"William Gibson, Bruce Sterling "The difference engine"" - читать интересную книгу автора

Two forms lay beneath the bedclothes of the laminated-maple
four-poster, and off in the iron grip of winter Big Ben bellowed ten
o'clock, great hoarse calliope sounds, the coal-fired breath of London.
Sybil slid her feet through icy linens to the warmth of the ceramic
bottle in its wrap of flannel. Her toes brushed his shin. The touch seemed
to start him from deep deliberation. That was how he was, this Dandy Mick
Radley.
She'd met Mick Radley at Laurent's Dancing Academy, down Windmill
Street. Now that she knew him, he seemed more the sort for Kellner's in
Leicester Square, or even the Portland Rooms. He was always thinking,
scheming, muttering over something in his head. Clever, clever. It worried
her. And Mrs. Winterhalter wouldn't have approved, for the handling of
"political gentlemen" required delicacy and discretion, qualities Mrs.
Winterhalter believed she herself had a-plenty, while crediting none to her
girls.
"No more dollymopping, Sybil," Mick said. One of his pronouncements,
something about which he'd made up his clever mind.
Sybil grinned up at him, her face half-hidden by the blanket's warm
edge. She knew he liked the grin. Her wicked-girl grin. He can't mean that,
she thought. Make a joke of it, she told herself. "But if I weren't a
wicked dollymop, would I be here with you now?"
"No more playing bobtail."
"You know I only go with gentlemen."
Mick sniffed, amused. "Call me a gentleman, then?"
"A very flash gentleman," Sybil said, flattering him. "One of the
fancy. You know I don't care for the Rad Lords. I spit on 'em, Mick."
Sybil shivered, but not unhappily, for she'd run into a good bit of
luck here, full of steak-and-taters and hot chocolate, in bed between clean
sheets in a fashionable hotel. A shiny new hotel with central steam-heat,
though she'd gladly have traded the restless gurgling and banging of the
scrolled gilt radiator for the glow of a well-banked health.
And he was a good-looking cove, this Mick Radley, she had to admit,
dressed very flash, had the tin and was generous with it, and he'd yet to
demand anything peculiar or beastly. She knew it wouldn't last, as Mick was
a touring gent from Manchester, and gone soon enough. But there was profit
in him, and maybe more when he left her, if she made him feel sorry about
it, and generous.
Mick reclined into fat feather-pillows and slid his manicured fingers
behind his spit-curled head. Silk nightshirt all frothy with lace down the
front--only the best for Mick. Now he seemed to want to talk a bit. Men
did, usually, after a while--about their wives, mostly.
But for Dandy Mick, it was always politics. "So, you hate the
Lordships, Sybil?"
"Why shouldn't I?" Sybil said. "I have my reasons."
"I should say you do," Mick said slowly, and the look he gave her then,
of cool superiority, sent a shiver through her.
"What d'ye mean by that, Mick?"
"I know your reasons for hating the Government. I have your number."
Surprise seeped into her, then fear. She sat up in bed. There was a
taste in her mouth like cold iron.