Fosgate's Game, David C. Cassidy [top romance novels TXT] 📗

sharper edge. Perhaps the years of lagging behind Arthur Frost’s paper—The Looker—had finally twisted this twisted mind so tight it might snap. There seemed no other explanation, for the man had been rambling in riddle all evening.

Fosgate baited him with a glare.

Chadwick sipped. He was in no mood for games. “Have you learned nothing, Fosgate? Arthur isn’t a pushover. He won’t surrender control to anyone … especially you.”

From Fosgate came not the usual reply, a quick retort, but rather the sickly foul of secondhand smoke. Chadwick, his ulcer quite unsettled, feared his insides might make an appearance. It was all he could do to stem the churning in his stomach.

“Especially,” Fosgate agreed, oblivious to Chadwick’s discomfort. “But I’ve—pardon me, we’ve—plenty of friends on Frost’s Board.”

Chadwick could not argue the point. They were in with several of Frost’s key directors. Even after that nasty takeover bid had failed. His father, a shark of a businessman but a man of integrity, would not have approved.

“Fosgate,” he said, and almost stopped there. “Let it go. I want no part in whatever scheme you’ve dreamt up this time.” He said it with feeling, mostly in fear of the repercussions should they attempt something foolish. The takeover attempt had been nasty, what with the embarrassing press and the call for not only Fosgate’s head, but the entire Board, himself included. Still, part of his objection was pure defiance, a flying fist in Fosgate’s fat face. Perhaps the old bastard had put something in the cognac.

A thunderclap startled him, and a splash of his drink spattered the hardwood. “Damn.” He drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and knelt down to tamp at the mess.

Fosgate grimaced. “You’re such a klutz, man. Listen to me. What would you say if I told you we could be running the show at A.F. within weeks?”

Chadwick nearly spilled the rest when lightning struck again. A savage wind rattled the windows, and only when it passed did he look up, with all the fright of a child. “I … I’d say it was the cognac,” he said weakly, exchanging narrowed glances between the hunter, and the cold rain that battered the glass. “Or rather, I think, you’ve gone completely mad.”

~ 3

The antacids weren’t working; Chadwick’s ulcer was growing worse. It was far later than he’d planned to stay, but more troubling, the beast outside was growing into a monster.

He rose slowly from his knee, and watched with fascination as Fosgate moved to the southwest window. The man’s eyes had widened at the sudden illumination of the thick forest and sprawling hills of the estate. Chadwick’s Mercedes looked ghostly in the ceaseless rain, as if abandoned by an unsuspecting traveler caught in the tempest.

Fosgate took some cognac. “We’ve taken control, Chadwick. Already, the game’s afoot.”

Chadwick’s brow rose. It was that snap in the man’s voice that worried him. “Eh?”

“Arthur is formidable,” Fosgate admitted. “But should the unthinkable happen, how do you rate our chances if that thorn stopped being such a prick?”

Chadwick was about to sip, but drew the glass from his lips. He regarded Fosgate’s icy reflection in the windowpane with a grim, vacant stare.

“Don’t play the fool, Chadwick.”

“I’ll be leaving now,” Chadwick said stiffly. He set his glass down. “It’s more than a tad late. And truth be told, I’m weary of this game.”

The wind howled at the towering windows. Chadwick glanced past his host, who had been so obliging, having had Willoughby draw every curtain wide. His stomach turned in tight knots, while a cold finger ran his spine. “Perhaps … perhaps I’ll wait a spell.” He would have sworn he saw a sliver of a grin cross Fosgate’s reflection.

“Certainly,” Fosgate said. “It may pass quickly.” He turned and raised his glass. “Another?”

Though it numbed his sense to his discomfort, more alcohol would not bode well, Chadwick knew. Nor would venturing out in that maelstrom. “Another. Thank you. But I’m afraid that’s my absolute limit.” He glanced at the clock. Time seemed to be slowing. And racing.

Fosgate freshened their drinks, then sat in the rouge Victorian chair adjacent to Chadwick. A small table separated them. The menacing reflection of the fire in his eyes, magnified in that detestable monocle, made Chadwick stir.

“I don’t consider murder healthy competition,” Chadwick said. He could scarcely believe he’d said it.

Fosgate laughed mildly. “Always jumping to conclusions, you are. You’ve not even heard my proposal.”

“What exactly is your proposal?” Chadwick’s mind was spinning. He produced his handkerchief, dabbed his brow, and returned it to his pocket. He turned to the hearth. “It’s rather warm in here.”

Fosgate sipped. He seemed to draw on a deep, black thought. “Think of it. Should Arthur meet an untimely demise—purely by accident, certainly—it would take little more than a push to convince their board to … do pardon the pun … come on board.”

“You are mad,” Chadwick said emphatically. After all, they were talking about that, were they not? The ghastly idea of murder?

“As a hatter,” Fosgate chuckled, clearly finding this all quite amusing.

“You can’t tell me they approve of—of this?”

Again, Fosgate laughed. “They hold no love for the man, I assure you.”

“Still—”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

Of course, Chadwick thought. They have no idea. No idea what a madman they’d be drawing into their lair.

His eyes narrowed. He finished his drink, too quickly, yet as he rose, the rush he felt seemed to furnish him some much-needed courage. “I’ll have none of it,” he said, and could not recall the last time he’d said no to this man. Not so fervently. He started to say more, yet reconsidered.

“Come now, Chadwick. No secrets among thieves.”

Chadwick straightened. “Very well. You won’t get away with murder. Arthur Frost is certainly no saint—Lord knows none of us are—but he’s a human being. You’re not God.”

Fosgate clapped in mock applause. “Ohhh, bra-vohhh,” he said, his false expression mimicking grand approval after watching a stunning performance.

Chadwick was about to lash out when Fosgate ripped into him.

“Sit down,” Fosgate demanded. “Sit down before you fall to the floor in a drunken stupor. You’ll have all of it. Or you’ll be next.”

Chadwick should have been stunned. Yet somehow, he wasn’t. How well he knew the man’s wrath; it held the cut of a rapier, the thrust of unyielding will. He wanted to tear a strip from him, but swimming from drink (and knowing full well he hadn’t the pluck, never had, never would), he checked himself and eased into his chair. “Are you threatening me? You can’t be serious.”

Fosgate sat utterly still. His stark countenance was all too telling. Chadwick wanted to snatch the man’s monocle and cram it down his filthy throat, chuckle at what he imagined to be quite a humorous sight as Fosgate’s jowls wriggled as he struggled fruitlessly to cough it up.

“I’m not a murderer, Fosgate. I’ll not be party to this.”

Fosgate held that unsettling calm—a skill sharpened from years behind desk and rifle. “Before you go off at half-cock, don’t hang the accused until you’ve heard the facts.”

Chadwick paused. He’d already said plenty. Perhaps too much. “Go on.”

Fosgate raised a chin to his trophies as the lightning lasted. “A hunter is not necessarily a killer. Killing is such … dirty work. It’s for the common criminal. The common man. I dare say—”

“We’re above the common man?”

“Touché, old friend. Touché. But I do believe you’ve caught the spirit of this.”

Fosgate turned to the hearth, seemingly hypnotized by the flames. The eye behind the monocle flickered in the vibrant glow from the fire. “No need to get our hands dirty. Eh?”

Chadwick stirred. He eyed the windows with mounting dread.

“Shall I go on?” Fosgate teased.

“If you must.”

Fosgate rose and went to his writing desk. He switched on a small lamp, revealing a mildly cluttered workspace of papers, cup and calculator, writing instruments and shears, as well as the large safe that stood beside the desk. Drawing a key from his pocket, he unlocked not the safe (it held an imposing combination lock) but the desk drawer. He removed something quite large, a dark case of some sort, and returned to his chair with it.

Chadwick sat forward, keenly interested. For the moment, he had forgotten all about the storm. “What on Earth is that?”

The hunter grinned.

~ 4

“Unusual,” Chadwick muttered. Curiously, he found himself admiring, yet abhorring, the case’s deeply stained wood. The color of wine, it had fine, winding grain, but held a musty odor, like a dank cellar. Clearly, painstaking craftsmanship had gone into its manufacture, yet save the small iron hinges and rather simple lock mechanism, it bore little semblance to anything of this age.

Old, he thought. Not ancient, but old.

The foul smell was not the primary source of his revulsion. Sculpted around the case were nightmarish creatures—vile, fanged things that, alive and creeping, might drip bile and blood. Despite his better judgment, curiosity bested him, and he found the tips of his fingers teasing one of the carvings. Inexplicably, it felt leathery, like something that had once held life. A sudden horror struck him, and he drew his hand away, as if he’d been wandering in the dark and had touched the hard cold skin of the dead. “Pine,” he said, and that was all.

“The hardiest from Eastern Europe,” Fosgate boasted. “From the Carpathian mountains, I believe.”

“Carpathians,” Chadwick said with a laugh. “That’s quite the leg from the villa.”

“It’s had … quite the journey.”

“You bought this last month? In Germany, of all places?”

“Surprisingly enough,” Fosgate said. “I happened upon its purchase during a stroll about the countryside. I submit, the air there is wondrously refreshing. A great help for the circulation. Magnificent scenery … splendid views of rolling hills speckled with farms and vineyards. And the Weinproben! Delicious wine for the asking. When Katherine returns, you really must come. She’s remodeled the entire place. And of course, she’s incessant with her hounding.”

“You know I detest flying.”

“Bah. You’ve too many phobias. The Friedrichsbad in Baden-Baden—the spa’s healing qualities could likely cure your ulce—”

Chadwick’s disapproving grimace put the subject back on course.

“Quite right,” Fosgate said, almost sounding sincere. “I discovered this exceptional shop in this delightful village near the foot of the mountains. Charming area. Brimming with very down-to-earth sorts.”

“You were in the company of commoners?” Chadwick quipped.

Fosgate slipped a hand into his pocket, then proceeded to unlock the case with a black key; it appeared not metal, but stone. “Taunt me if you will. But this precious gem cost me more than half a plum.”

Chadwick was taken aback. But then, in due consideration, he came close to bellowing with laughter. Plainly a joke had been played upon him. This whole business was purely a prank.

Yet Fosgate didn’t flinch.

Chadwick examined the case closely. Were it so, Fosgate had spent over fifty thousand pounds on something that, while admittedly interesting, was undoubtedly nothing more than a horrible oddity. Whatever the hell the man had cooped up in there, he was certain it wasn’t worth a bob. “You’ve been rooked,” he said smugly. Still, he shrunk in his seat, guardedly curious.

“A fine choice of words,” Fosgate said, propping the cover at the menacing toll of a thunderclap.

~ 5

Chadwick sat up. That foul odor from the case cut deeper—the rank of time. Again that odd sensation crept over him. Of where life had once flourished, and now but rot remained.

He turned away, drawing fresh breath behind his sleeve. But like the case itself,