The reporter lowered himself into a chair and flipped through a tiny journal. For the first few minutes, they chatted easily about Kit’s and Preston’s backgrounds and their decision to open the supper club. Then Littleton turned to the night of the preview. “Madame Durham, a well-known Black opera singer, was an inspired choice for entertainment. Have you seen her perform before?”

“I have,” Kit answered. “At Carnegie Hall a few years ago. She’s the best there is, in my opinion. We plan on hiring performers—actresses, dancers, singers—of every color and background, much as Mr. Carnegie does, but in a more intimate setting.”

“And you used Chef Franconi’s recipes, cooked by one of his apprentices. A Chef Lucciola.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Franconi was gracious enough to allow us both the use of his recipes and his apprentice.”

Littleton continued to scribble on the paper. “And this chef? We heard rumors it was a woman.”

Kit stopped breathing. He’d sworn the waiters and kitchen staff to secrecy, and none of the guests had seen Alice. So how had Littleton learned of this information? He forced his body to relax. “Ludicrous. Who told you such a thing?”

“I have two sources.”

“Who must not have attended that night.”

Littleton didn’t confirm or deny it, instead changed tack. “Unusual to hire a woman as a head chef. Were you concerned that a woman in the kitchen here would scare off potential customers?”

“Are you implying that a woman cannot cook? Because hundreds of years of history have proven otherwise.”

“But not in fine dining. There are no women in any of the hotel kitchens or restaurants. Women work in home kitchens.”

Though Kit wanted to defend Alice’s brilliance, he could not reveal her identity as Chef Lucciola. To do so would ruin her standing in society. Mrs. Lusk would ship her daughter off to a convent in Europe if that happened. Furthermore, it would sink the supper club. As Littleton pointed out, women did not work in fine dining kitchens. “Chef Lucciola is an apprentice of Franconi. If you speak to anyone who ate here that night, they will tell you the food was superb.”

“Indeed, I have heard many accounts of the meal that was served. My question is whether Chef Lucciola is a man or a woman.”

“I have already answered that question.”

“Not really. You called the question”—he checked his notes—“ludicrous. But that is not an answer.”

“Does Hearst know you are pursuing this angle?”

“It was his idea, sir.”

Goddamn it. Kit should have known better than to trust Hearst. The man was out for sensationalism, to sell as many newspapers as possible. “What if I refuse to answer any more questions?”

“That is your prerogative, of course, but I should warn you that I already have a name for the woman posing as Lucciola.”