The double doors at the back of the grand chamber groaned loudly as they were pushed open.
Lord Farrington walked into the room.
He tried desperately to maintain his pride. He wore a blue morning coat, the buttons polished to a mirror shine. His crisp white cravat was tied with strict, arrogant perfection. He held his chin high in the air, his chest puffed out broadly, completely refusing to look defeated. He walked down the center aisle with slow, highly measured steps. His boots clicked sharply against the polished wooden floor.
He firmly believed his immense political power and his massive, hidden wealth could still save him. He thought he could bribe the right lords, twist the laws, and walk out of this chamber as a free man. He looked at the rows of benches, expecting to see familiar nods of support from the men he drank with at his clubs.
