A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock, #2)

by Sherry Thomas

I do not believe she holds it against us—certainly not against you, he had written. But I felt her disappointment: She had averted disaster because of whom she knew before her fall from grace—and not because life had turned out to be fundamentally gentler than she had supposed.

I was quite disappointed, too.

And then there are men like Inspector Treadles, an excellent person by almost all standards. But he admires the world as it is and he subscribes to the rules that uphold the world as it is. For him then it’s the principle of the thing. Anyone who breaks the rules endangers the order of the world and should be punished. He does not ask whether the rules are fair; he only cares that they are enforced.

Deriving morals from laws is such an ick.

“Barnaby died in the night. I’m on my way to see Eleanor. And then I’ll have to stop for some mourning clothes.” He stared at her, unwilling to understand what he had heard. “Does that mean—does that mean—Cousins Manufacturing—” “Yes, it’ll come to me. But I can’t think of business now—there’s so much to do.” She leaned down and kissed him on his cheek. “Good day, Inspector. I’ll see you in the evening.” He remained frozen in place for a long time, then he dropped his head into his hands. She had what she’d always wanted—and he had never felt smaller or more lonely.

What a shit.