“We’re both tired,” I said. “Why don’t we let it die and then go to bed? It won’t take long.”

“It’s only eight-thirty. I’m hungry.” He gave me an evil grin. “How about a piece of your pumpkin pie?”

“I will explode if I eat another bite today.”

He got up. “I’ll bring a big slice and two forks.”

He returned with the pie a few minutes later and set the plate on the coffee table. “Would you like a glass of Madeira? Goes perfect with your pie.”

Madeira. I couldn’t. At least not tonight.

“I’d rather have a glass of Riesling. There’s a chilled bottle of ours in the wine refrigerator. Riesling goes with pumpkin pie and it’s not as heavy as Madeira.”

We were one of the few Virginia vineyards that made Riesling. It was a difficult grape to grow here and our wine always sold out, but we’d kept back a few bottles from our last vintage to drink at home.

“Okay.” He gave me a puzzled look. “I’ll get it.”

When he came back with the two glasses of wine, we moved to the floor, piling up throw pillows to lounge against as we sat cross-legged in front of the fire.

“Have you gone off Madeira?” He passed me a fork. “You looked like I’d suggested drinking rat poison when I brought it up.”

I coughed and a piece of pie went down the wrong way. When I finally caught my breath I said, “It’s not that.”

He waited.

“I had a glass of thirty-two-year-old Malmsey with Prescott this afternoon when we were together in his wine cellar. He knew it was bottled the year I was born, which was why he served it,” I said. “That wine was amazing.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was impressed or envious. Or both. “Why did he lure you away from a great party to have a glass of thirty-two-year-old Malmsey? Just the two of you.”

I told him about the two-hundred-and-ten-year-old cases of Madeira that Prescott said he was certain my family still owned. And about how after Ian Montgomery had found them in the tunnels under the U.S. Capitol during Prohibition and had hung on to them once he realized their provenance and value.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Quinn said. “Even one bottle of that wine would be worth a fortune today.”

“If we still owned it. And, yes, Prescott told me just how much it would be worth—and that he was willing to pay even more to have Ian’s Madeira.”

Quinn let out a long, low whistle. “You think it’s gone? Do you think Leland sold it?”

I shrugged. “Or drank it.”

“He would do something like that, wouldn’t he?”

“He would.”