A Most Immoral Woman Read Free Page B

Which occasionally worked to our advantage.’
    ‘Really?’ Miss Perkins leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand in a most fetching manner. ‘How so?’
    ‘For instance, when they started shelling the cathedral, the Old Buddha—that’s what she’s called—was picnicking at the North Lake behind the Forbidden City, not far from there. The gunfire was giving her a headache. So she ordered a halt to the firing. As much as it proved her connection to the whole business, we were grateful for the respite. It gave us our chance to rescue the converts.’
    Miss Perkins shook her head. ‘How complex these politics are! It’s no wonder that all the world relies on your reports to understand the Chinese situation, Dr Morrison. I don’t know how many times I’ve said to my friends Mr Egan and Mr Holdsworth that if they failed to introduce us at the earliest possible opportunity I should be most horribly cross with them. Martin—Mr Egan—lent me the book you wrote about your overland journey from Shanghai to Burma. It was wonderful. So I feel like I know you already. I do admire your wit and courage. Not another man I have met here would undertake such a journey alone. And I’ve heard it was this book that led to The Times appointing you as their China correspondent.’
    Morrison felt a blush, that congenital curse of the fair-skinned, spread across his cheeks. He’d always envied the American readiness to catch a compliment and keep it. Personally, he was hardly averse to flattering remarks. But there was something deep in his Australian soul that caused him to squirm under their impact. Besides, to hear such blandishments coming from a mouth as kissable as Miss Perkins’s was disconcerting. It was he who ought to be complimenting her, but he couldn’t do so now without seeming reflexive or disingenuous.
    ‘And so it was,’ she continued, ‘that when I was in Peking a few weeks back, I asked Mr Jameson to invite you to a luncheon he hosted for me. I was crestfallen when you sent word that you could not attend.’ Her eyelashes batted a Morse code of disappointment.
    Morrison was filled with horror. C.D. Jameson, a tedious, rum-soaked old duffer and long-term resident of Peking who dabbled in commerce, mining and journalism, was forever inviting him around. Morrison routinely sent his regrets. He had a few more of those now. ‘If he had only informed me of your presence and told me of your request,’ he said, ‘I could hardly have refused.’
    ‘Mr Jameson assured me he told you.’ She widened her eyes.
    ‘I am so terribly sorry. I do not recall…’ That confirmed masturbator , Morrison thought, certain that Jameson had nevermentioned anything about a Miss Perkins. But he knew that it wasn’t the time to go into Jameson’s perfidies, which were myriad.
    ‘Mr Jameson explained what a very busy man you are, Dr Morrison, so please don’t trouble yourself about it. Oh, goodness!’ A look of sweet concern came over her face. ‘You’ve gone quite red. Perhaps the dining room is a trifle overheated.’
    It was impossible to overheat any room in north China in winter. Morrison could feel the maddening blush spreading to his ears. He extracted his handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.
    ‘Mae, dear,’ Mrs Ragsdale admonished, ‘Dr Morrison has more important things on his mind than meeting young ladies.’
    ‘No, no, not at all,’ Morrison rushed to say, plunging himself back into a sea of awkwardness.
    Mrs Ragsdale, oblivious to both his discomfort and the fact the conversation had moved forward, took up her panegyric afresh. ‘Mae, dear, you may not know this but when it was believed that Dr Morrison had died in the siege, The Times published a most beautiful obituary. A magnificent tribute.’ Her eyes misted over.
    ‘And what was even better, he was alive to enjoy it,’ Dumas chortled.
    Miss Perkins giggled. ‘What did it say?’
    ‘Oh, I can’t recall the exact words,’