The Ellington drawing room was a perfectly arranged stage. The sunlight was softened by the sheer lace curtains, casting a gentle, flattering glow on the room. A silver tea service sat gleaming on the low table, and a vase of fresh, white roses had been placed just so, their innocent scent filling the air.
A man with a neat coat and spectacles sat on a straight-backed chair, a small portable desk resting on his lap. He carefully uncapped his inkpot and sharpened the tip of his quill, his movement precise. He was about to get the story of the season.
"So if you are ready," the pamphleteer began, his pen poised over a fresh sheet of paper, "What are your thoughts on what happened last time? The public confession of Lord George Pembroke."
