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

She refused to look at him, struggling into her corset by the window,
where frost-caked glass cut the upwashed glare of gaslight from the street.
She cinched the corset's laces tight across her back with a quick practiced
snap of her wrists.
"Or if it is," Mick mused, watching her, " 'tis only in small degree."
Across the street, the opera had let out--gentry in their cloaks and
top-hats. Cab-horses, their backs in blankets, stamped and shivered on the
black macadam. White traces of clean suburban snow still clung to the
gleaming coachwork of some lordship's steam-gurney. Tarts were working the
crowd. Poor wretched souls. Hard indeed to find a kind face amid those
goffered shirts and diamond studs, on such a cold night. Sybil turned
toward Mick, confused, angry, and very much afraid. "Who did you tell about
me?"
"Not a living soul," Mick said, "not even my friend the General. And I
won't be peaching on you. Nobody's ever said Mick Radley's indiscreet. So
get back in bed."
"I shan't," Sybil said, standing straight, her bare feet freezing on
the floorboards. "Sybil Jones may share your bed--but the daughter of
Walter Gerard is a personage of substance!"
Mick blinked at her, surprised. He thought it over, rubbing his narrow
chin, then nodded. " 'Tis my sad loss, then. Miss Gerard." He sat up in bed
and pointed at the door, with a dramatic sweep of his arm. "Put on your
skirt, then, and your brass-heeled dolly-boots. Miss Gerard, and out the
door with you and your substance. But 'twould be a great shame if you left.
I've uses for a clever girl."
"I should say you do, you blackguard," said Sybil, but she hesitated.
He had another card to play--she could sense it in the set of his face.
He grinned at her, his eyes slitted. "Have you ever been to Paris,
Sybil?"
"Paris?" Her breath clouded in midair.
"Yes," he said, "the gay and the glamorous, next destination for the
General, when his London lecture tour is done." Dandy Mick plucked at his
lace cuffs. "What those uses are, that I mentioned, I shan't as yet say.
But the General is a man of deep stratagem. And the Government of France
have certain difficulties that require the help of experts . . . " He
leered triumphantly. "But I can see that I bore you, eh?"
Sybil shifted from foot to foot. "You'll take me to Paris, Mick," she
said slowly, "and that's the true bill, no snicky humbugging?"
"Strictly square and level. If you don't believe me, I've a ticket in
my coat for the Dover ferry."
Sybil walked to the brocade armchair in the corner, and tugged at
Mick's greatcoat. She shivered uncontrollably, and slipped the greatcoat
on. Fine dark wool, like being wrapped in warm money.
"Try the right front pocket," Mick told her. "The card-case." He was
amused and confident--as if it were funny that she didn't trust him. Sybil
thrust her chilled hands into both pockets. Deep, plush-lined . . .
Her left hand gripped a lump of hard cold metal. She drew out a nasty
little pepperbox derringer. Ivory handle, intricate gleam of steel hammers
and brass cartridges, small as her hand but heavy.
"Naughty," said Mick, frowning. "Put it back, there's a girl."