Page 67 of Who Cries for the Lost

“Evidently not.”

The roar of voices was so loud they could barely hear the music leaking from the ballroom as they worked their way through the press of laughing, gaily chatting members of London’s moneyed elite. “Do you even know what the Spanish Ambassador looks like?” Hero asked.

“No,” Sebastian admitted.

“Perhaps you can find Hendon and persuade him to introduce you to His Excellency while I stalk the Ambassador’s wife.”

“You’re optimistic if you think Hendon will agree to do any such thing.”

“Perhaps he’ll surprise you. One would think he’d be in charity with you, given that we actually came here as he asked.”

“Perhaps.”

But when Sebastian finally tracked the Earl to the supper room, he glared at his heir and said, “What the devil are you doing here?”

“You sound like Amanda,” said Sebastian, running his gaze over the rather meager spread the French embassy had provided for its guests. But then, funds did tend to dry up when one’s monarch has been deposed. “You’re the one who wanted me to attend tonight, remember?”

“Yes, but I didn’t expect you to actually come.”

“I need you to introduce me to the Spanish Ambassador.”

Hendon fixed him with a steady gaze. “Why?”

“I’d like to ask the man some questions—and I promise not to create a diplomatic incident in the process.”

“God preserve us,” muttered Hendon, setting aside his plate.

In contrast to the French Ambassador, the Spanish Ambassador to the Court of St. James—Carlos Gutiérrez de los Rios y Sarmiento de Sotomayor—was quite young, still in his thirties. His family was also old and aristocratic—he was the Seventh Count of Fernán Núñez—but they’d never been either excessively powerful or excessively wealthy, and his long boyish face bore a habitual smile of almost impish goodwill.

“An honor, sir,” said the Spaniard when Hendon introduced them and then withdrew with a warning glare at Sebastian. “I understand you fought in the Peninsula.”

“I did, yes.”

The Ambassador’s smile lit up his features. He was a small man, slightly built, with bushy eyebrows, large protruding eyes, and a small chin. “Hopefully someday you will be able to return to Spain and enjoy your visit in a time of peace.”

“I would like that,” said Sebastian, watching out of the corner of his eye as Hero adroitly collided with a pretty young woman he suspected was the count’s wife. “I wonder, did you ever meet my colleague, Captain Miles Sedgewick? He also fought in the Peninsula.”

The Ambassador’s genial smile faded. “I fear I never had the pleasure. He’s the gentleman who was recently found murdered?”

“He is, yes. I understand he knew one of the members of your diplomatic mission—someone he met in Cádiz in 1808 or 1809.”

“Ah, that would have been Francisco de la Serna.”

“Is he here this evening?”

“Unfortunately, no. He was recalled to Madrid last week. His father has taken ill and is not expected to live long.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. When did he sail?”

“Last Sunday, I believe.”

For a moment, Sebastian could only stare at the Spaniard as a new and profoundly disturbing thought occurred to him. “I understand he was a young, slim man?”

“Francisco?” The Spaniard gave a soft laugh. “Once, yes. But after so many years and a great many fine dinners and bottles of wine, both youth and slimness are difficult to maintain, yes?”

“They are indeed,” said Sebastian. “I’m sorry I missed him. Hopefully he’ll be returning to London soon?”

“Once this flare-up of war is over—which, God willing, will be soon.”

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