with some degree of certainty.”
“Rothhaven, explain yourself.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“We need to wrap this up quickly,” Sir Leviticus said. “Drossman wanted the whole business finished before noon.”
“In other words,” Robert replied, “I inconvenienced him with my seizure.” How very inconsiderate of me.
The gallery was filling with journalists and spectators. Clerks and bailiffs bustled about, and across the room, Weatherby sat at his table, pretending to read a treatise. Constance was once again ensconced in the gallery between Lady Althea and Her Grace of Walden, while Walden himself, looking like the Wrath of Yorkshire, stood near the door of the gallery.
“Your Grace,” Sir Leviticus said softly, “where is my witness?”
“Weatherby is probably wondering the same thing.” And where was Lord Stephen?
A commotion at the back of the gallery suggested both questions were about to be answered. Lord Stephen, cane in one hand, the other wrapped through Neville Philpot’s arm, made a gradual progress through the milling crowd.
He stopped just short of Weatherby’s table, handed Philpot into a chair, then found a seat near a back corner.
“Your witness, Sir Leviticus,” Robert said. And not a moment too soon. Drossman and his confreres resumed their seats, the jury filed into the box, and the room was called to order.
“Sir Leviticus,” Drossman barked, “call your final witness.”
“I call Neville Philpot, proposed guardian of the person and property of Robert, His Grace of Rothhaven.”
Philpot rose, tugged down on his waistcoat, and marched for the witness box. Something about his air was overly determined, as if the box lay across snowy moors and boggy fens rather than ten feet away.
Philpot swore to tell the truth, then let out a stentorian belch. “Sorry, Pet.” He offered a little wave in the direction of the gallery. “Nothing like good French brandy and good Yorkshire ale, aye?”
The gallery appreciated that remark, and the jury looked amused.
Drossman looked anything but. “Get on with your interrogation of the witness, Sir Leviticus. We don’t have all day.”
Because a man’s future should be decided as hastily as possible?
Sir Leviticus rose. “Mr. Philpot, what day is it?”
“How should I know?” Another belch. “I’m a solicitor, not a bloody calendar.”
“So you don’t know what day it is?”
“It’s a fine day to down a few pints, that’s what day it is.” He beamed at the gallery, impressed with his own cleverness.
“Who sits upon the throne of England, Mr. Philpot?”
“Not me. Mad George, or one of them Georges. Bloody idiots the lot of them, and expensive. England could set up a whorehouse in every village for what we’re spending on the royal foolishness.”
Weatherby had dropped any pretense of reading his treatise. The two commissioners on either side of Drossman were frankly grinning, and Drossman’s brows had lifted nearly to his hairline.
“Philpot, are you drunk?” he asked.
“Never say it, Dross, old boy. Pet would lock me out of the bedroom for a year if I were disord…disorb…hang it, drunk in public.” Philpot pulled a face and the gallery erupted into laughter.
Sir Leviticus seemed the only attorney who did not regard the situation as amusing. “Mr. Philpot, do you believe yourself competent to handle the finances of an entire dukedom if His Grace of Rothhaven should be in need of a guardian?”
“Me? I’ll handle those finances right into m’pockets, good sir. I adore a fat pigeon, and know exactly how to pluck ’em. Keeping Pet in the style she deserves ain’t cheap. No, t’isn’t.” He winked at his wife, blew her a kiss, and emitted yet another fume-y burp.
“So it’s your practice to fleece your wards?”
“Not fleece, exactly. Help myself to a bit of the extra. I do my dooty by ’em, but I take a wage for myself, so to speak. I say, a man could use a chamber pot, if one’s handy?”
Sir Leviticus sent the jury a pointed look. “Mr. Philpot, please tell me the sum of 23 plus 42 plus 4.”
“Say again?”
Sir Leviticus spoke slowly. “Add 23 plus 42 plus 4.”
“In my head?”
“If you please.”
Philpot sketched figures in the air with his fingers. “How about 93? I always did fancy 93. A very good year.”
“Divide 66 by 11.”
“Divide it yourself. I need a chamber pot, another pint, and some rum buns. A wench or two wouldn’t go amiss either. Sorry, Pet.”
Drossman folded his arms. “Sir Leviticus, I believe you’ve made your point.”
“Pet’s mad at me,” Philpot informed the room at large. “Look at her. Spittin’ mad but always a lady, that’s my Pet.”
Lady Phoebe rose and departed, while Philpot blew her kisses and waved. “Might I have another