“Damn.” A Mr. Darcy impersonator tugged at his lacy cravat. “I knew I should have gone with the butch look.”

Connor strode toward the receptionist desk.

The girl’s mouth dropped open at the sight of his drawn sword. “I—I—”

She appeared incapable of communicating in a coherent manner, so he skirted the desk and headed for the double doors behind her.

“Wait!” the receptionist cried. “You can’t go—”

Her words were cut off when the doors swung shut. He hurried down the hallway, hoping to find the recording studio before Casimir could escape. If he could kill the bloody bastard tonight, the Malcontents would scatter in disarray. Countless human lives could be saved.

He spotted the red flashing light outside a studio and resisted the urge to rush in with a war cry. Instead, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. It was dark by the entrance, but across the room, two dim lights illuminated the stage. Connor weaved silently around the cameras, which appeared to be turned on, although they were unmanned.

“You know I love you,” a male voice whispered behind a monitor. “You make me look so good.”

Connor groaned inwardly. The voice didn’t belong to Casimir, but to Stone Cauffyn. Apparently, now that the Nightly News was over, the newscaster was dallying with a lover, perhaps a makeup artist who made him look good.

Connor rounded the monitor and discovered Stone in a passionate embrace with . . . his hairbrush.

“Aagh!” Stone jumped and his brush clattered onto the floor. “I say, you scared the dickens out of me.”

Connor didn’t know which was more bizarre: a man who used the word dickens or a man in love with his own hairbrush. “Where’s Corky Courrant?”

“Look what you made me do.” Stone grabbed his brush off the floor and inspected it for damage. “Dash it all, I could have scratched it.”

“Where the hell is Corky Courrant?”