(Château de Verzat Book 1)
By Debra Borchert
Paris, June 1789
Henri discovers Pierre is Geneviève
The floor shook with stampeding, cussing students heading for the door. I waited for Pierre and grinned. He tried to cover his smile but lost the battle. We clapped each other on the back and headed outdoors. Sunlight brightened the gray stone walls, but the wind was chilly.
Someday I’d thank LaGarde for the title of my next article. I needed to get some quotes from the common man, first. “Palais-Royal?” I asked Pierre.
He nodded.
“Fouquier!” LaGarde leaned against a column. Two noble students flanked him.
“Careful,” I whispered.
Pierre marched straight at him. “Yes?”
“The law states you must address me by my title.”
“Class dunce?” Pierre tilted his head.
My hands jittered. Pierre was half the brute’s size.
LaGarde withdrew his rapier from its jeweled scabbard and slowly brought the blade above his head. I reached under my waistcoat for my pistol. LaGarde brought the rapier forward, resting its tip at Pierre’s jabot. Pierre did not blink. I withdrew my pistol.
With one deliberate swipe, LaGarde sliced through Pierre’s waistcoat and tunic, which fell away, revealing two breasts bulging over the edges of a lace corset.
My mouth dropped open. A thin line of blood wandered like a silk thread, trickling down Pierre’s chest, detouring over a pale swell of flesh. My breeches grew tight. The wound did not seem deep. But—.
With one hand, Pierre calmly clutched the edges of the waistcoat. His—her face was calm.
LaGarde and his companions stood, jaws dropped, eyes bulging. He—she had fooled us all. What a charade. What nerve.
“You are a…” LaGarde blustered.
“Woman?” Pierre smiled. “Have you not seen one before?”
“Women have no right to enter Université.” LaGarde’s rapier vibrated. “Salope!”
Like I was in a tunnel, darkness fell around everything but the glinting rapier. He’d called her a whore. “If this woman passed the exams to enter, she deserves the right to attend—the same as any man.” My thumb pulsed on the pistol’s hammer as I brought it up.
“This is a fight for swords, not guns. Where’s yours?” LaGarde spat.
“Even peasants know only nobles may wear them.” Pierre spat at LaGarde’s feet.
LaGarde’s face reddened. “Why don’t you go back to the squalor of Saint-Antoine, Detré?”
Pierre—whatever her real name was—stood straight and tall. “As you’ve proven, LaGarde, being a noble does not mean one is a gentleman.”
“You going to allow a salope to fight your battles, Detré?” The brute moved to the en garde position.
“Regardless of whether or not I’m entitled to carry a sword, I’ve no need of such encumbrances.” I aimed the pistol at his face. “I’m an expert shot. You’ll be dead before your body hits the ground.”
He pointed his rapier at me. “I shall deliver your lettre de cachet myself.”
“And I shall kill you before your next breath. Sheathe your sword.”
“LaGarde, do you know my father’s name? It may assist you at the Châtelet.” Pierre gave him a coy smile. “My father is prosecutor there.”
I broke into a sweat. The torture chambers deep in the bowels of that prison were something I never wanted to see.
Pierre crossed his arms over his…her…breasts. “He has been influential, not only in the courts, but also with tortures and executions.”
LaGarde’s rapier quivered.
Pierre walked to within a foot of him. “Does the name Antoine Quentin Fouquier de Tinville sound familiar?”
Relief at not being in LaGarde’s shoes washed over me like warm water. The two noble students standing behind LaGarde ran.
LaGarde’s jaw slackened. “If your father knows you attend Université, why do you dress as a man?”
“To protect myself from idiots like you.” She could have the dolt arrested, put in a dungeon, tortured, and left to rot, if he survived the torture. “I don’t think my father will like the new cut of my waistcoat.”
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle, I did not know.” LaGarde gawped like a landed fish.
“Unless you’d like to receive a lettre de cachet yourself, I suggest you take Monsieur Detré’s advice and sheathe your weapon.”
He did so and stood at attention, as if the prosecutor stood before him.
“Monsieur Detré, would you kindly walk me to my father’s office?”
Debra Borchert
Debra’s the author of the Château de Verzat series that follows headstrong and independent women and the four-hundred loyal families who protect a Loire Valley château and vineyard, and its legacy of producing the finest wines in France during the French Revolution. Her Own Legacy published 2022, Her Own Revolution published 2023, and Her Own War will be published in 2024. A passionate cook, she also wrote a companion cookbook to the series: Soups of Château de Verzat, A Culinary Tribute to the French Revolution, 2023.
A graduate of the Fashion Institute of Technology, she weaves her knowledge of textiles and clothing design throughout her historical fiction. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family and standard poodle, named after a fine French Champagne.
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Thank you so much for hosting Debra Borchert today, with an enticing excerpt from Her Own Legacy.
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Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club
Thank you for the lovely post. It's nearly tulip season in the PNW and the image of the tulip and the book are lovely. Merci!
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