Surprise seeped into her, then fear. She sat up in bed. There was a taste in her mouth like cold iron.
"You keep your card in your bag," he said. "I took that number to a rum magistrate I know. He ran it through a government Engine for me, and printed up your Bow Street file, rat-a-tat-tat, like fun." He smirked. "So I know all about you, girl. Know who you are"
She tried to put a bold face on it. "And who's that, then, Mr. Radley?"
"No Sybil Jones, dearie. You're Sybil Gerard, the daughter of Walter Gerard, the Luddite agitator."
He'd raided her hidden past.
Machines, whirring somewhere, spinning out history.
Now Mick watched her face, smiling at what he saw there, and she recognized a look she'd seen before, at Laurent's, when first he'd spied her across the crowded floor. A hungry look.
Her voice shook. "How long have you known about me?"
"Since our second night. You know I travel with the General. Like any important man, he has enemies. As his secretary and man-of-affairs, I take few chances with strangers." Mick put his cruel, deft little hand on her shoulder. "You might have been someone's agent. It was business."
Sybil flinched away. "Spying on a helpless girl," she said at last. "You're a right bastard, you are!"
But her foul words scarcely seemed to touch himhe was cold and hard, like a judge or a lordship. "I may spy, girl, but I use the Government's machinery for my own sweet purposes. I'm no copper's nark, to look down my nose at a revolutionary like Walter Gerardno matter what the Rad Lords may call him now. Your father was a hero."
He shifted on the pillow. "My herothat was Walter Gerard. I saw him speak, on the Rights of Labour, in Manchester. He was a marvelwe all cheered till our throats was raw! The good old Hell-Cats" Mick's smooth voice had gone sharp and flat, in a Mancunian tang. "Ever hear tell of the Hell-Cats, Sybil? In the old days?"
"A street-gang," Sybil said. "Rough boys in Manchester."
Mick frowned. "We was a brotherhood! A friendship youth-guild! Your father knew us well. He was our patron politician, you might say."
"I'd prefer it if you didn't speak of my father, Mr. Radley."
Mick shook his head at her impatiently. "When I heard they'd tried and hanged him"the words like ice behind her ribs"me and the lads, we took up torches and crowbars, and we ran hot and wild That was Ned Ludd's work, girl! Years ago" He picked delicately at the front of his nightshirt. " 'Tis not a tale I tell to many. The Government's Engines have long memories."
She understood it nowMick's generosity and his sweet-talk, the strange hints he'd aimed at her, of secret plans and better fortune, marked cards and hidden aces. He was pulling her strings, making her his creature. The daughter of Walter Gerard was a fancy prize, for a man like Mick.
She pulled herself out of bed, stepping across icy floorboards in her pantalettes and chemise.
She dug quickly, silently, through the heap of her clothing. The fringed mantelet, the jacket, the great sagging cage of her crinoline skirt. The jingling white cuirass of her corset.
"Get back in bed," Mick said lazily. "Don't get your monkey up. 'Tis cold out there." He shook his head. " 'Tis not like you think, Sybil."
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 outgentry 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 bedbut 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 playshe could sense it in the set of his face.
He grinned at her, his eyes slitted. "Have you ever been to Paris, Sybil?"