“Of course. Nothing happens in my kitchen that I do not know about. So, will you help them?”

Alice tapped the vellum card against her fingers. Could she do it? She had never directed a kitchen or prepared food for so many people at once. Yes, she had watched Franconi do it over the years, but there was a big difference between observing and doing. “It’s a massive undertaking. You should lend him a sous chef or two.”

“No. As you said, I am protective of them. They work hard in my kitchen and it is unfair to ask them for more, even if they are being paid handsomely. Furthermore, I think you should do it.”

“I do want to help. But I’ve never cooked for that many people. And it’s more than cooking one dish—it’s timing an entire meal.”

He shrugged. “That is a matter of planning. A dinner service is like a symphony. You are the conductor. The pieces are prepared ahead of time and you put them together at the last minute.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Bella, if it were easy, everyone would be a chef. It requires skill and organization. Intuition, too. But you have all these things. You are ready.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because, lucciola, I know you. I have watched you become a smart and capable woman. And it is time for you to flap your wings a bit, before you settle down.”

Looking at the table, she tried to hide her smile. She appreciated his confidence in her. Perhaps someday she would believe it.

Do this and maybe you will.

Did she dare? With Franconi’s help—and her father’s intervention—perhaps Alice could pull this off. For Kit. “Will you help me with figuring out how much food to order and what needs to be made first?”

The side of his mouth hitched. “Shall I grab a pencil?”

Drumming his fingers on the table, Kit tried not to interrupt the awful attempt at singing occurring onstage. It had already gone on far too long, but Preston had asked Kit to audition one of Arabella’s friends for the supper club. While pleasing to the eye, the woman was terrible, both off-key and off-tempo. Still, he waited until the blasted song was over before rising.

“Thank you, Helena. I don’t think—”

“I don’t think we’ve ever heard anything quite as beautiful,” Preston said loudly, drowning out Kit’s words. He strode toward the stage and helped Helena down. “I appreciate you coming. Mr. Ward and I will make decisions soon and we’ll be in touch. Paul, will you help Miss Langley to her carriage?”

Their doorman and security guard, Paul, came forward to collect Helena. Preston returned to where Kit was brooding over a glass of scotch. Kit frowned at his friend. “She was terrible.”