A dirty, frayed piece of parchment, adorned with flamboyant and stylised script:
Dear Madam,
A few whispers have reached my ear suggesting that you desire my death. While I make it my goal to appease beautiful women at any opportunity, here I feel I must work to hinder your plans. I cannot tell you what a conflict of interests this introduces to my normally sangfroid nature.
I cannot hope to fathom what slight I have given you, thinking, as I did, that you had robbed me of some rightful reward. However I shamefully admit to admiring a good con, and you did us good and proper. I was amused rather than offended, although you might want to ask me for a few tips on the conclusion of a job, since I heard that you got roughed up pretty bad by that orc fellow in the crone.
I understand you paid out the Reaver for his part of the fiasco, but I am happy to selflessly forgo any dues owed to me in light of the hostility you now express. I feel that I can demonstrate to you that I am more useful to you alive than dead. I have many skills, some of which you witnessed and some you are you to be acquainted with. These can be available to you for the smallest of retainers.
I suggest we come to some sort of arrangement. I have made plans for my impeding doom by telling several trusted friends in detail about our mutual escapade. They can recite at great length how and why you got what you now have. Obviously this kind information would hurt me as much as it would you. Unless I was dead. In which case it would become general knowledge. You of course know some secrets about me as well. I suggest you implement a similar plan, allowing us to once more work together without the heavy yoke of impending violence hanging over our shoulders.
If you doubt my sincerity, or need some further act of goodwill or trust, feel free to contact me with a note left at Sewertown gate.
My most profound and humble thanks, Jake the Whisker