Chapter 107: The Spanish Embassy

Once ready, Francisco kissed Catalina on the forehead. “Be careful,” he said. “All of London is a dangerous place, so always stay close to the servants. And remember what the officer said yesterday—don’t leave the port area. I don’t know how this city is laid out, but it’s better to be cautious.”

Catalina nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. You should too—we still don’t know exactly how the Crown sees us. It’s best to stay cautious around the Spanish ambassador, in case he takes things personally.”

Francisco agreed with a nod. He put on a thick coat, bracing for the cold London air, and stepped out of the cabin. Most of Ramiro’s crew still didn’t know Catalina was a woman; only Francisco’s personal servants knew, as they had known her since childhood.

Outside the ship, Francisco paused to take in the city. The streets were uneven, crowded, and noisy. He took a deep breath—

“Cough—cough!” He instantly regretted it. The stench hit the back of his throat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

Ramiro, standing beside him, chuckled. “Bad idea, eh?” He shook his head and started walking ahead.

Francisco followed, keeping pace. As they made their way through the streets, something caught his eye—a low building with thick smoke pouring from a chimney. He frowned. “What’s that? Why is there smoke coming out? Is something on fire?”

Ramiro stopped and squinted in the same direction. “I don’t think so. No one’s running, so it must be normal.” He shrugged.

Francisco frowned deeper. The scene stirred a strange memory—something from one of his visions. He had seen smoke like that before, billowing from buildings that worked like furnaces. But the image in his mind had been fleeting, and he couldn’t yet make sense of it.

Francisco compared the sight with what he remembered from his visions, then shook his head. “I think the ambassador should know about this. Let’s go—I urgently need a translator.”

Ramiro nodded, still half-distracted by the column of smoke rising in the distance.

After reaching the embassy, they presented their travel permits. A Spanish aide received them—a man with sharp eyes and an easy smile. At first glance, he recognized their Spanish ancestry. It would have been impossible for mestizos to obtain such permissions, so he concluded they must be pure-blooded Spaniards from New Granada.

“Gentlemen, how may I assist you?” he asked politely. “I’ve heard about you from the mainland.” His gaze lingered on Francisco for a moment. He had clearly heard the gossip—the scolding the Viceroy of New Granada had received from the King after that unfortunate incident involving an assassination attempt. Still, the aide couldn’t quite understand what was special about this young man. Francisco looked almost boyish, save for his striking blue eyes—unusual, but not unheard of among the colonial nobility.

Ramiro noticed the aide’s lingering stare and cleared his throat sharply, pulling his attention back. “Sir, there are a couple of matters we need your help with. First, by permission of His Majesty, I’ve secured the rights to trade British goods—at least during this voyage—in Spain and New Granada. I expect to earn a small fortune from it. So, I intend to purchase a British East Indiaman to expand my business.”

The aide frowned slightly, raising an eyebrow. “That’s quite an ambitious plan. An East Indiaman is no small ship. Are you planning to handle royal shipments, then?”

It was a trap of course. The Crown held a monopoly over colonial trade. A criollo claiming to need such a vessel could easily be accused of smuggling.

But Ramiro, an old fox, wasn’t about to fall into that snare. “That’s the plan,” he replied smoothly. “I have a contact in the Cádiz Company, and this young man here—” he nodded toward Francisco “—supplies fine spirits to the Duke of Lerma, who happens to be his grandfather. He intends to produce more aguardiente for export. The idea is to send the liquor from Cádiz to Spain so the Duke can sell it locally, with royal authorization.”

The aide’s eyebrows shot up. “So, Señor Francisco is the Duke of Lerma’s grandson? What an honor to meet you, sir.” He offered a courteous bow.

Francisco waved a hand dismissively. “That’s not necessary. My father was a bastard, so I don’t have much to do with the noble family.”

The aide nodded knowingly. He had heard that much already—but even a bastard grandson of a duke was a man worth showing respect to, especially when the Duke was known for not ignoring his illegitimate kin.

“So,” the aide continued, turning back to Ramiro, “you’d like the embassy’s assistance with the purchase of the East Indiaman?”

Ramiro nodded. “Basically, I just don’t want to be robbed of my fortune—and this is the perfect time to buy one.”

The aide nodded in understanding. Indeed, it was an excellent time to purchase one of the British’s most advanced ships; he himself had already assisted a few merchants attempting the same. “We can help,” he said, “but you’ll have to allow us to inspect the vessel once it arrives in Spain.”

Ramiro nodded again, already aware that the embassy’s real interest lay in studying British shipbuilding. Still, he doubted they would learn much from a simple inspection.

Satisfied with the arrangement, the aide continued, “How long do you plan to remain in London? A transaction like that could take at least a month.”

“That,” Ramiro said carefully, “is the other reason we came here.”

The aide raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Has something happened?”

Ramiro glanced around the room, hesitant to speak before so many ears. The aide, catching on, waved his hand for the clerks and guards to withdraw. “Now,” he said quietly, “you may speak freely.”

Ramiro turned to Francisco, who sighed before explaining. “It’s like this. You may have heard—we brought an English agent who was meeting with the Viceroy.”

The aide nodded; of course he had heard. Everyone knew about the Viceroy’s scolding after nearly provoking a diplomatic incident.

Francisco continued cautiously, “I don’t know what she told the leaders of Great Britain about me, but… the Prime Minister wishes to speak with me.”

“What?” the aide burst out, his voice so loud it startled the guards outside. “Wait!” he called toward the door. “Nothing’s wrong—I was merely surprised. Do not enter until I call for you!”

Then, lowering his voice, he leaned forward. “Do you mean it? The Prime Minister himself wants to meet you?”

Francisco nodded grimly.

He thought for a moment. “I need you to wait here for a couple of hours. The ambassador must be informed first — we and the British are not exactly friends. It’s better that the ambassador knows everything you discuss beforehand, or you could be accused of treachery.”

Francisco nodded, helpless.

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