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“What do you want?” Sutcliffe asked.

Solomon rattled off the address. “Fix it up, you absolute wanker. And call off your thugs.”

“What’s he talking about?” Sutcliffe asked Benson.

“Ashe might’ve taken a few of the lads round.” Benson looked nervous, like he suddenly didn’t know what to admit to.

“More than that,” James said, voice low. “My girl lives in that house, and they’ve tried to hurt her more than once. Do you really want me to bring in the Met and shine a spotlight on your business practices, Sutcliffe?”

“What’s that address again?” Sutcliffe asked. Solomon repeated it, and Sutcliffe pursed his lips like he was eating a lemon. “Fine. And Benson, tell Ashe to draw back. Now please, escort these gentlemen out of the club.”

“I’ll be back if you don’t follow through,” James said softly. “And I’ll be bringing the lads from my division with me.”

Sutcliffe shot him a look of loathing and scuttled down the passage.

Solomon turned and jogged lightly down the stairs, and James followed him.

Benson tagged on behind, moving with surprising lightness himself.

The door they’d used coming in was locked, and so they went through to the front.

A woman finished the last line of her song on the stage, holding the note and then giving a deep bow.

“Give a warm round of applause to Miss Fiona St. Yves, ladies and gentlemen,” a man said from the side, and the room burst into applause.

St. Yves.

James slowed and turned to look as the woman stepped down and moved toward the bar, where she slid onto a stool and was handed a drink by the barman.

He had to stop himself reacting when he recognized her immediately.

“That’s Ashe,” Solomon said, pointing to the man who’d wound up the set for the singer.

“I see.” James stared at the man, who was looking at Fiona St. Yves like he couldn’t see anything else.

“See something you like?” Solomon asked, and his voice was uncharacteristically neutral.

James frowned. “What are you—? Oh.” He shook his head in amazement, and turned for the door. “Have you seen Gabriella? No, I recognized the singer, is all.”

He kept his voice low because Benson was hot on their heels, although the band had started up a loud instrumental number and James was sure he couldn’t hear him.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Solomon said as they walked away, with Benson watching them from the doorway.

“It might be,” James said. “If Sutcliffe tries to play dirty, it might just be.”

Because Fiona St. Yves happened to be the woman in the photos he’d found in Harry Finger’s office. Lying naked in the arms of a Member of the House of Lords.

Who was being blackmailed by the Russians.

Interesting staff Sutcliffe had.

And if James needed to escalate things, now he had a way to do it.

chapter

twenty-seven

James spent the night.