Perhaps she should return to her own chambers. It was wildly inappropriate for her to be here at this late hour, and she would be ruined if discovered. Yet, he’d fled the kitchen earlier in a state of panic. She didn’t understand it. Had she done something wrong?

The clock on the mantel chimed two, which meant she had been here for over an hour. The recipe she’d written, along with a slice of the cinnamon babka, sat on his nightstand. There was no reason for her to wait.

Except this tiny feeling in the pit of her stomach, one that hadn’t abated ever since he left the kitchen.

I merely want to ensure he’s all right, that we’re all right.

Besides, she owed him the recipe, Franconi’s ducklings à la bigarade. And he sort of helped with the babka, so it seemed only fair to bring him the first slice.

Lies. You wanted to see him. You wanted more of what happened in the kitchen.

Fine, yes. Maybe that, too.

Regardless, she could not wait until the morning—or the afternoon—to find out why he’d departed so abruptly. They might not be friends, but they were friendly—and wouldn’t anyone check on the welfare of another in such a circumstance?

Just a few days remained in Newport. She certainly felt more confident with Kit, but would that confidence translate to a potential suitor? Alice wasn’t certain. Better to keep up these lessons with Kit before she returned to New York. To Mama’s watchful gaze.

To finding a husband.

Sighing, she pushed that worry off for another day. The house party afforded too many opportunities to waste with future worries.

The one small table in his room was littered with papers. She didn’t wish to pry, but they appeared to be tallies and estimates of some kind. For his supper club? A pair of eyeglasses rested near a pencil and she smiled as tenderness expanded in her chest. She could picture him here, working hard on his ideas.

The latch clicked and she spun toward the door. Fear gripped her for a brief second when she considered it might be Kit’s valet, but that disappeared when Kit stumbled into the room. He nearly tripped over his feet, his body loose and uncoordinated, while his black evening jacket dangled from his fingertips. “Fucking hell,” he whispered as he struggled for balance.

He hadn’t seen her yet, so she took a step forward. “Do you need help?”

Sucking in a harsh breath, his head snapped up. “Alice.” He took two steps toward her. “You—Is that indeed you?”

“It is indeed me.”