Preston gripped Kit’s shoulder. “Me, too. But we can’t do anything at the moment. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

The ache in Kit’s stomach compounded at the idea. The last thing he needed was to go home and brood about Forrest and Alice. Nothing could be done about either situation at the moment, and Kit needed a distraction from the hopelessness burning inside his chest. “Take me back to the club.” At least there he could bury himself in work.

The next day, Alice was too busy to be nervous. If she stopped to think about how important the evening was to Kit, then she would never finish everything that still needed to be done. He’d hardly visited the kitchen, leaving Alice, Mrs. Henry and her children alone to work. No doubt he had many tasks awaiting him, as well, but Alice would have liked a little bit of his time. A minute or two, at least. But it almost seemed as if he was avoiding her.

Which was ridiculous. Kit wasn’t like that. He was honest to a fault, a man without guile. Perhaps he was nervous about tonight. She’d speak to him after the evening ended, just to make certain.

In his office? Alone, just the two of you?

She bit her lip and continued to watch over the lobsters steaming on the range. If they overcooked, the meat would turn tough and the lobster thermidor would be ruined. No more thinking about Kit.

The kitchen was hot and noisy. Dinner service would begin in three hours. In addition to the five waiters that would serve tonight, Kit had hired two people to help plate the food. Sam was currently shucking oysters and Opal was preparing the consommé. Mrs. Henry was searing duck breasts for the ducklings à la bigarade.

Everything was going well. Alice merely needed to keep breathing and keep moving forward, from one task to the next.

“Buonasera, Chef!”

Starting, she turned to the sound of the booming voice. Angelo Franconi was coming in the back door. “Chef.” She blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I cannot come north ten blocks to see how you are faring? This is your big night, no?”

“Yes, but . . . haven’t you a dinner service to prepare?”

“My assistants can handle it without me for a short time. I wanted to see how you were doing.” He drew closer and peered inside the lobster pot. “Come va?” he asked in Italian,

“Va bene. Are you here to help?” she asked hopefully.

“No, lucciola. This is your performance. I am merely a spectator. Introduce me?”

“That is Mrs. Henry and her children, Opal and Sam. Everyone, this is Chef Franconi.”