Dysart should have known better. He did know better. The first lesson he’d learned when he joined Bow Street was never to let emotion rule over cool reason. But he’d done just that. He’d let his hatred of Pendleton cloud his judgment and now Elizabeth’s father might well pay the price. “But…” Elizabeth approached, one hand extended. He watched those perfectly manicured fingers grow nearer, and his body ached for their touch. There was another emotional entanglement he could ill afford. If his blundering led to the duke’s untimely demise, he’d cause this woman a world of pain. “Didn’t you say we cannot discount outsiders, as they may be paying someone in the house? One of the servants?” Somehow he found his voice. “I did, but we also have to consider what makes the most sense. Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?” “Lex parsimoniae.” He had to admire the fact that someone had taught her the rudiments of Latin and rhetoric. So many young ladies of her standing were allowed to wither in ignorance.
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