“Sort of. A social club open at night that provides various forms of entertainment. One opened a few years ago in the Metropolitan Opera House after the fire. It’s a small secret club among a certain set, but I’d like to do a bigger version.”

“That . . . actually sounds perfect for you.”

“Thank you. I cannot claim all the credit. My friend Preston is the other half of the venture.”

“Preston Clarke, the builder?” She wasn’t from New York, but she knew the name.

“You’ve heard of him? Oh, look in that bush. I think I see an egg.”

Alice plucked the blue egg off the ground and added it to the pile that Kit carried. “Mr. Clarke came to the hotel where I’m staying. He was trying to lure the chef away.”

Kit’s head swiveled sharply. “You’re staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?”

“Yes. My mother likes the rooms.”

“And how do you know this—about Preston and the chef?”

“I was there.”

He came to an abrupt halt and one egg tumbled from his hat down to the ground. His body went oddly still. “You were there? Where, in the kitchens?”

Alice picked the errant egg off the ground and put it back in his hat. “Yes.”

“Why?”

Under no circumstances would she reveal this secret to him—or anyone else. Her mother forbade Alice’s interest in cooking eons ago. Instead, she shrugged and tried not to notice how his confusion only made him more appealing. “I just go in there sometimes.”

“Balderdash. An evasion, if I’ve ever heard one. You may confide in me.” He dipped to stare into her eyes. “Do they sneak you extra cake every now and then?”

Please. She could make her own cake.

“No—and you’ll laugh if I tell you. Goodness knows I already have enough to be embarrassed about with you.”

“Again, there is no embarrassment and you simply must tell me. I’ll chuck these eggs into the ocean if you don’t.”

She gestured toward the water behind them. “Go ahead. I don’t need the jewelry.” She had more than she’d ever wear, thanks to her father.

“I promise, I won’t laugh.”

He looked so sincere that her resolve weakened. “Do you swear?”

Kit used a finger to cross his heart. “If I laugh, I’ll give you those lessons you asked for, promise to Maddie be damned.”

How could she lose? She lifted her chin. “Angelo is a friend and he—”

“Wait.” His jaw fell and he shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Angelo? Are you talking about Chef Franconi? The Chef Franconi?”

“Yes. He worked for my family in Boston for years before moving to New York.” She’d spent her whole childhood in his kitchen asking questions and learning all she could about food.

“This is amazing. You have to help us.”

“Help you with what?”