“About a dozen. I thought it would be fun to send both our letters to some of the same ads. We can really compare notes if those dudes call.” “I love it. Where are you meeting tonight’s prize?”

“In a pub off Washington Square.”

“What does he do?”

“Corporate law. He’s from Philadelphia. Just relocating here. You can make tomorrow night, can’t you?”

“Sure.” They were meeting Nona for dinner.

Erin ’s tone changed. “I’m glad you’re back in town, Darce. I’ve missed you.” “Me too,” Darcy said heartily. “Okay, see you then.” She started to say good-bye, then impulsively asked, “What’s the name of tonight’s pig-in-a-poke?” “Charles North.”

“Sounds upscale, waspy. Have fun, Erin-go-bragh.” Darcy hung up.

Bev was waiting patiently with the messages. Now her tone was frankly envious. “I swear, when you two talk, you sound like a couple of school kids. You’re closer than sisters. Thinking about my sister, I’d say you’re a lot closer than sisters.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Darcy said quietly.

The Sheridan Gallery on Seventy-eighth Street, just east of Madison Avenue, was in the midst of an auction. The contents of the vast country home of Mason Gates, the late oil baron, had drawn an overflow crowd of dealers and collectors.

Chris Sheridan observed the scene from the back of the room, reflecting with pleasure that it had been a coup to triumph over Sotheby’s and Christie’s for the privilege of auctioning this collection. Absolutely magnificent furniture from the Queen Anne period; paintings distinguished less by their technique than by their rarity; Revere silver that he knew would set off feverish bidding.