“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.”