Putting myself back to work.
“Money is good,” grumbled Buonoparte. “Revenge is better. Even the golem knows more of this than any Briton would. And we of Corse? This, we learn this at our mothers’ breasts!”
It’s for certain you didn’t learn how to dress there, I thought while ignoring yet another insult about my people. Unless your mother was a circus clown. Francesco di Buonaparte liked to affect elements of dress that he fondly believed derived from Corsican banditti: big hat with a turned-up brim, and a waist sash around his ample middle. Even for that, the striped pantaloons were a bit much. As to the attitude – well, I’ve fought Corscians. I’ve fought alongside them, too. All of them would have laughed themselves sick at Buonaparte’s pretensions, shortly before washing them out with blood.
I forbore from saying anything along these lines as he poured down more wine. I was beginning to have doubts about employing him in my plan, but he had the (old) name and, most importantly, even the blood of the first Napoleon. With any luck, he’d even know what to do with it. “Then it is fortunate that I have such a formidable to set a good example for me?” I told him, trusting in his imperfect knowledge of English to keep him from noticing my sarcasm. “After all, milord, this entire enterprise depends on you.”
That, unfortunately, was not sarcasm at all.