A lobster shell cracked as Nellie squeezed the metal tool around the claw. “I told him I was coming to help you. Honestly, he’s probably thrilled. My nighttime activities and his do not normally cross paths like this.”

“I can imagine.”

“And things with Kit? How goes it?”

How could Alice begin to answer? Their circumstances were the same, but the other night had been . . . astounding. Like he’d flipped her inside out and then righted her again. And if all went according to plan tonight, she would stay late and celebrate with him. Together.

“I see,” Nellie said. “That blush tells me all I need to know.”

“Stop. It’s warm in here.”

“Oh, indeed. And the Devil sells ice cream in Hell.”

“I am serious. Kit is not interested in anything meaningful.”

“As long as you keep that in mind and don’t fall in love with him, then enjoy it. I hope you turn those lessons back around on him and make him beg.”

I want to give you everything, show you everything, but I know I haven’t the right.

“In a way, yes,” she said. “That is exactly what I am planning.”

“Good for you! I want every salacious detail after we finish the dinner service.”

Chapter Twenty

Everything was perfect.

The table settings, the waiters, the food . . . the evening was moving like clockwork, with precision and efficiency. The guests were happy, laughing and drinking, raving about Alice’s food. They had been chosen carefully this evening. Fifty of New York’s most influential men were here, including Hearst and Pulitzer, newspaper magnates that would hopefully write about the club in their papers. Carnegie had come—probably just to see Madame Durham—and the Scotsman was holding court and entertaining the other gents at his table. Jack Astor and Governor Morton were laughing together at another table, while Stanford White and Teddy Roosevelt looked to be in a heated conversation near the wall. Nellie’s father, Cornelius Young, was here, sitting with Stuyvesant Fish, president of the Illinois Central Railroad.

Bursting with pride and gratitude, Kit even allowed a tiny bit of hope to blossom in his chest. If the performance went well, then the night would be considered a smashing success.

He strode to the side room where the performers could rest. Knocking on the door, he waited until he heard a male voice call, “Enter!”

On the other side of the door, Madame Durham was in the middle of the room, warming up her voice, while her husband sat at the small piano, playing scales. She held up a finger toward Kit until she finished her vocal exercise, then paused.

“Pardon the interruption, Madame Durham,” he said. “It is almost time. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

“No. I will be ready in ten minutes,” the opera singer said. “Will that suffice?”

“Perfect,” Kit said. “I’ll let everyone know.”