June, 1818

London, England

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Miss Jane Wetherby took a deep breath. “Nos morituri, te salutamus,” she murmured, and stepped out of Papa’s barouche after her aunt. If she was indeed about to die, the least she could do was be on time for her execution.

“There you are.” Aunt Aspasia was waiting for her on the pavement. “Cold feet, my dear?” she asked in a quieter voice.

Jane grimaced. “Positively icy. You don’t know how close I came to asking Mr. Cording to turn the carriage around and take me home.”

Aunt Aspasia nodded. “What stopped you?”

“Sheer mulishness, most likely.”

“Good. Hold on to that. It’ll serve you well.”

St. James’s was not a part of London ladies usually visited in daylight hours, so Jane looked about her with interest. At the bottom of the street squatted St. James’s Palace, gloomy in soot-stained red brick; marching up the hill toward her were hatters and haberdashers, boot-makers and vintners, all frequented by gentlemen of fashion or those who pretended to be. And of course, there were the clubs: White’s, with its bow window once occupied by Beau Brummell and his friends; Brooks’s, stronghold of the Whigs…and here before her, with its distinctive blue door and polished bronze knocker in the shape of a Corinthian helmet, its aura of intellectual masculinity honed to somewhere between brilliance and insufferability, was Hatton’s.

Today, instead of being guarded against desecration by the step of a female slipper upon its marble threshold, the door of London’s most scholarly club was being held open by a smiling—yes, smiling!—doorman in blue livery to match the door he defended. “The misses Wetherby!” he declared, bowing. “Welcome to Game Day.”

Aunt Aspasia took Jane’s arm—lest she run away?—and nodded her thanks to the doorman as they swept through the door. And Jane wondered, as they passed him, how much longer he'd be wearing that smile.

It had all started yesterday, when Jane’s favorite brother, Jonathan, went shopping for a new hunter at Tattersall’s and came home instead with a broken collar bone, dislocated shoulder, and at least two broken ribs after being thrown against a mounting block by a skittish four-year-old bay.

“He was a beauty, though,” Jonathan sighed yet again, while Jane tried to coax him to swallow the willow bark decoction Aunt Aspasia had brewed after the surgeon finished bandaging him up. “Would have bought the beast if he hadn’t been so resty.”

Jane almost managed to corner him with the glass but he turned his head just in time. “Oh, drink it, do, Jonathan! It’s a good thing you didn’t buy him—since you won’t be on a horse for the next six months, you’d just have been paying for him to get fat in Papa’s stable.”

He sat up in indignation. “Nonsense! I’ll be on horseback in another month or—” His sentence ended in a hiss of pain, and he laid himself back against the pillows with much more care than he’d used in rising from them.

“You’ll not be doing anything of the sort if you don’t keep still and let those bones knit, young man,” Aunt Aspasia said, coming into his room just then. “Have you drunk my decoction yet?”

Jonathan scowled at the tumbler Jane still held out to him, three-quarters full of a brownish liquid. “No.”

“That’s a pity, since it mostly consists of the Armagnac your grandfather put down back in the ’70s. It helps cover the willow bark taste.” Aunt Aspasia shrugged. “But if you’d rather not…”

Without another word of protest, he let Jane help him sit up more carefully and hold the tumbler while he drank. When it was empty, he lay back with a sigh and smiled weakly up at her. “Thanks, little sis. You’re a brick for not weeping at me like most females would.”

“That wouldn’t have been very helpful,” Jane said. It didn’t seem politic to mention that she had wept a little, when he was first brought in. She was fond of all three of her older brothers, but Jonathan had always treated her as his special pet. Even now he was punctilious about accompanying her to parties and balls and all the other activities of Jane’s first London season.

But he wouldn’t be politely asking her friends to dance at Almack’s or anywhere for the next several weeks, poor thing. She set the empty glass on his bedside table and helped Aunt fluff and adjust his pillows so that he could rest more easily. “Now, is there anything else you need?” she asked softly. “You really ought to sleep if you can.”

He made a wry face. “Yes—a secretary. Could you scribble a note to send round to Ned Billings that I won’t be joining him for dinner at Hatton’s toni—oh, damnation!” Jonathan slapped the coverlet with his good hand.

“What?”

“Hatton’s. Tomorrow’s Game Day!”

“Oh, no!” Aunt Aspasia stopped, halfway to the window to draw the curtains.

“Oh, no!” Jane echoed.

If each club in St. James’s could be characterized by one particular feature, Hatton’s would be known for its preponderance of members who’d actually paid attention to their tutors at school and at university—and for the Game.

The Game had been born at Hatton’s on a rainy March evening in 1780, when two members got into a heated argument over glasses of Madeira as to which side more deserved to win the Battle of Plataea, the Greek or the Persian. Rather than challenging Lord Tunstall to pistols on Putney Heath, as might have happened in a less intellectual setting, Sir Andrew Roll suggested they re-fight the battle—on a map hastily abstracted from an edition of Herodotus from the club library, using liqueur glasses to stand in for the opposing armies. The second Battle of Plataea (this time the Persians won) drew such a large audience of members betting on the outcome—and such large receipts for food and beverages—that the club’s manager, Mr. Martindale, resolved to encourage more such events. Eventually, the Game replaced the more conventional pastime of card-playing at Hatton’s; instead, members would drop by of an evening to dine and re-fight engagements from Marathon to Agincourt to Ciudad Rodrigo. Only Waterloo had never been refought, its memory both too recent and too sacred.

In time the Game trickled backward to be played in the colleges and public schools from whence Hatton’s members were sprung, fathers teaching sons, older brothers teaching younger ones. Jonathan had learned at Harrow and taught his two younger brothers—hardly surprising, since their father was Sir Henry Wetherby, noted scholar of antiquities. Marcus and Godfrey were now at Cambridge, destined for donhood. Jonathan, though his inclinations were less purely academic, was still an enthusiastic amateur scholar and one of the best players of the Game at Hatton’s. And tomorrow was Game Day, the one day in the year when members’ family and friends were invited to watch exhibition matches—and where Jonathan was expected to compete in the Battles of Antiquity form.

Aunt Aspasia had brought Jane to watch her brother on Game Day ever since he’d become a member of Hatton’s. It was one of the highlights of her year—even this one, when she was making her come-out and attending any number of delicious parties and balls. Because Jonathan had not taught only his brothers to play the Game.

“We shan’t go.” Jane thought she was covering her disappointment quite well, really. “Someone has to stay here to mop your fevered brow.”

Jonathan shook his head. “No, go. I know how much you enjoy it. I’ll keep very well here with Mrs. Broom to look after me.”

“But we wouldn’t enjoy it. A Game Day without you would be sadly flat. Wouldn’t it, aunt?”

Aunt Aspasia nodded, her gray curls bouncing under her cap. “Indeed it would.” She sighed. “A pity there’s no time to send for Marcus to come down from Cambridge to uphold the family honor.”

“No, Marcus is too pedantic. He gets caught up thinking about verb forms and forgets strategy,” Jonathan said. “If anyone could uphold the family honor, it’s Jane.” He winked at her. “You should go in my place, little sis. You’re just as good as I am.”

Jane caught her breath. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course you are. You beat me often enough.”

“Ohh.” She sat back in her chair and allowed herself, just for a minute, to dream.

She had been immersed in Latin and Greek as soon as she’d entered the schoolroom; how else would her father’s daughter be educated? Aunt Aspasia, as learned as her brother, had seized on the Game as an excellent way to teach ancient history, and Jane had taken to it like a duck to water. She’d lived for her brothers’ school holidays so that she would have opponents other than her aunt and the vicar, who’d forever damned himself in her eyes by once intentionally losing to her. Playing the Game at Hatton’s on Game Day, then, with the best of the best…it would be heaven.

It would also be quite impossible. A mere woman able not only to read Thucydides and Livy in their original languages, but also to understand the art of military strategy? No one would credit it. Jane had carefully concealed her education during these weeks in London, for it was a truth universally acknowledged that a bluestocking, no matter her possession of a good fortune, would never be able to attract a husband. Competing at Game Day would destroy her chances utterly.

Still, what a dream…

She sighed and looked up, and saw that Aunt Aspasia was watching her, a peculiarly…intense expression on her face. “Aunt?” she asked uncertainly.

Aunt Aspasia gave herself a little shake. “I think,” she said, “that it’s a splendid idea. Jane shall play at Hatton’s in your stead, Jonathan.”

“What?” Jane gasped.

“What?” Jonathan stared, then gave a shout of laughter. “Good God, Aunt, I was joking! Janey can’t play at Hatton’s.”

“Why not?” Aunt Aspasia asked. “Is there a rule at Hatton’s that states that women are not allowed to play the Game?”

He blinked. “Er, n-no, not as such. But—”

“On Game Days, women are allowed on the premises, are they not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And Jane is an excellent player, yes? As good as you are, I believe you said?”

“Better, I think, when it comes to certain historians. But—”

“Then I do not see what the difficulty is.” She beamed at them.

Jonathan took a deep breath, wincing as his ribs reminded him of their compromised condition. “Aunt Aspasia, she can’t. She would be ruined.”

Aunt Aspasia raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see how that is possible, as I shall be at her side at all times.”

He flushed. “I don’t mean literally. I mean that she would be made a laughing-stock, or worse. Any chance of her contracting a suitable marriage would vanish utterly. As her eldest brother, I can’t allow that to happen.” He caught Aunt Aspasia’s glance and held it. “Or do you want her to end up like you? What would you have done, if my mother had not died and my father called on you to take over bringing us up? Gone on being a drudge in Aunt Julia’s house, because you thought yourself too clever to marry?”

“Jonathan!” Jane cried. “What a horrid thing to say! You know you never would have got your double firsts if Aunt Aspasia had not tutored you every summer.”

Aunt Aspasia, unruffled, returned his gaze. “If we must discuss why I never married, nephew, it was because I was unwilling to settle for a husband who would not respect my intellect as much as I respected his.”

After a long moment, Jonathan’s eyes fell. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, but I’m glad you did. To make such a marriage would be a death of the soul worse than not marrying. Is that what you would choose for your only sister?”

Jane looked from one to the other of the two people she loved best in the world, clutching the seat of her chair to keep from falling off it. “Do you truly think I’m good enough to compete on Game Day, Jonathan?” she demanded. “Truly?”

Aunt Aspasia opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to change her mind about what she was going to say. “Is she, Jonathan?”

Jonathan stared fixedly at nothing, scowling. Jane had the feeling that if he hadn’t been trapped in bed by his injuries, he would have stalked from the room.

“Jon?” she ventured, when the silence grew painful.

He blew out his breath in a gusty sigh. “Yes, dammit!”

“Language, dear boy,” Aunt Aspasia murmured.

“Don’t ‘language’ me, Aunt,” Jonathan snapped. “If the pair of you are intent on destroying Jane’s future in this way, let it be on your own head.”

“Nonsense,” Aunt Aspasia said.

“Ah, Miss Wetherby! And Miss Jane, too! It wouldn’t be Game Day without Wetherbys in attendance!”

Mr. Baldock, the present aedile of Hatton’s (of course the club’s staff had to have Latin titles), bore down upon them, the oak leaf embroidery on his blue tailcoat gleaming in the sunshine streaming through the front door’s fanlight.

“Thank you, Mr. Baldock,” Aunt Aspasia replied. “A good crowd already, I see.”

“Oh, yes, I believe we’ll be full today.” He bowed to her and to Jane, then rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Quite full indeed! May I escort you to the Greater Parlour? That is where the Battles Ancient will be played this year.”

Aunt Aspasia nodded and took his proffered arm. She cast a quick reassuring glance over her shoulder at Jane, who fell into their wake with a polite smile that might have been a trifle too bright plastered on her face. Hatton’s was crowded; curious how Game Day had become as much a part of the season as the Summer Exhibition or the Derby. The marble-paneled entrance hall of Hatton’s was thronged with visitors, all festively attired. She’d planned to wear her plainest walking dress, in dove gray, but Aunt Aspasia had scorned that idea. “There’s no reason for you to dress like a penitent,” she’d said firmly, and so Jane instead wore a spencer of rose-colored sarsnet, ornamented with braiding and puffs of satin at the shoulder, over a muslin gown frothily flounced around the hem with rows of lace, and a most elegant bonnet in the French style, adorned with a sweeping plume of pink ostrich feathers. She knew she looked well; if only that confidence could carry her through the next several moments.

As she walked, she exchanged greetings with multiple acquaintances. It didn’t help her equanimity; would they still smile and nod at her when she took Jonathan’s seat? Would Mary and Sarah and Charlotte call on her tomorrow to gossip happily about today, as they did with any other social event they’d all attended? Would any of the young men who’d been asking her to dance at parties still seek her hand in a waltz or cotillion after this? Lord Towle’s eldest son, George Verrill, who’d been most attentive of late, had only smiled when she’d felt it incumbent on her to admit her bluestocking tendencies to him. Surely, if he came today, he would wish her well—

“I see your nephew hasn’t yet arrived,” Mr. Baldock said, pausing in the entrance to the Greater Parlour, which was paneled in dark wood relieved by niches containing marble busts of the great historians of the ancient world. Most of the tables set up in the room, widely spaced to allow spectators to wander about and listen in to battles where their fancy led them, had at least one contender already seated, except for one where she could see a place-card inscribed J. Wetherby. “Did he come with you?”

Jane clutched her reticule and hoped her voice would tremble less than her hands. “I’m sorry to report that my brother will not be playing today, Mr. Baldock. He suffered a most unfortunate accident and will likely be bedridden for some days. I shall be playing in his stead.”

Mr. Baldock’s features, which had arranged themselves into an expression of sympathy during the first part of Jane’s speech, melted into blank astonishment at the second…before they relaxed into a broad smile. “Ha! Very witty, Miss Wetherby! You almost had me for a second there. I assume that your brother will be here shortly, then?”

She had been prepared—mostly—for outrage and anger, but somehow, not for laughter. “I-I was not being witty, sir,” she stammered. “Jonathan is indeed confined to bed, and I am here to take his place.” She pointed at the table. “I am also J. Wetherby, by the way, if that helps.”

Mr. Baldock’s smile faded. “Miss Wetherby,” he said, turning to Aunt Aspasia. “Surely there’s been some mistake—”

But Aunt Aspasia had stepped back. “My niece is an accomplished player,” she said. “If she is willing to do her brother the favor of taking his place because of his indisposition, I cannot object.”

“But—Miss Wetherby—this is most irregular! And on Game Day—”

“Please don’t worry, Mr. Baldock,” Jane put in. The poor man had grown quite pale, and the starched points of his collar were wilting. “I truly am able to play the Game quite well.”

“No, you can’t! It’s impossible!”

She stiffened. “Impossible that I play the Game here today, or at all?”

Mr. Baldock threw up his hands. “Oh, where is Lord Radleigh?” he moaned, and dashed from the room.

Jane would have liked to follow him; a few nearby spectators were whispering to each other, their eyes fixed on her. Instead she sat down in Jonathan’s—no, her chair, set her reticule on the table, and untied her bonnet with what she hoped was an unconcerned air. She had won the first skirmish.

The field was not hers for long. Within a moment a slightly familiar-looking young man, perhaps a year or two younger than Jonathan, ambled to her table. His brows rose as he saw her.

“My dear young woman, there are seats for spectators at the edges of the room,” he drawled, surveying her through a gilt quizzing glass. “Permit me to escort you to one.” He held out a hand.

Jane willed hers to remain quietly in her lap rather than gripping the table edge. Here, regrettably, was her opponent.

Jonathan hadn’t known against whom he would play today, but he’d had an idea of who was competing in the Battles Ancient form and gave her a précis of each of them, once he’d gotten over his disapproval of her playing for him. This young man in his dark blue coat cut a little too narrow in the waist and a little too padded in the shoulders could only be Mr. Edmund Paice-Storey, second son of the Earl of Claviston…and was, in Jonathan’s words, a “self-impressed popinjay” who, while an indifferent scholar of ancient history, just happened to be extraordinarily good at military strategy.

She forced a polite smile on her face. “Thank you, sir, but I believe I am in the correct seat. Jonathan Wetherby is unable to be here, as he has suffered a serious injury. I’m his sister.”

“Oh.” The quizzing glass dropped. “What’d Wetherby do? Stub a toe rather than play against me? I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

No, she would not kick him in the shins. “He has several broken bones, and since no one knows beforehand who their opponent will be on Game Day, that hardly seems likely.”

He shrugged and examined his pocket watch, the chain of which was overburdened with seals and fobs. “That doesn’t explain your presence—your continued presence—at my table, Miss Wetherby.”

“I am here to play in his stead.”

“You’re what?” The watch nearly slipped from his fingers. He shoved back into its pocket. “Good God, is this some sort of joke your brother put you up to?”

If one more person accused her of joking, she would kick him. “It is not a joke, Mr. Paice-Storey. I assure you I am quite able to play in his place.”

“Of course you are. And I’m Emperor Bonaparte, on my way to see the spring flowers at the Tuileries. Enough, Wetherby, you’ve had your fun,” he called, looking around him.

“My brother is not here,” Jane said through gritted teeth, rising from her chair. “And I—”

“Now then, Miss Wetherby.” Mr. Baldock had returned, accompanied by a frowning man of distinguished years and a blue-coated footman bearing a large silver bowl. He halted before Jane and tried to twist his face into a jovial expression. “It’s almost time for the battles to begin. Won’t you sit over here in one of these nice chairs? Look, Lord Radleigh himself has come to sit with you.”

Lord Radleigh ignored him. “Jane, what is this nonsense about?” His white brows bristled alarmingly.

She gulped. She’d known Lord Radleigh forever; he was consul of Hatton’s, one of Papa’s closest friends, and Jonathan’s godfather. “Sir, I—”

“She proposes to play against me in Wetherby’s place,” Mr. Paice-Storey interrupted. A small, cold smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “I propose to let her.”

Mr. Baldock’s joviality vanished. “But—”

“And I shall enjoy every moment of defeating her,” Mr. Paice-Storey continued. “I think it will provide a salutary example for females with ideas above their capabilities, of whom I have the misfortune to know more than one.” He smiled thinly.

Before Jane could retort, Lord Radleigh took her arm and turned her slightly away from them. “I’m sorry about Jonathan, child—but this is not at all the thing! You don’t have to defend his honor just because he can’t compete today. Why are you doing this?”

Why was she? Volumes of reasons raced through her mind, but in the end, they came down to one thing. She met his eyes squarely. “I think the better question, sir, is why shouldn’t I be doing this?”

He recoiled. “I cannot think your father would approve of your making a spectacle of yourself playing the Game in public.”

“As my aunt does not mind my doing so, I do not see what can be wrong with it.”

“Your aunt should have your best interests at heart!”

Jane looked over to where Aunt Aspasia sat in one of the spectator seats, not far away. Aunt smiled and waved at them cheerily. Jane smiled back. “She does,” she said quietly.

Lord Radleigh stared at her silently for a long minute, his lips compressed. “Very well—on your heads be it. I shall write your father and tell him so.” He made a shooing gesture at Mr. Baldock, and stalked from the room.

The sibilant murmurs from the crowd redoubled as Jane resumed her seat. She glanced around her and saw that the room was now filled with spectators; they were standing on the chairs, even, to get a better look, and more were pressing in at the door. Young women whispered to each other behind gloved hands; someone tittered. Male spectators wore expressions ranging from condescending amusement to outright hostility.

Mr. Baldock, looking as though he were about to burst into tears, jerked his head at the waiting footman, still clutching his silver bowl. The young man stared at him. “What do I do?” he asked.

Mr. Paice-Storey sighed. “Let the young lady draw a battle, oaf. We mustn’t forget the niceties. Game Day shall go on, despite…irregularities.”

Jane flushed and reached into the bowl the red-faced footman offered her, pulling out a folded scrap of paper. She unfolded it, read it, and took a deep breath, her mind racing. She’d refought this battle just a few weeks ago, with Aunt Aspasia, and the two of them had come up with a strategy that was both unconventional and chancy—but could also be wildly effective. Did she dare try it here?

“Might I also be informed as to which battle we are to fight today?” Mr. Paice-Storey asked, only the smallest trace of sarcasm edging his words.

She flushed again. “The Battle—” Her voice shook. She stilled it and said, more loudly, “The Battle of Watling Street. Boadicea against Suetonius Paulinus.”

The room erupted in exclamations and hurried explanations for the less knowledgeable, which quickly transformed into a tide of laughter. The Battle of Watling Street, in which a queen of the British tribes had attempted to crush the occupying Romans and failed. And today Jane—for the person who drew the battle slip took the first-named general’s place—would refight the fallen Boadicea’s battle.

Within seconds, a footman had brought their Box. As the Game had established itself, the members of Hatton’s had commissioned handsome tooled leather maps of battlegrounds for game play; each resided in its own box in the Game library. With the maps were special ceramic pieces, designed by Josiah Wedgwood himself, a great admirer of the Game, representing the known combatants—infantry and cavalry, archers and artillery and more—that the generals had available to them for battle. An Order of Battle—detailed instructions for the placement of forces at the start of the battles—was included as well, all agreed upon by past Hatton’s members and occasionally altered when new scholarship called for it.

The footman spread their battle map on the table, set out the smaller box containing the pieces, and bowed. Mr. Paice-Storey reached for the box, then paused. “By your leave, madam; it is the host’s privilege to lay out the battle.”

She managed not to snap that she knew the rules quite well. Instead she smiled sweetly and said, “It is indeed, sir. Just as it is the guest’s to watch and correct.”

His lips tightened, but he made no reply. Jane watched closely as he read over the Order of Battle and slowly began to set the pieces on the grid of the map, often hesitating to consult the paper in his hand. Her own hands itched, wanting to snatch the pieces from him and set them up herself; she could have set this battle out in her sleep.

Which meant that Jonathan’s assessment of her opponent as a poor historian but excellent tactician was probably an accurate one. She watched more closely to see if his hesitations were manufactured; such gamesmanship was supposed to be a feature of play here… “I believe that cavalry piece belongs there,” she said, pointing to a square two places to the left of where he’d just placed it.

He checked the Order of Battle again, and his frown deepened into a scowl as he moved the piece. He set out the remainder of the pieces more quickly—Jane had to correct him twice more—and finally put the Order of Battle aside. “Does this finally meet with your approval, madam?” he asked with ironic courtesy.

She hesitated. “We—we did not roll for weather.”

He sighed. “Are you afraid Boadicea’s new bonnet will get wet, Miss Wetherby? Heaven forfend!”

She gritted her teeth and stared pointedly at the small horn cup holding the dice until he picked it up with an exaggerated gesture. “Oh, very well. Dry low or high?”

“High.” Please, let it be high—

He cast the dice. “Well, well. Sixteen. It looks like Boadicea’s bonnet’s safe. Now do you approve?”

Jane was too relieved to care much about his tone of voice. A sixteen meant that the battleground was quite dry, with little rain having occurred for the previous several days—which was exactly what she needed. “Yes,” she said, and held out her hand for the customary handshake.

He regarded her hand as one might a piece of moldy bread, then briefly clasped her fingers before reaching for the dice. He won the initial toss, and with a smug smile, made his first moves. The battle had commenced.

The Battle of Watling Street was a bit of an oddity in that no one knew precisely where it had been fought. The governor of Britain, Suetonius Paulinus, had been on campaign in North Wales when word reached him that Boadicea, queen of the Iceni, had allied with her neighbors the Trinovantes, determined to drive the invaders from their island. He had hurried down the Roman road that ran between Shropshire and London, later called Watling Street, and somewhere on its southern end the two armies, British and Roman, had met in a sanguinary engagement that, according to Cassius Dio’s account (which Jane didn’t believe for a moment) saw 230,000 Britons dead. Even Tacitus, whose account seemed the more reliable—his father-in-law had been present at the battle—put the British dead at eighty thousand.

In the playing of the Game, however, historical outcomes did not matter. Opponents began with the same circumstances as the generals they represented, but after that, a re-fought battle might end in a very different way, dependent upon the players’ skills and the outcomes of attacks as decided by rolls of dice. That was why those like Mr. Paice-Storey—indifferent scholars but good strategists—could be good players.

But Jane was certain that players who were both could be even better. And players who were not afraid to do the unexpected could seize great victories—

“Iacto,” Mr. Paice-Storey said. “Impetus in transversum.”

Jane looked up; he was preparing to launch a javelin attack from his center diagonally at a piece representing a force of her foot soldiers. A player could either attack or move each one of his pieces during one turn, if he so chose. He tossed four dice; the number shown, with a subtraction taken for distance and the armor and shielding of her piece would determine his attack’s effectiveness. If the attack was effective, a small black ball—a pila—would be placed in a hollow on the top of the piece he had attacked. Three pilae—three successful attacks—would remove the piece from play.

The dice showed fifteen. Jane put a pila on her piece.

Mr. Paice-Storey smiled smugly. “Perficio,” he said, announcing the end of his turn.

Jane noted the movements he’d made with his other pieces, mostly shifting his cavalry one square to either side. He was starting conservatively, which made sense; though there were far fewer Roman forces than British, they were in a highly favorable position and he had little reason to move them. Suetonius Paulinus had situated his troops in a narrow, rocky gorge, backed by a forest and opening onto an open plain, while Boadicea’s, ill-equipped after an earlier Roman-forced disarmament, spread out before them. Behind were hundreds of wagons and thousands of non-combatants, there to watch the battle.

Now it was her turn. Did she dare try her unconventional attack?

Did she dare not try it?

This wasn’t just about preserving Wetherby honor, as her brother had joked. It was about her honor, now, in the face of people like Mr. Baldock and Lord Radleigh and especially the dreadful young man seated across the map from her. It was about Aunt Aspasia’s honor, and the honor of those unnamed females whom Mr. Paice-Storey accused of having “ideas above their capabilities.” Well, she would show him what a female was capable of.

She looked again at the map. Say, sixteen moves to get two units of foot soldiers to where they could do what they needed to…plus rearranging the field to move the wagons forward. Two extra moves, just in case, and then the final dice rolls to determine whether her plan would work…

She took a deep breath, and reaching for a square of blue paper from a stack to one side of the map, said, “Decursus occultus in—umm…in vices duodeviginti. ”

Mr. Paice-Storey snorted. “Oh, come now, Miss Wetherby—hidden attacks in your very first turn? Is this a battle or a Covent Garden melodrama?”

Jane ignored him. To account for the stealthy actions that were often part of battles, players were allowed to write out, on squares of distinctive blue paper especially made for Hatton’s, secret moves along with the number of turns to be taken till the move would become known to their opponents, and the dice rolled to determine their success. She finished writing on the square of paper, folded it, wrote “18” on the top for the number of turns to be taken before it came into play, and tucked it under the edge of the map. Then she reached forward, moved a few pieces laterally and, almost as an afterthought, began to inch her wagons forward. “Perficio,” she said.

Mr. Paice-Storey frowned. “That’s it?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

He snorted. “This will be a short game.”

Quiet laughter rippled through the crowd around them. Jane didn’t respond, not even when, seven turns later, an older gentlemen who’d spent several seconds peering at her through a quizzing glass as his face grew progressively redder, stumped away muttering that she should be beaten for her presumption. The Game, she reminded herself. All that mattered right now was the Game.

After her eleventh turn, she firmly quashed the excitement rising in her. She’d been slowly but steadily advancing her wagons toward the Roman line; Mr. Paice-Storey eyed them occasionally, but otherwise ignored them in favor of repeated attacks with his flanking cavalry and javelineers. Her forces took a beating…but her wagons would be in position when she needed them.

But she couldn’t help a moment of indignation. Was he even trying? Was he so convinced of his superiority that he wasn’t using any of his vaunted strategic abilities? By her fifteenth turn, she was sure of it. He radiated almost palpable boredom, leaning back in his chair and once or twice even yawning openly as he continued to attack her forces. Jane carefully avoided meeting his eyes as she moved her wagons ever closer to the front and counter-attacked just frequently enough to occupy his attention.

By her seventeenth turn, they were in position; she almost held her breath through his next turn. He attacked her forces again, raising one eyebrow at the damage inflicted by the rolls of the dice. “My dear Miss Wetherby,” he said, voice oozing sympathy. “You must be running out of pilae by now. Permit me to lend you some of mine.”

More than one person behind her smothered a laugh. Jane grimly finished distributing the little tokens of destruction among her pieces. “Thank you, but I have enough.”

He didn’t bother concealing his grin this time. “Perficio, then.”

She nodded and, with a small silent prayer, reached for the folded blue paper tucked under the side of the map. Mr. Paice-Storey did her the honor of actually opening his eyes all the way. “Ah, yes, your decursus. I am all agog, madam.”

She handed him the square of paper and reached for the cup of dice. “First roll, success of decursus occultus,” she said, her voice blessedly steady. “I believe a single die roll is all that’s required, based on the favorable weather conditions we rolled for at the start of the battle.”

He was staring at the paper. “You’re joking.”

“Joking? No, Mr. Paice-Storey, I am not.” She cast the die; a one, two, or three would give a negative answer, while a higher number would be affirmative.

The ivory cube seemed to take forever to fall through the air from the cup and tumble to a resting position. Five black dots—five beautiful black dots—showed uppermost. “Decursus occultus successful,” she said calmly, though she knew her eyes were dancing. “The forest behind you is now aflame. British forces have ascended to the top of the gorge above you.”

He stared down at the map, his mouth hanging open.

“Wagons are now on fire,” she continued, putting a red pila on each of her wagon pieces. Then she moved more of her foot soldiers forward, directly behind the wagons. “Perficio,” she said.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Nor was there a sound from the crowds around them. Then his eyes blazed. “Damme, you can’t do that!”

Jane looked at him, head to one side. Oh, this was good. “Why not? No rules of the Game have been contravened.”

“Because it—it’s not how a woman fights!”

For a moment she was at a loss for a response. Then one came to her, for some reason in Aunt Aspasia’s voice. “Whether that is so or not, sir, I cannot say,” she said. “I do know it is how a winner fights.”

A sigh went through the spectators behind her, and then a murmur that quickly crescendoed so that Mr. Baldock was forced to shout, “Quiet! Quiet please for the other matches!” Not that it made much difference; Jane could see that half the players of other battles had abandoned their maps and were standing on their chairs, watching.

Mr. Paice-Storey glared at the map, then up at her. Jane met his glare squarely, keeping her glee in check. Retreat was impossible with a burning forest behind him, and the wagons would continue to burn for five more turns, making a forward push equally difficult. His only chance now was to attack over the wagons with what javelins he had left, which gave him two turns to try to remove more of her forces—two turns only, because a Roman soldier carried only two javelins. And in the meanwhile, several companies of her British loomed at the top of the gorge, armed with those most implacable of weapons, heavy stones and gravity.

“Your turn,” she said quietly after a minute had passed, then another. The room seemed to be holding its breath.

Mr. Paice-Storey’s breath, on the other hand, came loudly and through his nose. Finally he stood, pushing his chair back so violently that it fell over.

“Cedo, damn you!” he snarled. Giving his fallen chair a kick, he stalked from the room. A few seconds later, amid muffled protests from the doorman, the front door of the club was heard to slam. And then the room exploded.

Jane, on the other hand, imploded. She stared at the empty place opposite her while spectators surged around her to get a better look at the battle map, exclaiming and chattering to each other. She heard snatches of everything from, “Poor form on Paice-Storey’s part, don’t you think?” to “It was a jape—Paice-Storey and Wetherby thought it up between them. Black said he overheard them talking about it the other night over brandy—” to “So unladylike! I can’t believe she did that!” It grew so loud that the one part of her that wasn’t bemused and numb feared that the marble busts around the room would be shaken from their plinths by it.

But not one person said a word to her, nor even met her eyes. It was as if she weren’t actually there, as if an automaton had played and won the battle…until Aunt Aspasia emerged from the crowd. “Jane, my dear,” she said, holding out her hands. Her expression of pride seemed too great to be contained in just one small, round-cheeked face.

And then Jane felt her own mouth expand in a smile as she stood up and took her aunt’s hands. “I did it,” she said. “I really did it!”

“You did indeed—and with the forest strategy we discussed that time! I was on tenterhooks the entire time after you called the decursus occultus, wondering if that was what you were doing after the weather roll. It was a risk that paid handsomely!” She leaned forward and patted Jane’s cheek. “Jonathan will be so proud of you!”

Jane glanced down at the map. “I see now why Jonathan didn’t think much of Mr. Paice-Storey,” she murmured.

“The man must be a changeling. I came out with his mother, who is a surprisingly intelligent woman. And Claviston was a dear, from what I recall.” Aunt Aspasia shrugged. “I suppose one never knows—”

“Ahem.”

Jane turned. Lord Radleigh was there, wearing a pained sort of grimace that was probably meant to be a smile. “That was a…novel strategy, Jane.” He didn’t even look at Aunt Aspasia.

“Er—thank you, sir.” She didn’t know if he meant it as a compliment or not, but there seemed little else to say.

An uncomfortable silence crystallized around them. Then he gave her a short nod and turned on his heel.

Aunt Aspasia tsked. “One of these days Radleigh’s going to find that his cravat has grown into his neck, he holds himself so stiffly.”

Jane didn’t smile. “He said he was going to write to Papa.”

“Which will accomplish what? The battle has been fought, and you won. Your father likely won’t even know what he’s talking about, and won’t care if he does. To him, the Game is just that—a game that at least doesn’t lead his sons into ruinous debt and perhaps exercises their minds a little.”

And still no one around her spoke a word to her, though she could feel the furtive looks being cast her way. It was completely unlike the end of other battles she had watched here, where the players were borne off by their fellow club members for cakes and lemonade and good-natured ribbing. No one was offering to escort her and Aunt to the refreshment table set up in the members’ dining room—

The crowd had begun to thin a little, and Jane caught sight of a face she knew, just a short distance away, staring at the table: Mr. Verrill, who had been so particular in his attentions of late and to whom she’d confessed her bluestocking tendencies. Ah, one person who would have a kind word for her! “Mr. Verrill!” she called, smiling and holding her hand out to him. “I did not know you would be here to—”

But he did not seem to see her standing there. In fact, he was looking right through her. She withdrew her hand and ducked her head. “Aunt, may we leave?”

Aunt Aspasia took her arm. “Of course, child.”

Jane took one last glance at the table, with the map and the pieces still in place. Where was the square of blue paper on which she’d risked the battle? She would have liked it as a souvenir of the day, but it was nowhere to be seen.

It was the same thing as they made their way back to the front hall: no one would meet her eyes, though she knew she was being stared at. Even the doorman, who’d greeted them so effusively on their arrival, barely deigned to look at Aunt Aspasia as she asked him to call for their carriage. Instead of waiting in the hall for it to arrive, Jane drew Aunt Aspasia outside to wait on the pavement.

“Did you see Mr. Verrill?” she asked in a low voice.

Aunt Aspasia sighed and nodded.

“I didn’t think that—I wasn’t expecting…oh, Aunt Aspasia, was I wrong to play today?” she whispered. “Because it seems like I’ve destroyed myself socially.”

Aunt Aspasia steered them a few paces down the street. Jane nearly resisted; here would be yet another strike against her, being seen in St. James’s in the daytime. But Aunt was wearing her thoughtful expression, and probably wouldn’t notice if she did.

“Jane, my dear,” she said after a moment. “Tell me, how do you feel about having won that battle? Not what you think it’s done to you socially or any other nonsense—just how it made you feel.”

Jane hesitated. “Good,” she finally said. “It made me feel good.”

“Of course it did. You beat the fellow to flinders. Anything else?”

Jane paused, trying to find the right words. “It…made me feel more alive, somehow. More like myself. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes all the sense in the world. Now, how would you have felt if you’d decided not to take the chance to play today?”

“I—I would probably have been kicking myself.”

“There!” Aunt Aspasia gave her a radiant smile. “Now, listen carefully. You were being yourself today—the intelligent girl that it’s been my pleasure to help bring up. And that is what matters. Nothing you did in Hatton’s has caused any harm to anyone—apart from their vanity, perhaps—and it did you good, because now you know what you’re capable of. Gnothi seauton, my dear.”

Jane smiled, though she had to blink her eyes several times. “Well, it appears I shall have plenty of time over the rest of the season to better know myself, since I doubt anyone else will want to.”

Aunt Aspasia frowned. “Were you in love with that Verrill fellow?”

Was she? “No, not really. But it was nice to feel…wanted.”

“Now who is sporting a bruised vanity? No, Jane dear, good riddance to the man. He wanted a wife, not you. Consider today an exercise in winnowing out undesirable acquaintances who cannot appreciate your excellence.”

This time, Jane’s smile felt more comfortable on her face. “Well, when you put it that way—”

“It’s the only way to put it. This is your life, Jane. Just because you were born female does not have to mean that the die has been cast for you. You must be brave enough to cast it for yourself.”

“Excuse me! Miss Wetherby?”

Jane turned. A young woman had emerged from Hatton’s and was hurrying up the pavement to her, a bonnet as large and fashionable as hers flapping in the wind of her progress. As Jane saw the face under the bonnet’s deep brim, her heart plummeted: this was why Mr. Paice-Storey had seemed so familiar.

“L-lady Alleyn,” she stuttered as the woman halted before her. They had met at a few parties in recent weeks, and Jane had liked her enormously. She was newly married to Lord Alleyn and had confessed to Jane that she was finding it hard to remember to respond to her new name and not to “Lady Anne.” Jane hadn’t known her former surname, but in light of the pronounced resemblance between her and Jane’s recent opponent, it appeared that she might just have publicly humiliated this charming woman’s brother. “How—how do you do?”

“My dear Miss Wetherby—” Lady Alleyn seized her hands. “That was spectacular! I have never been so vastly entertained—and delighted—in my life!”

“Wh- what?”

“I have always wanted to see Edmund taken down a peg or three at the Game! Whenever I play him and it looks like I might win, he cheats most vilely or suddenly finds some reason to have to be elsewhere at once. But he couldn’t do that this time, could he?” She let go of Jane’s hands and clasped hers together. “Oh, I could positively hug you! I’m sorry I could not speak to you in Hatton’s, but the crowd was impossible and by the time I got anywhere close to the table to see the map, you had left. Tom got to see it long before I did, didn’t you, Tom?”

Jane suddenly noticed the tall young man standing behind her. His eyes crinkled nicely at the corners as he smiled at her. “No wonder Edmund kicked his chair; I’ve never seen someone take him down so thoroughly. You have my unalloyed admiration, ma’am. I believe you play as well as your brother—and I’ve had my hat handed to me by him on more than one occasion at Hatton’s.”

Jane groped for something—anything to say. Lady Alleyn—and her brother—weren’t here to berate her, but to congratulate her. Beyond that, however, something else had caught her attention. “You play the Game?”

“Oh, yes—my brother taught me years ago—my non-horrid one, that is.” She glanced behind her roguishly. “Have you met, by the way? No, probably not; Tom’s been visiting our uncle in Paris this spring. Miss Wetherby, my brother, Thomas, Lord Paice.”

Aunt Aspasia took over the juggling of introductions among them, bless her; Jane was still recovering from the shock of meeting another female Game player. To make matters worse, within less than a moment of that, their carriage arrived.

Lady Alleyn looked as frustrated as Jane felt. “Oh, dear. Tom, we must abduct Jane tomorrow for a nice long ride so she can tell us all about her Game-playing. Do say you’ll let us!” she said to Jane.

Let them? Jane laughed. “No abduction required—I’ll come gladly!”

Lord Paice handed them into Papa’s barouche. “Till tomorrow, Miss Wetherby,” he said to her. Yes, she definitely approved of his smile.

“Remind me again—what did I say about the winnowing out of acquaintances who don’t appreciate you?” Aunt Aspasia asked when the carriage door was shut and they were trotting smartly toward home.

Jane wrinkled her nose at her, then laughed and took her hand. “I wonder if there are other females like Lady Alleyn who play the Game?”

“If anyone would know, I expect she would. You must ask her tomorrow.” A small smile hovered about her lips. “It was curious, though…”

“What was, Aunt?”

“Well, I could have sworn I saw a slip of paper tucked into Lord Paice’s glove just now.”

“I didn’t notice it.”

“Didn’t you? It was quite noticeable against the tan leather, being that distinctive shade of blue…” She let her voice trail into silence.

“No, I—oh!” Jane felt her cheeks grow warm—but not unpleasantly so.

Tomorrow was going to be a very interesting day indeed.