Page 103 of The Truth About Dukes
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 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.
