered.

"They weren't trying to steal the manuscript," Henry began, and Jo finished the thought.

"They were trying to scoop the story." She turned back to the screen and continued reading. "There was a reward offered by an online lit magazine called Austenalia for high-res photos of the Mansfield Park manuscript. Lola has been trading messages with someone on staff there confirming that if she and Ian email the photos to him before any public announcement is made, he will deposit $20,000 in her account."

"Rumors must have gotten out that the manuscript exists," Henry said. "Even newly discovered material from that era is beyond copyright law. Austenalia would have the literary scoop of the decade if they were the first to publish a copy, or even sell access to high-quality scans."

"Henry, look at this." Jo opened an earlier email with attachment. "This is a copy of the full insurance rider, complete with names. They must have bribed someone in the insurance office. Look at the date."

Henry leaned in to read the top of the message. "Both Lola and Ian received this on Tuesday— two days before the murder. They've known all along that the Martins own the manuscript."

Jo furrowed her brow. "Our strongest theory has been that the Brewers were killed to cover up a burglary gone wrong. If they knew the Brewers weren't the owners, why would the Pennyworths involve them at all?"

"There must be another factor at work," Henry mused. "Perhaps—"

Jo cut him off with a quick hand motion when a pair of familiar voices echoed in the hallway: the Pennyworths were coming back. Jo shut the laptop and shoved it back under the mattress. Henry blew out the candle, hoping that the occupants wouldn't notice the smell of fresh wax or the extra candlestick, and he followed Jo to the door. A peek outside showed that Ian and Lola were not past the corner yet, but they would be any second. Jo and Henry exited and shut the door quietly behind them, but not quietly enough.

"Did you hear something?" Ian's voice sounded from the shadows, and the footsteps sped up. The flicker of an approaching candle grew brighter, and a moment later Ian and Lola appeared from around the corner. Henry and Jo were in shadow, but they were still visible.

"Who's there?" Lola demanded. "What are you doing by our room?"

Henry had Lola's key in his hand, but it was too late to lock the door and cover their tracks. Too late, unless he could cover the cover-up.

Before he had time to overthink it, or think much at all, he turned to face Jo straight-on, cupped one hand on the back of her head, gripped her waist, and pressed her back against the door.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Henry, what—?" was as far as she got.

"Please don't hold this against me," he murmured in a rush, and lowered his mouth over hers.

Henry was kissing her. Well, kind of. His mouth was covering hers, and she could feel the heat of his body pressed against her from her chest down to where his legs were tangled in her skirts. By all rights, it should have been an intense, toe-curling kiss—but it wasn't. His lips weren't even moving, and neither were hers. The one part of him that was moving was the hand at her waist. In her surprise-addled brain, it took her a long moment to realize he wasn't caressing her: he was using her as cover.

The key he had lifted from Lola's reticule was in his hand, and behind her back he was maneuvering it into the keyhole, turning it slowly enough to mask the tumblers notching back into place. It was quick thinking, actually. She probably wouldn't hold it against him.

When the final tumbler made a louder 'click' than the rest, Jo moaned dramatically into Henry's mouth to cover it up. He pulled the key out of the lock and slid it into his jacket pocket; their bodies were so close that in the dim light, the movement could pass as a caress.

Henry moaned in response, low and resonant. He probably meant it as "thanks for covering, partner," but as the tenor of his voice vibrated through them both, it shook something loose. She relaxed into the embrace, and she could feel him doing the same. The next moment, they weren't just kind of kissing anymore.

His lips began to move over hers, varying the pressure and gently exploring her mouth. He was tentative at first, but when she responded in kind, he grew bolder. The hand at her waist tightened, and his other hand spread wide through the up-swept hair at the base of her neck to hold her mouth firmly against his.

For her part, the hands that she had pressed against his chest in surprise now relaxed into the embrace. One hand traced a path down his lapel and around his waist to his back. The other hand mirrored his own and began to restlessly caress his neck and the hair at the base of his skull. She'd always suspected that his hair would be soft and oh, it really was.

Encouraged by her response, his tongue traced her bottom lip, and she teased back with her own. In unison they angled their mouths to deepen the kiss, tongues boldly questing and tangling as they explored this new territory. Jo heard a second, more urgent moan from Henry—or maybe it was from her; she wasn't sure. She arched up in response and he leaned in as if they were alone in the house, and maybe in the tri-state area.

At that point, there was a very pointed throat clearing that reminded them that they weren't.

"Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but that's our door you're scandalizing."

Jo gave a little jolt; so did Henry. Their arms were still wrapped around each other, but their faces separated enough to see the startled look in each other's eyes. Jo was pretty sure she looked more startled than Henry. He looked surprised by what had happened, but there was still a smolder banked beneath.

She wasn't smoldering. She was kicking herself for losing sight of the case and getting lost in her own personal issues, getting lost in her own partner, and his lips, and that hair, and those incredible eyes—okay, maybe she was smoldering too. He was watching her closely now to see how she'd react, and his gaze saw far too much of her. It always had. Surely he could see that besides smoldering, she was also panicking.

She put her hands back on his chest and pushed lightly, and he took a step back. With barely a look at the Pennyworths, and for the second time that night, she fled the scene.