“I’ve known you since we were boys, Kit. I’m not wrong, and Harrison confirmed it, as well. You gave her lessons.”

Damn it. Harrison had no right to share that bit of news. Unwilling to give Preston the satisfaction, he lifted a shoulder. “In exchange for recipes. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“There are hundreds of chefs out there with thousands of recipes at our disposal. You didn’t do this for the recipes. Do I seem like some sort of rube?”

Preston was so far from a rube that it was laughable. He was city bred, tough as nails and smart as a whip. Still, Kit did not want anyone to get the wrong impression. “Alice and I are friends. Nothing more. She’s on the hunt for a husband and I am focused on this.” He gestured to the kitchen.

“Then why didn’t you sleep with Lottie after the opera the other night?”

A tomato fell out of Kit’s hands and dropped to the floor. Shit. How had Preston learned that piece of information? “Perhaps I didn’t feel up to it.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that was true. You definitely were not ‘up’ for it—and now I know why.”

“Do not tempt me to chuck a tomato at your head. It would be a shame to ruin your suit.”

Preston smirked. “I dare you.”

Kit cocked his arm—and the swinging door opened. Alice’s eyes darted from him to Preston. “Kit, what are you doing? That’s a perfectly good tomato.”

He straightened. “You’re right. I shouldn’t insult the tomato by throwing it at this piece of sh—”

“Kit!”

Pressing his lips together, he turned and gave the produce his attention. Preston was wrong. The recipes were necessary to the club’s success. When the invitations for Friday night were delivered, not a single guest declined. In fact, Kit had received more than a dozen requests from men not on the list begging to attend.

When they started selling memberships, Franconi’s food would be a major draw—as would the entertainment. And Kit had called in a personal favor to secure the singer for Friday night’s preview.

“Hello, Miss Lusk,” Preston said as he went over to kiss her hand. “Forgive my friend over there. He has terrible manners.”

“Good morning, Mr. Clarke.”

“Call me Preston, please,” he said in a sugary, flirtatious voice that had Kit fingering another tomato. “Mr. Clarke sounds like my father and I loathe my father.”

Ready to get down to business, Kit hoisted a crate of apples. “Alice, where should I put all these?”

“Keep those out, actually. We’re going to prepare the desserts first.” From the depths of her handbag, she withdrew a white apron and proceeded to tie it around her waist. “Are you here to help, Preston?”

“God, no. I came to laugh at Kit.”