A knock came. An evil-looking servant boy, cropheaded and snuffling, wheeled in a trolley and cleared the plates. He made a botch of it, lingering as if expecting a gratuity, but Mick ignored him, and stared coolly into space, now and then grinning to himself like a cat. The boy left with a sneer. At length there came the rap of a cane against the door. A second of Mick’s friends had arrived. This was a heavyset man of quite astonishing ugliness, pop-eyed and blue-jowled, his squat sloping forehead fringed in an oiled parody of the elegant spit-curls the Prime Minister favored. The stranger wore new and well-cut evening dress, with cloak, cane, and top-hat, a fancy pearl in his cravat and a gold Masonic ring on one finger. His face and neck were deeply sunburnt. Mick rose at once from his chair, shook the ringed hand, offered a seat. “You keep late hours, Mr. Radley,” the stranger said. “We do what we can to accommodate your special needs, Professor Rudwick.” The ugly gentleman settled in his chair with a sharp wooden squeak. His bulging eyes shot Sybil a speculative look then, and for one heart-leaping moment she feared the worst, that it had all been a gull and she was about to become part of some dreadful transaction between them. But Rudwick looked away, to Mick. “I won’t conceal from you, sir, my eagerness to resume my activities in Texas.” He pursed his lips. He had small, grayish, pebble-like teeth in a great slash of a mouth. “This business of playing the London social lion is a deuced bore.” “President Houston will grant you an audience tomorrow at two, if that’s agreeable.” Rudwick grunted. “Perfectly.” Mick nodded. “The fame of your Texian discovery seems to grow by the day, sir. I understand that Lord Babbage himself has taken an interest.” “We have worked together at the Institute at Cambridge,” Rudwick admitted, unable to hide a smirk of satisfaction. “The theory of pneumo-dynamics . . .” “As it happens,” Mick remarked, “I find myself in possession of a clacking sequence that may amuse His Lordship.” Rudwick seemed nettled by this news. “Amuse him, sir? Lord Babbage is a most . . . irascible man.” “Lady Ada was kind enough to favor me in my initial efforts . . . ” “Favor you?” said Rudwick, with a sudden ugly laugh. “Is it some gambling-system, then? It had best be, if you hope to catch her eye.” “Not at all,” Mick said shortly. “Her Ladyship chooses odd friends,” Rudwick opined, with a long sullen look at Mick. “Do you know a man named Collins, a so-called oddsmaker?” “Haven’t had the pleasure,” Mick said. “The fellow’s on her like a louse in a bitch’s ear,” Rudwick said, his sunburnt face flushing. “Fellow made me the most astounding proposition . . .” “And?” Mick said delicately. Rudwick frowned. “I did fancy you might know him, he seems the sort that might well run in your circles . . . ” “No, sir.” Rudwick leaned forward. “And what of another certain gent, Mr. Radley, very long of limb and cold of eye, who I fancy has been dogging my movements of late? Would he, perhaps, be an agent of your President Houston? Seemed to have a Texian air about him.” “My President is fortunate in the quality of his agents.” Rudwick stood, his face dark. “You’ll be so kind, I’m sure, as to request the bastard to cease and desist.” Mick rose as well, smiling sweetly. “I’ll certainly convey your sentiments to my employer, Professor. But I fear I keep you from your night’s amusements . . . ” He walked to the door, opened it, shut it on Rudwick’s broad, well-tailored back. Mick turned, winked at Sybil. “He’s off to the ratting-pits! A very low-sporting gentleman, our learned Professor Rudwick. Speaks his bloody mind, though, don’t he?” He paused. “The General will like him.”
Hours later, she woke in Grand’s, in bed beside him, to the click of his match and the sweet reek of his cigar. He’d had her twice on the chaise behind their table in the Argyll Rooms, and once again in Grand’s. She’d not known him to be so ardent before. She’d found it encouraging, though the third go had made her sore, down there. The room was dark, save for the spill of gaslight past the curtains. She moved a bit closer to him. “Where would you like to go, Sybil, after France?” She’d never considered the question. “With you, Mick . . . ” He chuckled, and slid his hand beneath the bedclothes, his fingers closing around the mound of her womanhood. “Where shall we go then, Mick?” “Go with me and you’ll go first to Mexico. Then north, for the liberation of Texas, with a Franco-Mexican army under the command of General Houston.” “But . . . but isn’t Texas a frightfully queer place?” “Quit thinking like a Whitechapel drab. All the world’s queer, seen from Piccadilly. Sam Houston had himself a bloody palace, in Texas. Before the Texians threw him into exile, he was Britain’s greatest ally in the American west. You and I, why, we could live like grandees in Texas, build a manor by some river . . . ” “Would they truly let us do that, Mick?” “Her Majesty’s Government, you mean? Perfidious Albion?” Mick chuckled. “Well, that largely depends on British public opinion toward General Houston! We’re doing all we can to sweeten his reputation here in Britain. That’s why he’s on this lecture tour, isn’t it?” “I see,” Sybil said. “You’re very clever, Mick.” “Deep matters, Sybil! Balance of power. It worked for Britain in Europe for five hundred years, and it works even better in America. Union, Confederacy, Republics of Texas and California — they all take a turn in British favor, until they get too bold, a bit too independent, and then they’re taken down a peg. Divide and rule, dear.” The coal-end of Mick’s cigar glowed in the darkness. “If it weren’t for British diplomacy, British power, America might be all one huge nation.” “What about your friend the General? Will he truly help us?” “That’s the beauty of it!” Mick declared. “The diplomats thought Sam Houston was a bit stiff-necked, didn’t care for some of his actions and policies, didn’t back him as strongly as they should have. But the Texian junta that replaced him is far worse. They’re openly hostile to British interests! Their days are numbered. The General has had to cool his heels a bit in exile here in England, but now he’s on his way back to Texas, for what’s his by right.” He shrugged. “Should have happened years ago. Our trouble is that Her Majesty’s Government don’t know their own mind! There’s factions among ’em. Some don’t trust Sam Houston — but the French will help us anyhow! Their Mexican clients have a border war with the Texians. They need the General!” “You’re going to war, then, Mick?” She found it difficult to imagine Dandy Mick leading a cavalry charge. “Coup d’etat, more like,” he assured her. “We won’t see much bloodshed. I’m Houston’s political man, you see, and his man I’ll stay, for I’m the one’s arranged this London speaking-tour, and on to France, and I’m the one’s made certain approaches as resulted in him being granted his audience with the French Emperor . . . ” But could that be true, really? “And I’m the one as runs Manchester’s newest and best through the kino for him, sweetens the press and British public opinion, hires the bill-stickers . . . ” He drew on his cigar, his fingers kneading her there, and she heard him puff out a great satisfied cloud of cherry smoke. But he mustn’t have felt like doing it again, not then, because she was soon asleep and dreaming, dreaming of Texas, a Texas of rolling downs, contented sheep, the windows of gray manors glinting in late-afternoon sunlight.