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 ale now?”

Drossman heaved up a sigh. “You may step down, Philpot. Mind you do so carefully.”

The warning was lost. Philpot exited the witness box, neglected to recall that two steps were involved, and went sprawling onto the floor. He lay there for a moment, then rolled to his back.

“Damned fine ale, it was,” he murmured. “I think I wet myself.”

Sir Leviticus spared him not a glance. “I move to dismiss with prejudice the complaint brought against Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. In the alternative, I ask the jury for a verdict denying the petition. A man afflicted with the falling sickness might be slow to answer a few questions immediately following a seizure, but under no circumstances would justice be served by entrusting that man’s welfare and fortune to an admitted criminal parading about as a guardian.”

“Hear, hear,” the jury foreman called.

The gallery was whispering, laughing, and pointing, while Philpot began gently snoring on the floor.

Drossman conferred briefly with the other commissioners, then motioned the bailiff to call for order.

“As chair of this commission, I hereby dismiss with prejudice the petition brought concerning Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. Your Grace, the falling sickness cannot be used as grounds to question your competence again. This commission is adjourned.”

The commissioners left, Weatherby packed up his books and tried to slink away, though a journalist or two was already calling his name.

“You lot,” Robert said, gesturing to Weatherby’s clerks. “Get Philpot off the floor, find his coach, and send him home.”

The older clerk grimaced. “Perhaps he ought to tarry in town for a bit, Your Grace. Lady Phoebe might do for him if we send him home now.”

“Get him home,” Robert said, “before my duchess takes a notion to have him sent to prison.”

Lord Stephen watched as one clerk took Philpot by the boots, and the other under the arms.

“I have a hard head,” Lord Stephen said, “but drinking that man under the table challenged even my considerable abilities. Devious of you, Rothhaven, and a marvelously effective strategy.”

Sir Leviticus tidied up law books and treatises as Philpot was hauled away. “I can have him criminally charged. At the least he ought to be forbidden to do any further legal work.”

“Yonder solicitor won’t fare well in prison,” Lord Stephen observed. “Perhaps that’s the fate he deserves.”