by Joanna Shupe
Nor was he like Forrest, self-destructive and isolating. Kit didn’t want that future. No, he needed Alice by his side—not just at funerals and in the kitchen, but every morning. Every night. Every moment in between. He would never tire of her or want anyone else. The question was how to make her believe it. He’d spent more than a month telling her the exact opposite . . . and time was running out.
The bell sounded and Kit put down his drink. At the door was a man in a dark brown suit. He struck out his hand. “Mr. Ward?”
“Indeed, and you must be Mr. Littleton.” They shook and Kit brought the man into the main room. “May I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I’ll take a few notes and be on my way. Nice place.” Littleton glanced around. “Mr. Hearst said it was quite a night.”
Littleton worked for the New York Journal, Hearst’s paper in the city. The newspaper magnate had asked to do a feature on Kit’s club, which would only boost its popularity. Needless to say, Kit had readily agreed. “Shall we sit?” He gestured to a table.
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.”
Time ground to a halt as Kit’s heart ceased to beat. He stared at Littleton, hoping the reporter hadn’t discovered Alice’s identity. “Who?”
Littleton’s eyes studied Kit’s face—watching for a reaction, no doubt. “Miss Alice Lusk of Boston. She and her mother are staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, which is where Franconi happens to work.”
Holy fuck. How on earth had this come to light? It was now imperative to throw the reporter off the scent—or both he and Alice would be ruined. She’d never forgive him, either. Any hopes of marrying her would be dashed.
He tilted his head back and laughed. “A debutante? Here? If I were to hire any woman, I’d use the cook from my own household, who is more than competent in the kitchen. I can promise you, Lucciola was not Miss Lusk. I’d be ruined if that were true.”
“It did sound strange, I have to admit.”
“Of course, because you are a logical human being. How would a debutante like Miss Lusk learn to cook like Chef Franconi, one of the greatest chefs in the world? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well.” He scratched his head with the tip of his pencil. “Franconi did work for the Lusks in Boston for a number of years. It could be that she was friendly with the chef . . .”
“And? Keep going.” He leaned back and smirked. “I cannot wait to hear the rest of it.”
“I know,” Littleton chuckled, appearing slightly sheepish. “I hardly believed it myself.”
“The idea of Franconi teaching this young girl to cook . . . and her mother allowing it? No, no. Whoever gave you that information clearly has never met a society mother. Such a thing would never be condoned, and no girl would have the freedom to come here and cook for three days.”
Littleton nodded. “That makes sense. Yet, these sources are very compelling.”
“You may believe me, Mr. Littleton. And I sincerely hope you do not pursue this further and ruin a young woman’s reputation.”
Littleton closed his journal. “Well, I should get going. I have to type this up for tomorrow’s edition.”
They both stood and Kit led Littleton to the door. As he pulled open the wooden panel, a sense of unease prickled the back of Kit’s neck. “I assume we have put this Lucciola business to bed?”
“As long as I am able to confirm the man’s existence, yes. Good evening, Mr. Ward.”
Watching the reporter head toward Broadway, Kit began to sweat under his suit. This was bad. Very bad. He must warn Alice immediately. They had to find someone in Franconi’s kitchen willing to pose as Lucciola to fool Hearst and his reporters.
Because if they didn’t, everything would be ruined—especially Alice.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alice stared at the Duke of Lockwood over the rim of her water glass. He was perfectly turned out in a black evening suit with white vest and bow tie, his handsomeness and aristocratic bearing drawing nearly every eye in the room. The tables around them were full, as they were on most nights, and Alice tried not to fidget under the increased attention.
This is what you wanted. A man who likes you, a man you might grow to love.
Why, then, was she so forlorn? So dead inside? It could not be because of Kit, as she had decided to put him firmly out of her mind for good. Flowers or not, Kit was headed down a different path. Alice had to marry to escape the insufferable presence of her mother, to start a life in her own home with her own kitchen. And with a man who wanted her by his side. She was not a rebellious upstart, willing to throw away her chance at security and happiness on a man who refused to claim her publicly.
In her head she knew this was the right decision, but her heart was not operating on logic. No, that particular organ followed a completely separate set of rules, and it was devastated at the moment, yearning for the man who’d stolen a chunk of it the other night.
It will heal. The hurt will go away.
She had to keep telling herself as much. Otherwise, she might crumple into a ball under the bedclothes and never emerge.
“What do you recommend?” the duke asked as he studied the menu. “I
hear the lobster thermidor is excellent.”
Her throat closed up with memories of the other night, of Kit and his mind-numbing kisses. “Yes,” she finally managed. “It is delicious.”
“Excuse me, sir. Miss.” Their waiter interrupted by setting down a plate of clam fritters. “Chef has sent this for you to enjoy. He said it is one of the lady’s favorites.”
“Please give Chef my thanks,” Alice said, and the waiter left. She gestured to the plate. “Try one. His clam fritters are heaven on a plate.”
“I don’t see those on the menu.” Lockwood put down his menu and cocked his head. “How did Chef Franconi know?”
Because I spend at least four nights a week in his kitchen, watching and tasting. Learning.
“He used to work for my parents in Boston. I’ve known him since I was a young girl.”
Instead of exhibiting ducal horror at the commingling of classes, Lockwood appeared fascinated. “You are like an onion, Miss Lusk. So many interesting layers. Did you spend a lot of time in the kitchen, then?”
“More than my mother liked, actually. She was forever chasing me out of there.”
“You must have a love of food, I would imagine.”
“I do, though it’s not something I often discuss. Girls are supposed to sew and learn how to manage a household. Be the perfect hostess.”
“Why must it be one or the other? My mother spent quite a lot of time meal planning and working with our cook.”
Yes, but Alice’s interest was not in the planning of a meal, as such, but rather the preparation and improvement. However, she couldn’t tell that to Lockwood. She was willing to be honest about most things, but not that—not yet, anyway.
They had just started on the clam fritters when there was a disruption behind her. People were staring at something over her shoulder, so she glanced in that direction—and froze. Kit was in the dining room, headed straight for her.
His gaze, dark and troubled, did not leave her face. Why on earth was he here? How had he known she was in the dining room?
“What is Ward doing?” Lockwood murmured, but she couldn’t answer because Kit was coming closer, almost alongside their table. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, as she drank in the sight of his tall, gorgeous form eating up the ground with his long legs, fierce determination stamped in the set of his jaw.
Her head tilted as he arrived, his body nearly vibrating with tension. Without preamble, he said, “May I speak with you? Privately?”
She cast a nervous glance at the duke, who was frowning at Kit. Clearing her throat, she said, “Mr. Ward, you remember His Grace, the Duke of Lockwood.”
“Lockwood,” Kit said with barely a nod in the other man’s direction. “Alice, now.” He reached for her arm to help her up, and the duke came to his feet.
“Ward, what is this about?”
“A bit of an emergency,” Kit said, guiding Alice toward the kitchen. “I’ll return her in a few moments, I promise.”
“Miss Lusk,” Lockwood said, confusion evident in his voice. “Are you all right with this?”
Alarmed by Kit’s behavior, Alice nodded. She had to find out what was behind his strange interruption. “I shall return in a moment, Your Grace. Go ahead and order dinner.”
Kit nearly dragged her away from the table, his fingers firm on her arm. She leaned in and spoke sharply under her breath. “Kit, what are you doing? Why are you dragging me into the kitchen?”
“We have a problem, but we cannot discuss it out in the open like this. Follow me.” He pushed open the swinging door that led to the busy kitchen. The sous chefs and waiters looked up, but relaxed when they saw her. She waved as Kit tugged her to the tiny table Franconi kept along the wall. “You might want to sit down for this.”
“Kit, you are scaring me.” She lowered herself into a chair. “What is it?”
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?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.
“Is this man bothering you?” Lockwood asked her, pointing at the reporter. “If so, I can fetch the maître d’hôtel.”
“Everyone calm down,” Kit said, putting his palms out as he stood. “Littleton, this is not the time or the place. You may call on me at another arranged time to get answers, but you will stay away from Miss Lusk.”
“Lucciola, my dear. What is happening here?” Chef Franconi arrived into their circle, unhappiness at having his domain overrun evident on his face. He concentrated on Alice. “Are you being harassed?”
“Lucciola?” Littleton’s smirk grew wider. “I see. If you all will excuse me, I believe my work here is done.”
“Wait,” Kit called, not a little desperately. “We can work something out.”
“I answer to a man more powerful than any of you. I apologize, Mr. Ward. Good night.” The reporter disappeared out the back of the kitchen, toward the alley.
Alice couldn’t move. All that she’d feared had just come to pass in the last two minutes. Why hadn’t she and Kit gone outside? Why had she agreed to help his supper club in the first place? Why hadn’t she waited to pursue her dream of cooking until after she was married?
There were no good answers to those questions, except that she lost all her sense and reason around this man.
“I believe I will lock the back door,” Ange
lo said, and followed the path the reporter had taken out of the kitchen.
“Shit!” Kit slapped a palm on the white-tiled wall.
“Ward,” the duke barked. “There are ladies present.”
“This doesn’t concern you, Lockwood. Go back to your table.”
“I will stay as long as Miss Lusk is here.”
Kit took a menacing step forward. “I said, go back to your table. Now.”
The edges of Lockwood’s mouth tightened. “Or?”
Alice’s head throbbed and the tension between the two men certainly wasn’t helping. Ignoring them, she stared at the wall. What on earth was she going to do?
Furious with himself and the reporter, Kit was happy to transfer some of that anger onto the duke. Moving in, he snarled, “I said, go back to your table. Now.”
Lockwood had the nerve to lift a brow. “Or?”
“Or I’ll put my fist in your face. You are upsetting her.” He pointed at Alice, who was as pale as snow.
“I am upsetting her?” Lockwood’s voice rose in outrage. “Fairly certain you have done a fine job of that on your own. And why was a newspaperman here? What was he talking about?”
“None of your concern.” If it was the last thing Kit did, he would stop that story from running. Who did he know at the Journal? There must be a favor he or Preston could call in . . .
He would not let this ruin Alice’s life.
Speaking of Alice, she was worrying him. As still as death, she merely stared at the wall in front of her. He knelt at her side and gentled his voice. “Alice, I will find a way to make this right, I swear.”
A hand jerked him upright, away from her. Lockwood. The duke got in Kit’s face and had the gall to snarl, “Get back. You’ve clearly done enough.”