Maybe in return for Madison’s help and friendship, Thomas Jefferson had presented him with a handwritten copy of the Declaration of Independence since Madison had neither been present at the Continental Congress in Philadelphia during the summer of 1776 when it was drafted, nor had he signed it. And now Prescott Avery—or his estate—owned that previously unknown piece of history, which I suspected had cost Prescott a small fortune.

What all this meant was that Hobson Banks’s documents and the White House silver could be anywhere, though I was reasonably certain he had hidden everything somewhere in Virginia. It seemed likely he had fled D.C., crossing the Potomac River and looking for a safe hiding place in this area, just as the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution had been brought to Leesburg, probably at roughly the same time. Why nothing that Banks had taken with him had ever been returned to the White House was another mystery, unless something had happened to him and his secret died with him.

If that were true, it was a very good hiding place indeed not to have been discovered for more than two centuries.

So how in the world did I think I was going to find it?

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed midnight. Quinn had gone to bed more than an hour ago. I shut down the computer and went upstairs, undressing in the dark so I wouldn’t wake him and slipping into bed, cuddling up to the warmth of his body.

By the time the grandfather clock chimed one, he rolled over and murmured, “You’re so restless. You really ought to try to get some sleep.”

“I will,” I said. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“C’mere.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I kissed him back and before long we were making love, tangled around each other in the sheets. By the second time all my thoughts about centuries-old secrets, plots to control the government, and murder had vanished and all I could think about was what he was doing to me and how much I loved him.

Finally I slept.

I SENT JOSEPHINE WILDE an email while Quinn was making us an omelet for breakfast the next morning and asked if I might be in touch concerning the possibility of her taking us on as clients. I told her briefly about the problem with our diseased Merlot vines.

My phone dinged that I had email just as we finished cleaning up. I clicked on the mail app and opened it.

“That was fast. Josephine Wilde wrote back,” I said.

“What did she say?” Quinn asked.

I held up my phone. Two words. Call me and a phone number.

“At least she didn’t turn us down,” I said.

“Give the lady a call,” he said, “before she changes her mind.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, tapped on her number, and hit call.