"The Italian march on Margate." Cesare throws back his head and laughs. It makes him sound even younger, so he shuts up and clears his throat and has a feeling he might look a little flustered. "That's a good one," he says, regaining control over his squeakyness. "But then Alex' business was of the cloak and dagger variety, wasn't it, and such hired bravi tend to be of the nervous sort." Although, come to think of it, Madonna probably could take Margate, if she had any use for it. Much as he likes her, the notion rankles. Reminds him too much of Caterina Sforza, it does.
"No, no," he shakes his head. "Settled she is not. But I doubt she has any use for boys." He props his chin on his fist. Dora. Dora had made him feel all warm and fluttery and he would have loved to steal a kiss. When she was, well, his senior.
He smiles inanely at the thought, then sobers up. "An affront to nature? I'm sorry to hear that. Myself, I don't know yet if I like everything about it. But it's nice not to hurt for a change."