He dragged his fingers though his hair, disheveling the strands, and began pacing in the cramped space. “I invited both Hearst and Pulitzer to the preview in the hopes of gaining press for the supper club. Which it has, but it’s the wrong sort. Do you understand? It’s the wrong sort of attention. For me.” He gave her a pointed look. “And for you.”

Oh. Her hand wrapped around her throat, horror sinking into her veins like a cold fog. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said as he sat in the empty chair opposite her, “that this reporter has not only learned that I hired a woman chef, he’s also learned said woman was you.”

“That’s impossible. The waiters and kitchen staff were sworn to secrecy. They all personally promised me.”

“Who knows what Hearst did to get someone to go back on his word? He could have blackmail material on one of the waiters. I just . . . I don’t know. But we have to figure out what to do. The reporter is going to come looking for Chef Lucciola. If we cannot produce him, then we are both ruined.”

“Oh, God.” She dropped her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Her reputation. Her mother. Lockwood. “Oh, God,” she repeated.

“Alice.” He touched her hand gently. “I am so sorry. If I had any idea it would turn out like this, I would never have allowed you to help me.”

“You tried to talk me out of it. Repeatedly. No, I only have myself to blame.” If the story was published, what would she do? Return to Boston with Mama? Live out the rest of her days in humiliation and misery? No one would marry her. She would end up a spinster, unloved and a burden. Tears burned the backs of her lids. “Oh, God.”

“I know.” Kit squeezed her fingers, his voice full of sympathy. “We can fix this. We just need someone to pose as—”

“Indeed, this is interesting.” A man in a dark suit stood aside the table, smirking at Kit.

Alice frowned up at him. “Who are you?”

The man inclined his head. “Mr. Littleton. And who are you, Miss . . . ?”

“Do not answer that,” Kit snapped. “Littleton, what are you doing here?”

The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Came to speak with Franconi. See if I can’t get to the bottom of this little mystery.”

Alice stifled a gasp. Was this the reporter working on Mr. Hearst’s story?

Waiters continued to go in and out of the swinging door, the kitchen in constant motion. Which meant Alice was unprepared to hear Lockwood’s voice suddenly beside her. “Miss Lusk, is everything all right?”

The reporter’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Miss Lusk, is it? This certainly is a coincidence to find you here with Mr. Ward. Did he tell you that I just left his club?”