“That is an understatement, but I cannot send her out of here in tears. I can’t believe I am the one to say this, but there are better ways to finesse these things, Kit.”

Kit downed the rest of his drink and poured another. “More like you are terrified that Arabella will yell at you.”

“Exactly. The point of having a mistress is to keep her happy. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”

“Whether you are happy or not doesn’t really fucking matter to me, Preston.”

“Clearly.”

“I mean it. This is a business, not a place for Arabella to procure jobs for her friends.”

“Is that what you think?” Preston’s expression darkened, his mouth flattening. “That I’d allow that to happen?”

Kit didn’t know what to think anymore. He was floundering with this supper club. They couldn’t find a chef, and they had one reliable singer plus a handful of staff wondering when the hell they were opening.

He dragged a hand down his face. This place could not fail. He could not fail. A supper club was the only thing he was remotely qualified to do. If he couldn’t do this, he really was pathetic.

You’re not cut out for deep thinking, Christopher. As shallow as a saucer.

God, would the old man’s voice never leave his head?

This was not about Preston or Arabella, either. This was about his insecurities and mounting panic. Perhaps this had been a horrible mistake. Exhaling, he met Preston’s furious gaze. “Forgive me. I’m just . . . I don’t know if I can do this.”

Preston’s brow furrowed. “Fellows,” he shouted to the occupants of the room. “Can you give us a minute?” Preston’s carpenters and the club workers all departed, leaving the two men alone. Preston leaned back in his chair. “Talk to me.”

“What is there to say? It’s clear we’ve wasted our money and our time on this place.”

Preston removed the glass from Kit’s hand, setting it and the bottle well out of Kit’s reach. “That’s enough of that, obviously. Now, I have known you a long time. In fact, some days it feels like forever. So, I can say with absolute certainty that this is the perfect venture for you to oversee. No one is more suited to this than you. Furthermore, it’s too late to quit.”

“We could sell it off. Or give it to—”

“No. You are going to stop moping or whatever you’ve been doing since returning from Newport and get your head right. Why don’t I ring Lottie for you?”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharply, definitively. “Don’t do that.”