The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) by Petra Durst-Benning

her exposure to the frosts of winter and the summer winds during her constant inspections of the extensive land belonging to her estate had aged her prematurely. Fine lines also had formed around her eyes, and the skin of her cheeks and chin sagged. As attractive as she still looked in the muted candlelight of her living room, under the cold sun of March, each of her fifty-five years was visible.
    “It must hurt, mustn’t it? Knowing that it isn’t you working these vineyards but strangers from God-knows-where who probably don’t know a grape from an olive.”
    Daniel swallowed. He could not have described his mood any better, especially given that ridiculous scene with the German woman. But he’d be damned if he was going to give his employer the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
    “Things can’t always be the way you’d like them to be,” he said airily.
    “That humble tone isn’t like you at all. You’re normally much more pugnacious,” said Henriette wryly. She laid one hand on his right arm, and it took some self-control on Daniel’s part not to pull away. Her eyes were imploring, and every scrap of sarcasm disappeared from her voice when she said, “If you think I’m going to stand by and watch the Feininger estate get ahead, you’re mistaken. I’m going to do everything in my power to get my hands on that land. Picture yourself as cellar master there; you could decide what happens to all of this.” She swept her free hand across the vista in front of them, including the vineyards around them. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll even manage it before this year’s harvest. If we play our cards right . . .”
    “ We? ” Daniel’s throat was dry; the word sounded more like he was clearing his throat. But whether he wanted it or not, his spirit had opened itself to Henriette Trubert’s vision of the future. Like a donkey trotting behind a carrot, he was both angry with himself and unable to shut out the visions in his mind’s eye. If he were in charge . . .
    “Of course, we !” Henriette chided him. “Your reputation is impeccable, and your word counts for a great deal around here. People tell you things they would never reveal to me. I expect you to tell me anything that has to do with the Feiningers. With the right information, the rest should be child’s play for me.”
    “And why would I do that, madame?” he asked stiffly. As much as he hated the idea that the Germans were here, every part of him resisted betraying the trust of others just to help Henriette.
    The woman smiled. “How would you like to see a champagne edition with Trubert-Lambert on the label?”

    What gall! The way that man had stood before her and grinned brazenly at her after what he’d done to the vines. There would be consequences. Isabelle was still shaking with anger when she reached the overseer’s house.
    Claude Bertrand was sitting with his back against the wall of his house, eating his lunch. His dog watched every movement of its master’s hand, hoping that something might fall from the plate.
    “Did you have a pleasant walk?” he asked when he saw her approach. “I’m sure you must be hungry, madame. Please, sit. It’s a simple repast, but I’d be happy to share it with you.” He pushed his cardigan, which was lying on the bench beside him, out of the way to make room for her.
    “I wish it had been a pleasant walk, but I made an extremely unpleasant discovery in the vineyards,” said Isabelle ardently. With her hands planted on her hips, and in a most accusatory tone, as if the overseer could do anything about it, she added, “The grapevines are losing all their sap from countless wounds! It looked so horrible .”
    “Is it already that time?” Claude said, more to himself, his voice calm as he sliced a piece off a thick sausage. “There’s no need to worry about the vines weeping. That’s just what happens at this time of year. When the earth warms to more than forty-five degrees, the plants