In the weeks after the derailment with Dempsey, Dean was determined not to pout about it. He'd given himself the day after to be broody, but he didn't sulk and he didn't chase. Finding the coat the next morning had been a little unexpected punch to the gut, but after he'd had it cleaned of the opium smell, it had simply been hanging in his wardrobe waiting for Dempsey to come collect it. It was slowly driving him a little desperate, but he would only admit to that under veritaserum.

Other than that, it was business as usual. A week away for the ministry in France, spent in the bed of a favorite courtesan had at least sort of (read; not at all) taken his mind off things. He attended tonight's event on a whim, something to occupy himself in pursuit of maybe finding company for later.

It had taken less than five minutes to see that Dempsey was also there and Dean had steered himself toward the dance floor to flirt with debutantes instead. Two could very well play the game of avoidance.